Andris

Inhaling sharply, Andris took her image in.

He should have applauded himself for so easily solving his problem—only the Astus in front of him wasn’t the Astus Andris was familiar with. At all, really.

It was most definitely her face, but even aside from her youth, the image was a total mismatch.

The Astus Incarnate Andris knew had always been a beautiful woman—but it was a soulless beauty. Like a marble statue found in temples and castles, she was an exquisite piece of art meant to be worshipped, but never touched.

The image of her in her crown of antlers, sitting on her stone throne was burned into his mind. Dressed all in white and dripping with silver-set jewelry of pearls, opals, and mother-of-pearl, she stared at him with soulless, pale eyes.

The first time he’d met her face-to-face off the battlefield, he’d walked into her territory as a token of good faith. She’d supposedly called him there for a truce, but the reception left him confused and angry.

From the moment Andris had walked into her temple, he’d been judged unworthy. He stood there, an hour after his introduction, watching as a dozen consorts pet and pleasured her before she finally addressed him and demanded his fealty.

It was uncomfortable, unnerving, and a complete waste of time. Had he not been so desperate for an end to the war, he would never have subjected himself to that nonsense.

Nevertheless, that era had passed.

This was not that Astus.

Nor was it the Astus at the later end of the war who was more akin to a corpse. With dead eyes and tired gray flesh full of scars, that Astus had tried to trick him into withdrawing his troops on account of “her people” while having an ambush lying in wait.

He was not going to fall for her insanity again.

But what the hell is this? Andris wondered as he stood face-to-face with yet another version of Astus.

This Astus was naught but a girl with a hint of pink across pearly cheeks and eyes sparkling with the color and sheen of mana.

She was young, though he wasn’t sure just how much younger than him she was. Though her clothes were dull and ragged, her hair was neatly braided and her cheeks were full.

She trembled, perhaps from fear, anger, or the chill in the air; the look in her eyes suggested it was possibly a combination of all three.

Those eyes…

The difference was captivating. Innocence and determination lay within—but the most notable difference was the fire that burned within them.

Unlike her future self, this Astus was alive.

She was also spitting mad at him.

“What do you want?” she demanded to know, shoving the wooden sword in his face again.

“I—You—You’re…” he stuttered, trying to piece himself back together from the shock.

Young Astus’s eyes shifted as the breeze pulled strands of her hair into her line of vision and she faltered. “W-What? Never seen an Aeshanian before?!”

Baffled, Andris said, “What?”

“You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of ghost!” she said.

You are! he told her in his head, but aloud he said, “I was just thinking that you’re not a guard.”

“I should think that’s fairly obvious.”

“Why are you up here?”

Young Astus’s face twisted with a mix of irritation and confusion. “I live here, unlike someone,” she said. “If you don’t want me to toss you straight off this wall, you’d better tell me who you are and why you’re here!”

“Um,” Andris started, his brain starting to hurt from the multitude of scenarios running through his head.

“Are you a thief? A spy?” she asked, then frowned. “Avheia doesn’t have any wealth or power or secrets. If you’re here for anything like that you’re wasting your time!”

Andris chuckled. He clearly couldn’t tell her that he was there for her and she’d made his job so much more simple than it was supposed to be—but he wasn’t mad about it, either.

Should I just kill her now? he wondered, tilting his head. It was probably the most logical choice of action—it was why he was there. Yet looking her over, it seemed like an awful waste. What if she doesn’t have her memories? Can I use her instead?

“First, why don’t you put your weapon down?” he asked her, hoping to buy himself a little time to decide. “Whatever I’m here for, I have no desire to hurt anyone I don’t have to.”

“Says the man who held a flaming dagger to my throat,” Astus noted flatly.

“Says the girl who pointed a sword at me.”

“Says the man who climbed a wall to break into my village.”

“That’s—” he started, putting his hands on hips. “That’s fair.”

Astus slowly lowered her blade, but her grip was still tight around the hilt. “So why did you scale the wall?”

Andris looked out to Outer Avheia and rubbed his chin. About fifty paladins had accompanied him and his uncle, the currently known Saint of Vaendael, to Avheia. The festival was a convenient mask for the covert maneuvers of the Vaendaelian church, but this was a sizable unit to anyone paying attention.

They said it was extra security because of movement on the borders, but he had purposefully arranged it to ensure Astus could be kept in check if they managed to find her.

But if I can take care of this on my own…

“You’re gonna think it’s stupid,” he told her, deciding on his angle.

“Try me,” she said.

“I thought I could get a better view of the festival from the wall,” he said.

Astus blinked. “You risked your life climbing a guarded wall… to watch the festival?” she said incredulously.

“Yeah, I know these walls aren’t usually guarded, though,” Andris said with a snort, then lifted up his hand to show off the five relic rings he had on his fingers. “And I’m very hard to kill thanks to these.”

