Kayn Hargen-son, Exile of the Final Bastion, bathed the morning after he committed genocide.
The water ran dark, the filth of slaughter sliding from his skin in lazy blue spirals. He did not scrub. He did not need to. The blood of Others never lingered long—his body did not allow it. Whatever the Council had done to him in the time before Exile had made him something else. Weapons did not need to rust. Running water was all he needed.
He emerged from the stream as the false sun peeked over the fractured horizon, the wasteland stretching endlessly around him. Bones jutted from the sand in skeletal forests. No birds circled above. Few things lived here, besides the paumbeasts. The few birds Kayn ever saw were found on the salt beaches, waiting patiently for eels to be abandoned by the receding tides.
Kayn dressed with practiced efficiency, layering his armor over scarred flesh, then tightened the belt that held his twin knives. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the tailored armor move like a second skin. They shone as pristine as the day the Council had given them to him over a thousand years ago, forged out of metal that had fallen from the skies. The wicked sorcery of the Others could not bypass this armor, and his twin blades, made of the same metal, shredded their wards like so much spider silk.
Yet his bones ached, the kind of ache that came with time immeasurable. His work was almost done. Maybe nothing lived in the Tohak'ha Flats anymore. Kayn was working on it. The Others had been numerous here once, scattered like weeds in the OuterLands, farming fungi and scraping morning dew off bones.
Now, the Others were rare on this continent. Perhaps in the world.
He was nearing two hundred years in the Northern Flats, and his efforts were reaping results. Last night's community had been less than five hundred. Perhaps the day came soon where his work was done.
A thousand years since he left the Final Bastion. First the Jishik Hollows, then the Cor'datha Groves. The Puginsha Mountains had taken him the longest, for Kayn spent nearly three hundred years hunting the Others through their tunnels, sealing them one by one. Some of the Others had sealed themselves within the depths of the mountains, but that had only dragged out the fight. They could not live without their false sun, and Kayn had forever to chip away at the rock.
Kayn shook his head. No. It was more important to be sure. To verify. The Others were crafty, and they always invented new spells. He could track them, he could hunt them, but the only way to know they were truly gone was to walk the land scouring for them.
But the question came to his mind: And then what?
The Council had not accounted for that. Kayn had no idea either. But did it matter? The Others had no place in this world, and perhaps neither did he. And yet, the question whispered through his mind: And then what? Was he to return to the Final Bastion? Was his father still alive after a millennia?
Kayn had been sent to the OuterLands with a singular purpose, but did not think of what might happen when the hunt was over.
He tugged on his greaves, rolling his shoulders and neck again. There will be time to think of that. For now, he walked through the devastated village, looking for the blue blood of a young Other he had spared last night. The tracks were erratic—long strides, then short, as if the child had collapsed and forced themselves up again. Good. They wouldn’t get far.
Kayn narrowed his eyes. The child would run, and Kayn would follow. Either they would lead him to the right place, or they would tire.
It mattered not. All he knew was he could not follow too closely, lest they decide they would rather die than lead him to another group. He'd learned that lesson five hundred years ago.
He began, following the trail. Kayn would finish what he was made for.
Then he would decide what came next.
The Harkinsen had attacked at dusk, just like in the stories. They always struck in the dark when her people’s spells were weakest. The elders of the village were powerful, but even her mother's magic had done nothing. It did not matter what spell they sang or how it was weaved—the magic merely dissipated against the Harkinsen's gleaming skin. Even her father, the village's Pillar, had fallen to the Harkinsen's twin blades.
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Despite having heard the stories, Tah'utha had never seen her parents so helpless. No Kas'ua ever lived against the Harkinsen.
"Run to the Sawa'no Tribe!" Utha'kawu's voice still lingered—screaming, pleading, begging. She had thrust her bone pendant into Tah'utha’s hand. "Show this to their Weaver. She will know who you are. You must warn them of the Harkinsen!"
Tah'utha had long exhausted her strength, fleeing through the forest of skeletons. Every step sent fire through her legs. She stumbled, using her arms to push off from one bone to the next. Sleep gnawed at her vision, but the last words of her terrified mother kept her moving.
