He awoke the following morrow cradled in the girl’s arms. She was already wakeful, her gaze fixed upon him. A hollow void dwelt within her eyes, a shadow of profound regret, and when Byuga’s consciousness returned to him, she began to weep. The Prince of Jado offered what solace he could for hours, though the root of her sorrow remained veiled to him. When at last her trembling ceased, he warmed her and helped her into her raiment. A heavy unease weighed upon his heart; he was a man lost for words, uncertain of his path.
As he dressed the girl, he glimpsed Makar’s hand sliding beneath the door—a silent signal that the companion waited without. His task finished, Byuga donned his own attire and reached out to draw Lin-Shu into an embrace, but she recoiled, refusing his touch. He pressed a lone kiss to her cheek and stepped out into the cold.
They made their departure from the Guardians of Perlam with a haste that bordered on desperation. They gathered the offered provisions and descended to the threshold. There, Alequam Menaro awaited them, hands clasped, clad in full panoply of war. Byuga wondered why the man stood in steel.
As Linyu stepped before him, the man spoke in a low tongue. The young bahysa turned to Byuga to weave the words into their own. “He says the mandate of the Perlam Guardians is the study of magic and those who wield it. They have captured and scrutinized several demons. He claims that nearly all such creatures invade the mind through sorcery, conjuring phantasms, whispering falsehoods, or shattering the sanity with piercing shrieks.”
“We have witnessed this,” Byuga replied.
“He offers these as gifts.” Linyu took the circlets the man extended. When one met the Jado heir’s palm, he examined it closely. It was forged of iron, yet etched with countless sigils that shimmered with an amber and ochre light. He knew the nature of the thing he held, and its worth was not lost on him. Linyu confirmed his thoughts: “Runic halos. He says they shall shield our minds from the majority of these fiends. Unlike so many others, we shall at least possess a fighting chance.”
“Tell him I know the gravity of this gift,” Byuga said, his hands moving in the silent speech as he settled the halo upon his brow. “Our gratitude is profound.” Alequam Menaro offered a silent inclination of the head, spoke a few final words to Linyu, and took his leave. When the Jado prince inquired after his parting words, Linyu smiled faintly.
“He wished us patience among the monks.”
Byuga offered a grim smile in return and looked toward Makar and Lin-Shu. The girl’s spirit seemed yet broken, though the kardam appeared content; the luxury of a soft bed and warmth had evidently buoyed his humors. The Jado shaolin wished he might have found a hot bath, yet even this modicum of comfort had exceeded his expectations. He pulled his cap over the halo and drew his hood tight, gesturing to Makar and Linyu. When he took the hand of the Nyov-Moju princess, she flinched, her wide eyes searching his. Byuga gave a sharp nod, and she managed a small smile, stepping out ahead of him. The great doors groaned open, revealing a courtyard swept clean of the morning’s frost. The cold struck them like a physical wall; Byuga realized with a start how quickly they had grown soft in the warmth within.
Hours later, it occurred to him that he had never asked the name of that sanctuary. He doubted it possessed one; such a nascent structure likely lived only as a coordinate among the Perlam. He looked back through the mountain passes, but nothing remained visible through the white veil of the blizzard. He wondered if he would ever look upon those men and women again. Perhaps in a few days, or a week’s time, they would all be cold corpses. The winter would claim them, and their courage, their joy, and their grief would be swallowed by oblivion. Perhaps this was truly the end of the world, and those who fled were the only ones with wisdom.
They made swift progress that day, their bodies restored by rest. Though Byuga and Linyu found themselves swallowed by snowdrifts more than once, Makar had spent a lifetime in the barren kardam lands of the North. He navigated the drifts with ease, pulling them free and leading the way. When the time came to decide whether to camp for the night, they chose to press on. Though weary to the bone, Linyu promised they would reach the monastery by high noon the following day.