“Right,” she said, grimacing. “How do you know the walls aren’t guarded?”

“I arrived a few days ago,” he said. “I’ve been scoping it out.”

She laughed. “So you are a thief. Or a treasure hunter.”

“What do you mean?”

“You scope a place out and have so many relics? How many paladins did you steal from or graves did you rob to get those? I’ll tell you right now—there are no relics in Avheia.”

A smirk played about Andris’s lips. “But there’s clearly at least one Aeshanian here; surely there must be something of interest?”

He immediately knew his words were a mistake as her face turned ashen and her knuckles on the hand holding her sword turned even whiter than they were.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, realizing the consequences of his mouth moving faster than his brain. “I only meant the castle must have some interesting secrets, or something—not just relics.”

Relics were powerful and shaped much of the world they now lived in, but their history was not a kind one—especially for Aeshanians.

Aeshanians were the source of all magic in the world. Born with immense amounts of mana, a large factor in their ethereal appearance, they could use magic freely.

Even after they passed away, Aseshanian’s bodies still held a significant amount of power, so as a funeral rite, they would turn the bones, skin, and hair of the deceased into powerful relics that were meant to protect their families and keep them in their lives for generations to come.

Though a bit morbid, it was a beautiful practice in their traditions—but people were greedy. Coveting their great power, the magic-less Easarians discovered acquiring these relics meant they, too, could harness the power of magic.

First came the grave robbing and desecration of Aeshanian holy sites.

Then came the bloody wars that used the flesh, blood, hair, and bones of prisoners as reagents for their twisted relic magic and horrible sciences.

This, however, had been a hundred years ago and was the cause of the war that separated their once allied nations. While Aeshanian and the Easarian relations never fully recovered, they had lived in peace now for decades, and relic creation was strictly regulated by the Aeshanians and the Vaendaelian Church.

“And, if you must know,” Andris went on, half wondering why he felt the need to explain this much to his old adversary, “these relics were given to me. There was no thievery or illegal activity involved. I can tell you the story behind every one of them—though, I guess, you have no reason to believe me…”

“Enough,” Astus said, her expression easing. “I’ve crawled through this castle enough to know there’s nothing here to find even if you were looking to rob it. But just so you know, I’m not up for making any deals, either.”

“Deals?”

“I’m not going to be your next set of relics,” she told him.

“A-Ah…” It took a moment for him to understand what she meant, but when he did he felt even more confused. She thinks I’m going to take her so I can make relics out of her body?

“What?”

“I didn’t even consider the possibility,” he said blankly.

“You… didn’t?”

“Burial rituals aside, I find the whole process a bit disturbing, quite frankly.”

“Yet you still use them.”

“I use the ones I have occasionally, yes,” he admitted. “But I’ve never thought of acquiring more—especially not… that way.”

“Even when you know the magic in them is limited?”

“I did say ‘occasionally.’”

“But you’ll use them to get a good view of a festival held all over Easalan every single year in an obscure area most of the country has never heard of?”

“You’re asking very difficult questions.”

“They really aren’t that hard.”

Andris scratched his head. “Yes?”

Astus scoffed and rested the flat of her sword on her shoulder. “You aren't very good at this, are you?”

“Depends on what ‘this’ is,” he said. “Undergoing an interrogation and having a discussion about relic ethics with a stranger was not within any reasonable expectations I had when I climbed up here—and I talk to Aeshanians all the time.”

“You do?” she asked, suddenly mystified again.

“Yes?” Andris said, raising a brow. Just how many disconnects in this conversation were they going to have? “Do you think you’re the only Aeshanian in the kingdom?”

“N-No, I… Don’t the Easarians want to turn us all into relics?”

Andris gaped at her, wondering if this was all a big joke—but she seemed genuinely surprised.

“You,” he stated, unsure how to word his concerns to a woman who was still a mass murderer in his mind. “Have you ever left Avheia?”

Astus’s face fell, and Andris’s heart sank. “S-Sure I have,” she said, but he knew it was a lie. “I-I was just testing you.”

It was an almost unthinkably childish answer and her face flushed in the embarrassment written all over her face.

“Unbelievable,” Andris breathed—a comment that earned him a petulant glare.

“I said I’ve left Avheia!”

“I heard you,” he said, grinning a little through the pain he felt in his heart.

This may have been his very worst fear in finding Astus. It was becoming increasingly likely this woman—this girl—was just an innocent who probably couldn’t even dream of the horrors Astus and the Stag Mothers were responsible for.

What do I do with this small, delicate version of Astus? Andris asked himself as the horns announcing the start of the festival sounded.

“I’m Andris,” he told her, holding out his hand to her with a smile. “Though we’ve made our acquaintance under strange circumstances, it’s nice to meet you…?”

Andris paused, realizing he didn’t actually know Astus’s real name. She stared at his hand, then at him, then sighed.

Shaking the offered hand, she told him, “Migyn. My name is Migyn.”