“–neber seen anyting quite like it. Her infection ij stable.”

“I don’t care. She needs ta go.”

“Shut up, Wail. I wasn’t askin’ ya.”

“She could kill us all!”

“She could make us wildly rich if ya keep your shit together.”

“Are ya sure about this, boss?”

“Nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained, lads. A raw diamond’s fallen on our lap, and you’re worried it’s gonna nick your balls.”

The conversation escalated, becoming even clearer.

Old tobacco filled the air.

Mahala’s hands went to her chest, the wyrm hot to the touch, but something was off. The front of her dress drooped forward, oddly loose as if– 

Her eyes focused on the inside of a large iron cage. The front of her dress cut open, and her wyrm exposed.

She shrieked and tried to cover herself. 

“Good mornin’, Lady Pomolin.” Several snickers followed.

Mahala’s eyes scanned past the bars where several men in muddy overalls had circled her. She could make out the vague outline of tents around them. 

“Wh-Where am I?”  She wrapped her arms protectively around herself, hiding the wyrm. Flickering electrical lights and a sea of unfamiliar faces that gave her the disquieting knowledge that she had left her memories.

“Welcome ta the Bankalz Highlands, Lady.” One man closed in, leaning against the bars. He was giant, swarthy, with a delicate pair of spectacles on his nose. “You’ve been havin’ a rough week.”

Mahala withdrew from him, arms tightening around her chest, wyrm throbbing and burning with every breath.

“I’ll be your host for a while. As long as ya comply, your stay won’t be any less comfortable,” the large man continued. “House rules: no bitin’, no spittin’ fire.”

Her mind raced too fast. All her hallucinations felt real, but her current predicament had to be the worst.

“I’m dreaming,” she said.

“Sadly not, Lady.”

Mahala curled up in a ball on the floor. “I’m dreaming. You’re going to go away now. I want to go home.”

“Completely lost it,” one of the men muttered.

The large man tutted. “This won’t do, Lady Pomolin. I can’t sell damaged goods.” 

“Nothos help me,” Mahala wept. “Please show me mercy.”

The large man gestured to the others. Mahala squeezed her eyes shut, willing away whatever fresh hell her mind had conjured. She let the voices carry away, the air filling only with static and cotton. 

When she next checked, she found herself still in the cell but none of the strange men were there. Mahala did not have complete solitude though. In fact, a familiar face greeted her, one she had not seen in years. No, not face, mask. A primitive wood-carved accessory which Mahala always suspected as Shiran made.

“Ah, Piaf Samawyn, has it been five years…? As the Magus of Prayer, you’re the only one among magi that can speak with the gods, yes?” Mahala slurred.

Piaf Samawyn bowed her head. “The gods do not speak with words, milady. For if they did, our minds will struggle to comprehend it, driving us mad. No, they must use indirect channels; through symbols, small gestures and how the world shapes itself around us.”

“Have you ever gone mad, Master Samawyn?”

“Do I seem mad to you, milady?”

“No… perhaps an oddball… you’d wear a mask all the time… but then again, father did so too…”

Piaf Samawyn’s gloved hands went to her mask. When she removed it, in her place was just a boy, no older than ten standing an arm’s length from the cage. No words came from the boy, only a sunken, watchful gaze. The rest of him was dirty, faintly bruised, and clearly underfed. When he did finally open his mouth, nothing came out.

Dawn poured in behind him, the light burning Mahala. She hid her face from it, and him.

A pair of wrinkled, blotchy hands cradled her head, a crescent moon pendant hanging on the wrist. Sister Zvie.

Mahala finally wept as she clung onto the Sister. 

“Poor thing. Have the others been picking on you again?” the Sister said softly.

Mahala no longer remembered the Sister’s face. But she never would forget those warm hands. They held her when no one else would; the closest thing Mahala had to a mother’s embrace.

“I want to go home, Sister,” Mahala wailed. 

“This is your home, pet,” said the Sister. “It’s not much, but you’re in the house of the Nothos. He will protect you.”

“Nothos won’t listen to me… I’m cursed…” Mahala hissed as her fingers touched angry veins.

“Not even over the Golden Sea is beyond Nothos’ reach.”

“But Sister, I’m d–”

“Not even you, pet,” Sister Zvie said. “Now, aren’t you hungry? Let’s get supper.”

