‘We need to get out of here. I’m bringing you past the Rhuys and then our escort ends,’ Etanna said as they tightened a couple straps of their horse’s saddle. 

They stood on the northern slopes of Taut Hill. No one was around and no sound other than the wind was to be heard. 

Ma’an peered down the hill, to where they had come from. The wind had picked up and it was cold. 

‘Not without Yorell,’ he said.

‘He was shot, Ma’an. That, or he was caught. We cannot do any more for him. You just need to get out of here. Now come. Those Kosocians aren’t gone yet,’ Etanna said.

‘No, I’m going to look for him,’ Ma’an replied, and he started walking down the slope.

‘Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!’ Etanna yelled. 

He looked back and saw a crossbow pointed at him. He reluctantly froze.

‘Come back here. Right now,’ they then said. Ma’an heard a slight quiver in their voice.

‘I apologise, but I will not leave before I’ve found Yorell,’ he said.

‘I can confirm he is not with us anymore. He has perished, whether just now, or later when he is executed. If we wait here, we will await the same fate.’

‘You don’t know that. You don’t know who he is.’

‘I don’t? I know that he’s a murderer. Not a bad one per se, but I’m glad he’s gone now. And don’t get me wrong – he will be honoured, but not now. Not while his criminal companion is still around. Now, come here or I will shoot you in the heart.’ Etanna held up their crossbow, a sharp blade in it pointed right at Ma’an’s chest. 

He took a deep breath, but could not push down his anger. ‘You don’t know who I am, though, do you, Etanna?’ he said.

‘Shut up. I will shoot.’

‘You might. Don’t know if it’ll turn out well for you, though…’ he spoke slowly. 

Etanna's eyes were confused and enraged, unsure where to look. 

They pulled the trigger. 

The arrow whistled shortly until it got caught in the flesh of Ma’an’s right hand, which he held before him. It passed through his palm completely, but he did not move.

‘Don’t do this. I don’t want to fight,’ he said. He pulled the arrow out of his hand, blood gushed out of the hole and soaked his gloves.

‘What in Yaut’s name… If you don’t want to fight, just come with me. You will die here. You… you can come back later and look for Yorell. I’m just following orders,’ Etanna said, not lowering their crossbow even though it was unloaded.

‘You’ve done enough. I won’t hold you accountable. Now let me go in peace, and you will never see me again.’

‘I just cannot let that happen, Ma’an. I will be persecuted.’ Their hands were visibly shaking now.

‘I know what that’s like. It’s not that bad.’ Ma’an chuckled–

'...!' 

Both heads on that hill suddenly shot to the ground. 

A rumble was heard, it seemed to come from deep in the earth and the sky above simultaneously. The stance of the grass shifted as if the wind had suddenly turned around. 

Etanna started to speak in their mother tongue again, mumbling lines as if to try and calm the hill. But it was no use: the Taut Hill had been awoken, and would not rest until what provoked it was gone. 

In several places around them, ground moved up like bubbles in cooking oil. Slowly, until its dirt cracked and roots were laid bare. These bubbles started coming up all around them, so too right under Ma’an’s feet. 

The earth rose more than three metres in some places, both Ma’an and Etanna were too stunned to pay attention to one another and focussed on getting off the emerging hills so as not to fall off of them. 

They soon found themselves in a stormy ocean of grass, dragged up and dropped into the abyss repeatedly. And when the bubbles fell, bigger ones emerged. They moved like waves, turning over the top soil and making stones roll. 

Ma’an realised this was his opportunity and took it. He disappeared in the waves and rushed down the westside of the hill, being guided by the ever moving lower grounds slithering between the earth. 

He sprinted and was soon caught by gravity, so he slid down and stumbled for several hundred metres, until he could see the horse Yorell had ridden lying by some bushes. 

He slowed down, as he did not see anyone nearby, and approached the wounded animal. It took fast breaths and moved its front legs, but it could not get up. It had clearly stumbled away from where it had initially fallen, but had succumbed to the heavily bleeding wound in its hind leg and the bones it had broken in its fall. 

Ma’an sat on his knees by the horse’s head and carefully laid his hand on its snout. It was startled, and snorted.

‘Shh… It’s okay, my dear,’ Ma’an mumbled, and he softly caressed the snout. The moving ground seemed to leave the poor horse alone, and the grass was still around them as if it were the eye of the storm.

‘Hello, friend… You’re going to be okay,’ Ma’an whispered. 

He started taking the bridle off of it by cutting the straps with a small knife he carried. He had almost forgotten about his own wound until the fur of the horse turned red under his hand. He quickly ripped off a piece of cloth and wrapped it tightly around his palm. 

He could barely move his fingers. He could do one handed keiïa, but that would only allow for simple spells, not something like healing the animal’s wounds. Yet he couldn't leave the horse here either, all alone. It would die slowly. It was writhing in pain and kicked weakly. 

Tears stung in Ma’an’s eyes.