And so Tah'utha pressed onward. But there was no running anymore; her legs refused to do more than stand. Yet she did not stop, for fear of letting down the hopes of those she had left behind. Even if her people survived until dawn, it would not matter. The Harkinsen had found them, and the thing did not rest, and had not stopped since the time of her ancient forefathers. Tah'utha was old enough to understand why her mother had sent her away.
There was no fearing the worst when no other conclusion was possible.
And now, just as the first hint of dawn broke over the horizon, she fell—painfully, completely. Her body craved the light. She tried to rise, but her limbs refused to obey. It’s going to be alright, she told herself. The sun is rising. I can keep going. The Sawa'no Tribe was just over that hill. She pushed a weak hand forward, waiting for the nourishing light of the sun. It would take some time, but she could still make it.
Then—footsteps from behind her. Light steps.
No, thought Tah'utha. She wanted to scream. No. She should not. There was the vain hope it didn't know she was here. No. No no no no no!
The footsteps came closer, then a pause. Tah'utha froze, begging to any god who still listened to make her invisible, but then a rough hand grabbed her shoulder, flipping her over. Tah'utha cringed, blocking with her arms, but then heard the voice.
"You. You're... not Sawa'no."
The hand let go of her. "What's a child like you doing out here?"
Tah'utha opened her eyes. An older Kas'ua looked down at her from his kneeling position. The markings framing his eyes marked him as a hunter for a tribe.
"Can you speak?" he asked, not unkindly. A finger found the side of her neck, then he frowned. "You need the sun. Were you lost?"
He picked her up, carrying her towards the hill. "A Weaver's pendant," he muttered upon seeing the token dangling from Tah'utha's neck, clearly uncomfortable upon recognition. He did not say more.
And then they crested the hill, where he gently set Tah'utha down in the light of the sun. The first rays had long poured over the horizon, and it was only this hill that had stopped the nourishing light from reaching Tah'utha's skin. She basked in its warmth, feeling her body drink in the light.
The hunter looked down at her before reaching into his pack. Out came something blue; paumfruit, which he handed to Tah'utha. She reached for it it greedily, biting into the salty flesh. It was ripe. This hunter must have been talented if he could pluck fruit from paumbeasts during their mating seasons.
"Slow," said the hunter, kneeling down with concern. He gently wiped paumfruit juice from her skin before asking her again, "Were you lost? Why are you carrying a Weaver's pendant?"
Tah'utha swallowed, feeling the warmth of the sun settle into her bones, the taste of paumfruit thick on her tongue. She had no time to rest. Her mother's words echoed: You must warn them of the Harkinsen!
She clutched the pendant against her chest, her small fingers trembling.
"I’m not lost," she whispered. "I was sent. I... I escaped. My village—"
The words caught in her throat, strangled. A weight settled behind her ribs. Not just fear, but something heavier. A hollowed-out ache where mother and father used to be, but she had no words for the ruin left behind. Only memories, now tarnished. The dead, the silence, the firelight gleaming off twin knives cutting through wards like nothing at all.
The hunter’s expression darkened. "The Harkinsen."
It was not a question.
Tah'utha gave a small nod. "My mother said to find the Sawa'no Weaver. She said—" Her voice wavered, but then suddenly she became calm. As though a part of her had accepted it all, and that there was nothing left to do besides convey the message. "The Sawa'no need to leave. The Harkinsen is coming."
The hunter exhaled sharply. He stood, gaze shifting to the horizon, down the hill where a Kas'ua village lay. He turned around, noting the fresh wound on Tah'utha's shoulder. "You were bleeding last night?" he asked.
Tah'utha nodded. "The Harkinsen cut me," she explained, indicating her wound. It had not healed no matter how many times Tah'utha croaked a command at it.
"Then you were followed," the hunter stated. His voice did not rise, only lowered as he understood the weight of the situation. "Come," he offered her a hand, "Our Weaver must know."
After only a moment of hesitation, Tah'utha took it. "Did I... is it my fault?" she asked in a hushed whisper, barely holding back tears. Why hadn't she thought of this too? "Are more going to die because of me?"
"No," the hunter's voice was soft, but firm. "The Sawa'no still have time to move because of you. Death comes, but we seek life elsewhere."
And they walked down towards the village.
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