Mahala was hungry. The wyrm moaned and twisted over her heart. It was hungry too.

She dreamed of thick cut pork belly with apple salad, cheese and figs served with freshly baked bread, a sweet dense lemon sponge cake with bitter black tea. Her father would chide her over her sweet tooth - even though he had a bigger one. She still hadn’t even finished the box of starch powdered jellies he gifted her. She’d savoured them, one each night, tasting sweet sugared lemon with her evening tea and a book. All the orange ones went to Adelei.

I want to go home.

Metal tore away like tissue paper. She managed to stretch to her full height, the sky opening up to her.

A gunshot rang out.

The wyrm screeched. Fresh hell burned her chest. Mahala fell to her knees. Someone knocked her to the ground.

She heard angry yells of men, the thump of boots, and heavy chains.

“Luck, help me–”

A pair of spectacles glinted in dawn’s light.

Something struck her head so hard she thought her neck broke.

She saw nothing else.

Her nightmare had taken her somewhere new. Her chest ached. She tried to touch the wyrm — but her hands wouldn’t move. They were shackled behind her back.

A dimly lit cell received her with stone walls, a dirt floor and more iron bars.

“Good afternoon.”

The bespectacled man had returned with a bowl in his hand. She could smell hot food, but could not be sure if it was real — if he was real.

“Where am I?” she whispered. Her words came out strange — muffled.

“Bankalz Highlands,” he replied promptly. “We had this conversation earlier.”

Mahala shifted, trying to get more comfortable. Tough leather straps were wrapped around her face, a dog’s muzzle ill-fitted over her mouth.

She sat up. “What kind of sick joke is–”

She noticed the front of her dress still hung open, heaving in shock when she saw metal nails embedded into her chest. They formed a crude circle around her wyrm. It twitched pathetically.

“What’s happening?” she cried.

“Ya tried to escape, quite dramatically. My lads had to calm ya down. New house rule for you, Lady Pomolin; don’t pick at your jewellery,” said the large man. He entered the cell with a sharp twist of a key.

Seeing the nails made the ache worse. It hurt to breathe, like an invisible snake constricting her chest, crushing her.

She flinched when the large man’s shadow cast over her. He tugged at one of her straps. She yelped. He loosened it enough to slip it off.

He took a step back. “Eat,” he commanded, tobacco in his breath.

Mahala didn’t dare come closer to the bowl — to him. From her position on the floor, the man was a giant, nearly as big as the homunculi.

He pushed the bowl closer to her. It smelt a little sweet. Her stomach twisted into knots, and saliva filled her mouth.

“My hands…” she began.

“Sorry, Lady. Can’t risk it,” he said.

“You expect me to eat like a dog?”

“You act like a wild animal, ya get treated like one.”

Mahala wanted to scream at him. She wanted better dreams, but the food smelt so real.

The next minute blurred by. Mahala had buried her face into the thick porridge mixture. She tasted dried apricots, nuts, and fat dumplings. Even after she slurped it down, she licked whatever remnants were still in the bowl. She didn’t care that she made a sticky mess of herself... Until the food was gone.

Embarrassing anger brewed at the empty bowl.

“We’ll get ya another,” said the large man.

She had forgotten he was still in the cell.

The porridge sobered her. The bits of oat in her hair were disgustingly real. 

“Who are you?” she asked in a small voice, unable to meet his gaze.

“Your rescue party,” he replied.

Mahala’s mind rattled. He’d said the Bankalz Highlands — a mountain range that bordered Pomolin’s Capital and their neighbouring country Mede. Unpenetrableon both sides, it remained a long wall between their nations. Mahala vaguely recalled a ski resort being available on one of the lower peaks.

“Am I still in Pomolin?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“If you are Pomolish, and you know who I am… why am I in a cell?” she spat. The wyrm’s tendrils seared throughout her body, boiling her blood and bringing fire in her throat. She squared her shoulders and tried to look threatening. “Do you know what my father will do to you?”

The large man remained unfazed, even at such close distance to her in the same room. “You know why, Lady. You’re a forktongue now. I can’t have ya burnin’ down me home down and butcherin’ me lads.”

“I- I…”

“We’re not gonna kill you, Lady. Not as long as ya stay put. It’s obvious ta tell the plague hadn’t robbed your soul like most sorry bastards. The lads reckoned y’were holed up in our caves for three days, yet ya didn’t turn. The gods love ya so, Lady,” said the large man.