‘Okay, friend, I’ll make it stop,’ he said, and he lay on his side by the horse, curled around its head and his good hand placed on its cheek. He closed his eyes and spoke sweet things to the animal as he concentrated. 

The horse was quiet, and with a sigh the life disappeared behind its eyes. Ma’an slowly sat up again and caressed the soft fur one last time.

・・・

On the other side of the hill, Yorell wandered aimlessly. His horse had fallen, and he had broken his underarm. 

Other Kosocian horses had rushed past him over the stones and grass, but two of them halted by him. Before they could dismount or draw their pistols again, however, Yorell had sprinted off, up the hill to the east. 

Several bullets landed in the grass beside him, but he managed to jump behind a boulder. This gave him a little time to assess his situation. He felt okay due to the adrenaline, but he sensed something was wrong with his arm, so he decided not to use it. 

He took his axe and recollected himself. When his breathing was steady, he jumped from behind the boulder and faced the two Kosocians. 

The barrels of their guns were pointed at him, but with a swift movement of his hand, he managed to bend them. He ran towards them and lifted his axe, but before he could reach them, the ground rumbled and all three were swept off their feet. 

Yorell’s world went dark almost immediately. 

・・・

Now, he wandered up the hill, hoping to see a sign of Ma’an. It had been quiet after the shots he had heard in the distance when he had fallen. The hills had deformed and become unrecognisable, so he could not find his way back to the horse. 

He climbed up the now slowly moving hills. Grass rustled as it flowed by him, up and down in small ripples. 

The storm had ceased; the normal winds were back, whistling in the bare branches. All around him was dull green grass, ever in motion and thus unnavigable. Every dell and hump changed as soon as he looked away, one turn and he was utterly lost. 

It made him cry. 

He hurt, Ma’an was gone, and the horse was dying all alone. 

Ma’an had to go on and would not turn back for him. He had forced himself onto his travel, he had ruined it, and now Ma’an was glad to have gotten rid of him. He did nothing but cause trouble and slow him down. 

Perhaps it was for the best. Ma’an had bigger plans. Plans that went beyond continents and beyond the world as Yorell knew it. He felt purposeless; there was nothing left for him. 

Perhaps he deserved it – he probably deserved it. 

He had ruined so many lives, it was now time for his own. He sat down in the grass, his body trembling in pain, cold, and hopelessness. 

He sobbed, muttering Ma’an and Piyar’s names every now and then. 

His mind wandered slowly back in time. Back south to his house in Doku, further to Kosoci, and then west, to Binuoy. 

He sat on a stool by the mirror, in the dressing room of his parental home. He wore a dress worth more money than he had lived off for the past six years. 

His father was there, doing his hair. The old man’s thin fingers styled it carefully with etiy, a type of wax made from Dei Pian lily leaves. His hair was still short back then, before he grew it out to fit Eastern Kosocian fashion. 

His father had sewn this dress by himself, and the golden ornaments and gemstones on it were passed down to him by his uncle. 

Today was his last day at home. He would move out to the capital the next morning, an important occasion that would mark his adulthood. His mother stood before him and held his hand. 

Dressing like this would normally be done by servants, but for special ceremonies it would be done by the closest family. 

Yorell was the only child of the Kiria household, making his departure somewhat bitter for his parents. Nevertheless, there were celebrations. Yorell’s uncles, grandmother, three cousins, and his two closest friends would be there. 

His bags had already been packed, and the carts that would bring him to one of the few train stations in the country already stood in the street. 

He was seventeen years old and would go on to be a bureaucrat at the court of Armiy, the capital of Kosoci all the way on the eastern coast, a good twelve hours by train. 

His parents had secured that position for him, he was grateful. His good academic performance had helped as well, but the connections were essential to get him where he had been. 

Generations of accumulated wealth and status, decades of protected reputation, and five years of keiïa studies, and it had all crumbled in less than ten minutes only seven years later. 

And yet it felt right. 

The hope, the fascination, that he had felt when he first spoke with Ma’an was something his family or friends had never been able to instil in him. He was not sure why. But it did not matter anyway. 

Ma’an was gone now. He had nowhere to go. He would most likely be arrested by the Royal Troops and executed back in Kosoci. 

His parents would find out that the tragedy they lost their child in was a wholly different one. But in a way it would be the same: in both scenarios, they lost a good child. It’s just that now it would be the loss of nothing but the memory of a good child. 

Would they be happy to know the truth? Would it be a relief that instead of an innocent son, a murderer was killed? 

He felt his mother's hand around his again, and his father combing his hair. His dress flowed to the ground, his face was powdered.

‘Promise me you’ll come back when things go wrong, okay?’ his father said.

‘Things won’t go wrong, dear,’ his mother replied, ‘Yorell knows what he’s doing. He’s always been good at staying calm.’ Her thumb rubbed over his palm.

‘I know, I know. I just want you to know that if you need help with anything, you’ll always be welcome here, and we’ll figure it out together,’ his father said.

‘Like we’ve always done,’ Yorell replied. 

Only twice, he returned, and not when he most needed it.