If they lived, only the three could awaken a mythical wizard, an ancient being with (she hoped) the power to withstand the behemoth that ruled over her continent.

It had better be worth it, she thought to herself. Too many had died already. She was under no illusions. She knew more deaths were still to come.

Tirielle found herself getting hotter as she wondered where her path would lead, come the end. Even the breeze did nothing to cool her. She tried to empty her mind. It was not easy to avoid deep thoughts on the journey to Beheth. There was little in the way of distraction, just blasted plains. Even clouds became interesting after a while.

Instead of studying the landscape, or worrying about finding some wizard who might or might not exist, she studied her companions.

Cenphalph H’y Casdiem, one of the nine Sard, rode at the head of the column, armoured and cloaked. He did not seem to be affected by the heat at all. His blonde hair shone healthily in the sun and he rode easily, eyes fixed in the distance, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, one holding the reins of his steed almost absent-mindedly.

Tirielle squinted against the brightness of Dow, now directly ahead of her, looking for just a glimpse of j’ark. She found him to her left, and she stole the sight as would a thief, and held it in her mind for later. She was not yet in love with him — after all, what would be the point? — but she found herself breathless sometimes when she thought of him, or when they spoke long into the evening. She knew she was making the paladin uncomfortable. He had taken his vows many years ago, and would not break them for her, or any woman. Perhaps that was why she was drawn to him. She had her own reasons for being afraid to let herself feel. She had lost too much to be carefree in love or life.

As if sensing the weight of her gaze on his back, j’ark glanced at the caravan, and saw Tirielle looking at him. She did not look away. She was not some coquettish maiden, flushed by a man’s eyes. She smiled warmly at him. He returned the sentiment, but she thought she saw the sadness, the sense of longing unfulfilled in his eyes that she too felt.

But then, who could read a man’s heart in a smile?

He looked away, and she returned to her thoughts. There was little else worthy of distraction.

Since leaving the fleeting haven of Roth’s home, she had seen more of her continent than she ever imagined it contained. Much to her dismay, she hadn’t found it as interesting as she would have liked. Even had she not been running for her life, she would not have stopped to take in the scenery. It was, by and large, dull and endless. And still, she had travelled just a fraction of the distance to her journey’s end. It would yet take her to the library at Beheth, far to the south of the capital city of Lianthre, and if her guard were to be believed, further still, into a frozen waste she knew only as Teryithyr, across the vast expanse of the ocean, unmapped and forbidding.

But she would return, with or without the wizard. She would destroy the Protectorate, even if it meant the death of her. She was committed. She would even sacrifice the nation for the freedom she thought the people deserved. No longer would her people be cattle.

She moped at her brow with a handkerchief, and pulled her eyes away from the road. Her thick, dark hair stuck to her face. She pushed it aside, noting the grime under her broken fingernails. She examined her hands — in some respects more interesting than the landscape. She rubbed at them, then withdrew one of her fine bone handled blades from where they hid in sheaths inside her forearms. She began paring and trimming her nails. The blades were too fine for such work, but she was becoming used to much that she would not have dreamed of doing in her former life as a member of the Conclave.

In some ways, a life on the run was invigorating. She had her friends, as she had come to think of them. She even had Roth, and for that she was grateful. It was running ahead of the caravan, lost to sight in the distance, scouting the road ahead. Without Roth, she would have been dead many times over. She missed the creature when it was not present. She wondered how it was faring in the summer heat. She noted with interest that it had shed some of its thick fur. Perhaps, should it get any hotter, her friend would become bald. She did not think it would like that. After all, we all have our modesty, she thought. But then, without organs to be shy about, why would it worry? Maybe she would ask it. It might make for some amusement in the evening’s camp.

We all have our secrets, she thought. Roth more than most. One day she would find them out. It wasn’t like she didn’t have time. That was all she had on the road. But the Sard insisted time was growing short. The return was drawing near, the end of days were in sight.

Tirielle had a part to play. They called her the Sacrifice, the first of the three prophesised to awaken the wizard. She dreaded to think what that meant. But without playing out the prophesy that concerned her, and her two soul brothers, the Saviour and the Watcher, she would never find a way to stop the return, and so thwart the Protectorate’s designs. There was nothing she would rather do, but she had a duty to fulfil first.

Quintal and Cenphalph made an effort to explain about the first and the second, the key they spoke of, but she was none the wiser. Apparently the first born would be the Sacrifice, the second would be the Saviour. The Sard didn’t seem to understand what their roles were, or even if there was a point to the names. The idea of being labelled ‘sacrifice’ could only mean one thing to her.

Tirielle set the thought to one side, as her father had shown her. All in good time, her father would have said. That thought drew a smile from her, one tinged with sadness. He would have approved of her path, and that knowledge brought her peace on the days she doubted herself.

And still, the end was far from sight.

Miles and miles they had roamed, Roth leading the way. The horses were much faster but Roth’s sense were the keener.

Along the way they had avoided the great cities, avoided anywhere larger than a hamlet, or the occasional lone tavern or trading station, where they bought only supplies and moved on, ever onwards, south into the heat. As they rode, and camped, they had become closer. Tirielle almost wished she were a brother, so that she could share everything that the men shared. Perhaps then j’ark would take her into his confidence, and even though he might not give her love, she might get to know him.

But wishes were butterflies. Friendships lasted more than a day. Once, when they had first met, she had doubted the Sard. Now she trusted them with her life, and more than once they had saved her from death. She knew they were stronger together. They were an army. An army of ravens, caught up in a storm.

Ravens did not wish. They flew, and they fought for their territory, they protected each other. Together, they were stronger.

Once, it had been her and Roth. Now they were greater. They had a chance, tiny though it was. A chance to live, to change. To win?

She laughed. Butterfly, raven, what did it matter? Both were subject to the blowing of the wind.

The Sard rode on, the suns shone, and sweat poured. She looked around again, taking in the paladin’s faces, those that she could see. Briskle was masked, in his helm as he always was. She knew even were she to call him he would be silent, for all he could do was speak to animals. Cruelly, the talent did not extend to humans.

Quintal, their leader, was not in sight.

She was surrounded by the Sard, all of whom were like the giant Carth in so many respects. Carth was taciturn in the extreme, admittedly. At first she had likened them to the silent Briskle, but after a short time with no other distractions — the first opportunity she had to be around him and actually observe — she realised that he talked more than any other among the group. His hands were in almost constant motion.