Mahala squirmed. 

“Still, I would be very interested in knowing how you ended up inside my caves,” he said, leaning closer.

In between her muddled panic, she felt the stab of Luck tearing out her heart. Fucking bastard. Her rattled mind stilled just for a second. How did she get here? She remembered flying towards the Capital, but surely that didn’t happen.

They’re all just dreams.

The large man fastened the straps of the muzzle over her again.

“Get some rest, Lady. Try not to cause trouble,” he said, turning away.

“W-Wait!” Mahala pleaded, inching closer to him. “What am I doing here? Surely you aren’t planning to keep me here forever?” Her thoughts finally found order. Common sense strung them together. “Y-You intend to give me back to my father?”

“Of course, Lady Pomolin,” he said.

He could have lied. But Mahala couldn’t think of anyone else he could deliver her to. 

Would father even have me anymore?

Behind her, a squat window fitted with more bars allowed some stray light to seep in. The window positioned itself high on the wall, out of her reach even without the chains. She imagined the cell to be part of a basement feature, as she could see grass decorating the ledge, the sun glittering by.

Three days, the man said. She could not believe she spent only three days in the dark. 

The large man kept his word about the second bowl. Another man stopped by with more porridge, but he made no attempt to release her muzzle, only providing a paper straw.

“Please–” Mahala began.

The man ignored her and turned around.

“Please! I just need a moment!” Mahala called after him.

“Now don’t be fussy, pet,” said Sister Zvie.

Mahala stared at the bowl. The food tasted so real. Nothing felt out of place. No wrongness. No forktongue haunting her.

Sister Zvie wasn’t there anymore. 

“My name is Mahala Pesh,” Mahala said, through the sting of tears. “25 years old, born in Shoredon. Citizen of Pomolin. Only daughter to Lord Protector Chares Pesh. I’m… a hostage now…”

Her head drooped.

What would happen to her if her father wouldn’t buy her back? His porcelain mask stared through the bars, impassive, not betraying the result of the choice he would have to make. He had days to ponder his choice.

She only just noticed an odd shadow cast into her cell, something at the window. She whipped around and saw a familiar dirty face peering down at her, but it pulled away.

“Wait! Please! Don’t go!” Mahala begged. “I…”

She didn’t want to turn around. She could hear Sister Zvie coughing up blood.

“I just need to talk to someone real…” she moaned.

She also needed to get out of here. She couldn’t let anyone see her like this; food smeared around her face, her hair a tangled mess, her clothes ripped open and her wyrm exposed.

“Are ya really a forktongue?”

Mahala’s head jerked up. The dirty face returned. 

“I-I’m not a forktongue!” she cried, her back straightening.

“You’ve got a wyrm. Ya transformed — grew wings, spat a little fire, had these mean claws an’ teeth,” he said as he mimicked the claws. “I saw it happen. Ya nearly ripped Wail apart. It was the nastiest and bestest thing I ever seen.”

“I-I… I transformed…?”

The boy nodded.

Panic set in. Mahala wished she could claw the wyrm out of her chest. “D-Did I kill anyone? Bite anyone?”

“No. But ya did cut up Wail’s face real bad. It’s alright, he’s a complete bastard anyway.”

She struggled to breathe again. Each heave tore the skin around the nails, the wyrm squirming and wailing. She tried to recall her dreams. Which ones were real? She couldn’t tell anymore. Just as she grasped her sanity, it started slipping again. She couldn’t breathe–

“Hey,” the boy called out.

Mahala snapped out of her thoughts. “Yes?”

“They say you’re the Lady of Pomolin.”

“I am. You can call me Mahala. What’s your name?”

The boy fell silent. A deep scowl worked its way onto his face. “None of your business.”

“I’m sorry,” Mahala said quickly. “Can you tell me what’s going to happen to me?”

“No idea yet, they’re still deciding who you’re goin’ to.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t they sending me back to the Lord Protector?”

The boy stared at her, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Why would they? Lord Protector’ll murder us all for touchin’ the Lady of Pomolin.”

“They could make a fortune–”

“And they will.” 

She stared back, threads of sense slipping away, torn apart by panic. 

A hint of sympathy. A shake of his head. “They’ll get a fortune from Shir.”