Dust swirled into the air, blanketing the road and clinging to skin and clothes. Diomede had pulled the wagon to a sudden halt, the horses snorting and stamping in the haze.
"Well, I have to say, wonderful driving, my good man," Francisco said, patting Diomede's back with a grin that didn't quite hide his own relief.
Clayton stood in the wagon bed, scanning the horizon. Through the thinning dust, he spotted the weather-worn welcome sign of Hastatad.
"We're not far now," he said, pointing. "The town's just up the road."
Kira slipped fully free of the bearskin cloak and climbed down from the wagon. Her breath came in ragged pulls—every inhale sharp, every exhale trembling.
"I need a moment," she gasped, her voice breaking.
Heat pulsed through her face, feverish to the bone. Her heart pounded like the hooves of a hundred charging horses, each beat rattling her ribs. The strain felt like it was splintering her from the inside.
"Diomede… I need your help," she whimpered.
Diomede approached slowly, his shadow falling over her.
"What do you need me to do?" he asked, his tone calm but measured.
Kira met his eyes, pulling him down so her lips brushed his ear.
"I need you to break my arm," she whispered.
For a heartbeat, Diomede didn't answer. His gaze flicked to the others in the wagon before returning to her.
"Why ask me?"
Her eyes didn't waver.
"Because when you do it… you won't feel bad after. Not like they would."
Without another word, Diomede took her arm in his massive hands. His voice dropped to a near growl.
"Exhale all of your breath."
Kira pushed the air from her lungs until her chest felt hollow.
At the very end of her breath—crack.
The snap was sharp and sickening, the sound of a tree branch breaking in frost. White-hot pain roared through her limb, searing straight to her spine. The shock made her knees buckle. She gasped violently, the sound tearing raw from her throat as heat swelled under her skin, her arm already ballooning.
Diomede drew her close, shielding her from the others' view.
"Thank you," she managed between clenched teeth.
Without hesitation, he wrenched her arm back into place. The sickening grind of bone and tendon sent another wave of agony ripping through her. Her vision tunneled, spots blooming in the corners of her eyes. She bit down hard into Diomede's arm to muffle the cry, tasting leather and salt as her body shuddered from the shock.
"Kira… focus on healing," Diomede said.
The Boarkar princess closed her eyes, forcing her mind to still. The pain was sharp but solid—something she could cling to—far easier to bear than the tide of emotions threatening to drown her.
And then… a presence entered her thoughts. Warm. Welcoming. Ancient. She knew instantly—it was the Great Mother. The anguish dulled, replaced by a calm, radiant bliss that poured into every vein.
Her head dropped against Diomede's arm, damp heat soaking his sleeve. When he looked to the others, he met only tense, concerned faces.
"She's fine now," Diomede said, a half-hearted attempt to settle their worry.
"I don't understand what happened," Clayton asked, stepping down from the wagon.
Diomede stood and pulled Kira to her feet. Turning his back to the group, he wiped the sweat and tears from her face.
"Hold it together. We're almost there," he whispered.
Kira brushed the dust from her clothes and rejoined the others.
"Before we start down the road," Clayton said, his voice edged with concern, "please tell us what happened."
Kira folded her arms, meeting their eyes evenly.
"This ability I have… if I don't prepare myself before a fight that leads to killing, I become overwhelmed."
Lily frowned. "Back in Blue Stream, you weren't affected by the things we fought?"
Kira shook her head.
"When the fighting back in Blue Stream happened, what you fought wasn't alive in a natural way. So when they died… I couldn't feel their emotions like I could with the bandits."
"So," Lily pressed, "you feel the suffering of any life—even your enemies?"
Kira nodded slowly.
"No matter who it is, or how I feel about them… I feel every emotion and every pain their soul suffers."
A heavy silence settled over the road. Clayton's shoulders sagged, shame pressing into him for even asking. Kira caught the feeling in him and offered a small tilt of her head, a wordless reassurance.
They climbed back into the wagon. Diomede followed last, snapping the reins gently. The horses began their slow walk toward Hastatad.
Francisco pulled his journal from his bag and began writing the events of the past days. But when he reached the Fungal Grove, his pen hesitated. Closing the book, he straightened and turned so all could see him.
"I feel I must come clean myself, my friends," Francisco began. "I told you about my ability… but not why I don't speak of it."
Diomede kept his eyes forward, guiding the horses. The others listened intently.
"Some do not view those like myself—those with the Blood of the Drugor in their veins—as trustworthy… or safe," Francisco said. "The Drugor, born in the time of the Primordials, led the war against the Gultonk. In that war, they forged pacts with the planes of elements to gain an advantage. And because these pacts were made before the Great Sacrifice divided the realms, some Drugor became permanently bound to the planes they bargained with. Their descendants—people like me—retain their powers."
He raised his hand, and a small flame blossomed in his palm.
"As you can see, my bloodline made a pact with the Plane of Fire." The flame vanished.
"The reason I keep this secret," he continued, his tone tightening, "is because of one specific Drugor. Before the Age of Heroes, there was a Drugor King… his name is almost lost to history, but the horrors he committed are remembered. Because of him, the Drugor have been hunted nearly to extinction. Descendants like me are feared, hated—some believe we will become the next great evil."
His eyes dropped.
"Even among our own people, there are those who would kill us."
Kira felt the sadness bleeding off him like heat from a forge. She reached to comfort him—but a pebble whizzed past and bounced off his head.
Francisco blinked, looking toward the culprit. Lily was glaring at him.
"I don't care what that king did ten thousand years ago. You aren't him. And you shouldn't be ashamed of who you are!" she shouted. "You're a good person—and anyone who thinks otherwise can bite down on a Fluta Toad and go straight to the hells!"
A small smile tugged at Francisco's lips.
"She's right, you know," Clayton added. "You make wonderful music. And my father always said—those who create beautiful things can't be evil."
Tears welled in Francisco's eyes.
"I can't tell you how long it has been since I have heard words as sweet as yours… I thank you, my dear friends."
He wiped his face, then clapped his hands loudly.
"So—how far now, friends?"
"Not far," Clayton said, smiling.
Kira felt her heart swell from the joy rippling through the group. Francisco broke into a playful song about a man who married a fish. His voice carried behind them until it faded into the shimmer of heat rising from the dirt road.
From the tall grass at the roadside, a familiar red coat emerged—its wearer humming an old tune.
He stopped, watching the wagon travel down the road. And though the sun blazed overhead, the air between them seemed to grow colder.