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In the dark of night, the cold bit with a renewed ferocity. The snow failed to cease but twice during their trek, leaving them looking like shambling specters of frost—men of snow walking the wastes. Byuga felt certain that if the march continued much longer, they would simply freeze where they stood.
At last, in the gray light before dawn, they reached the monastery. As the mountain-wall loomed through the gale, they realized that had they strayed but a few leagues south, they would have bypassed the sanctuary entirely and marched toward the coast. Luck, it seemed, was still their companion; had the blizzard not thinned for a fleeting moment, the structure would have remained hidden.
They moved through the ruins of an ancient town, a place long abandoned. Houses were buried nearly to their gables in snow, and the wind howled through the narrow streets like a wounded beast, grating against the ears. Byuga felt the chill deep in his marrow. A dull ache throbbed in his belly—whether from a need of nature or the onset of sickness, he could not tell. Makar appeared calm, yet as they neared the monastery, even his frame tightened with tension.
Before reaching the great ascent, they passed beneath a monolithic torii gate. Its crown bore intricate motifs, though most were choked by ice and rime. Byuga could only discern the carvings of the World-Serpents. Shading his eyes against the stinging sleet, he bowed his head and began the climb.
They ascended for an age, their knees creaking like dry timber in the cold. Finally, they reached a plateau—a courtyard that mirrored the heights of Gaigon. Curiously, the snow did not settle here. A phalanx of statues lined the path to the monastery’s doors, creating a gargantuan corridor of stone. They surged forward, fueled by the frantic hope that their odyssey was finally at its end. They were broken—thirsting, starving, and withered by the frost.
Yet, halfway across the expanse, the world slowed. Byuga felt the shift, but before he could react, he was hoisted into the air. While his companions were flung a fathom higher, he crashed back down almost instantly. The breath was dashed from his lungs as he hit the stones. He scrambled to rise, but every movement felt mired in silt. His actions, his perceptions, his very will had been decelerated. As he steadied himself, three monks stood before him. But as he looked upon them, a strange sensation washed over him. Unlike Bodhi, these men radiated a visceral heat. Confused, he closed his eyes, attempting to cast his senses outward—and for a heartbeat, he succeeded. Then, abruptly, his perception was slammed shut, and a violent force threw him backward. When he opened his eyes, one of the monks was closing the distance.
With a calm that belied his inhuman, blinding speed, the monk reached him and pressed a palm to Byuga’s brow. The Prince’s mouth fell open in a silent scream; then, the monk recoiled, his fingers ignited with phantom flame. It was then Byuga remembered the runes upon his forehead and felt a surge of grim triumph. As the crushing pressure began to wane, he lashed out, his whip coiling toward the monk’s limbs—but he was still leaden, his strike sluggish. The monk evaded the blow with ethereal grace, drifting back to his brethren as if floating on the wind. Jado’s prince lifted his head, looking to his comrades. They looked as though they were drowning in open air. He knew he was their only salvation.
He knelt, closing his eyes. This time, there could be no failure. He drew his focus inward, listening to the rhythm of his own breath. Then, as if flaying his own skin to expose his nerves to the world, he threw his senses wide.
The weight that crashed down upon him was agonizing, but he endured. He felt every individual flake of snow, the biting wind, the ice sloughing off the statues, the dry grass scraping against the rock, and the ancient stone beneath his boots. He felt the suffocating lungs of Lin-Shu and the others. His awareness bloomed toward the monks, tracing the radiance of their minds and the unnatural heat of their bodies. He gripped his whip, wound it tight around his arm, and launched himself. Just as the monk had done before, he felt himself propelled at a velocity beyond measure. The sheer speed, the sensation of the air tearing around him, brought a savage joy to his heart.
Yet, the moment he drew near the monk, the world shifted again. He felt himself caught within a strange vibration—a violent tear in the fabric of things. A moment later, with all the momentum he had gathered, he slammed into a hard, unforgiving surface, and the world went dark.
