Three days had already passed since Fjalla had departed on her journey, and the lingering fear and doubt that she once thought might never allow her mind peace had long since gone. In their place was a feeling of tedium, a rebellious boredom against the unwelcome stretches of road, and an eagerness to rush to the other end of this nightmarish adventure cast upon her.

  It was difficult to believe that one could get bored travelling through the countryside.

  Rolling hills of lush sunkist greens stretched for miles, adorned by scattered patches of vigorous deciduous forestry. Their swooping arches are often a fertile canvas for rows of local harvests: bushes of figs, olives, and berries. Lined up meticulously in respective allotments, they contrasted the boundless flower fields brought forth by Gaia’s Grace. It was these homegrown bounties that brought prosperity to the unindustrialized, picturesque towns of South Rock, an allegory to the beauties of a dying world and a rare gem amongst the rapidly urbanizing states of the Asgardian Territories.

  Many men, young and old, sought to one day settle in the quiet quarter, dreaming of warm summer evenings on the hillsides; simply dwelling upon the Gods’ finest work. The scenery, however, was lost on the restless eyes of the girl who paid little attention to anything that wasn’t her own footsteps.

  The Smithy was accurate in stating the relative ease of the route to Tir Albis. Every post, at every crossroad, bore a sign pointing in the direction of the famous borough in bold. There were even signs pointing towards Tir Albis when the path was straight and didn’t split, likely a form of reminder for weary travellers.

  It only made sense, for it was the largest town for miles by quite the margin. Fjalla had read about it in one of her books, “The Lavender Gate”, the footfall of the Asgardian troops south of Mokosh in the latter ends of The Great Hunt. It was a marvel of Far-Northern architecture on the southern end of the continent, and the only entry or exit point to the dreaded swamps to the north.

  Fjalla would have been able to see the faint outlines of its towering skylines by the break of next dawn had she not been delayed by heavy rains the night before. She’d found shelter in a relatively empty barn on a rural crop of land, where she waited out the seasonal torrents. It poured all night, prompting her to sleep on a pile of hay by a lounging Rosie, until she was roused awake by an angry farmhand.

  “THIEF!” screamed the boy.

  “I… I’m no thie…” she barely had a moment to speak before the young lad chased her and her mount out into the fields. Waving a pitchfork and hurling threats mixed with some very unkind slander as they both fled the scene. A traumatizing experience for the girl had she not been too concerned with getting back on track.

  Aside from this detour, she’d otherwise kept a very impressive pace. Keeping to the road, she avoided forest detours, spent no time mingling with travellers and kept her head low when passing through villages.

  Her meals were rationed regularly throughout, three meals: two at either end of the day and one when the sun was at its meridian. Meal time was sacred; she looked forward to it, for it reminded her of Papa. The hardtack, cheese, meat and preserves were no reflection of his culinary potential, but they were a reminder of his caring presence.

  She camped only when the night was too dark to travel, usually not too far from the road and preferably close to a rural residence. While she did not wish to be seen or bothered, she found an odd sort of comfort in knowing people were around. She liked people, the idea of people, even if they often didn’t necessarily like her back.

  At night, when sleep would elude her, she would lie outside her tent and gaze upon the stars. Papa told her the brightest ones were called planets; alongside the Sun and the Moon, they represented patron gods of Nu Panthea.

  The remaining bodies, as he called them, were what some believed were the souls of their loved ones. Although all men peered at the same stars in heaven, they manifested differently to each individual, speaking in the likeness of those they’d once held dear.

  Oftentimes, the Smithy and she would sit in their courtyards speaking to the stars. She didn’t really have anyone up there herself, but the Smithy had told her tales of a Mama and an older sister. They were not related to her, she deduced. They were long gone before she was even born, but she’d liked to imagine them as family.

  She had much to tell them about. The incident with the tunnel, the journey after and the rude man who chased her and Rosie earlier. But they weren’t the only people she’d spoken to; she also had a minute to chat with the Smithy. There was no reason or scripture to believe the stars only represented those who no longer lived; by all means, one could talk to use the stars to speak with the ones whose ears may not hear but whose souls perchance could.

  She made him a promise. She was going to make it to Tir Albis by morning at any cost.

  Tonight, Fjalla had no intent to sleep, for she planned to ride out the night to make up for the day she’d lost. This was the final stretch, and if she could push through it, she believed she could still reach her destination by the fourth day. Then maybe, just maybe, the Smithy could be there, waiting for her at the carriage station.

  The road ahead took a change in form as the smooth mud path turned to a crumbling rocky trail. Seeped in the shadows of oaks and cliffs, it angled upwards to higher land, getting steeper and steeper as it went on. A stark change from the gentle curves of the lowland plains, this far corner of the Pantheon mountains gave Rosie a tough time as she stumbled across it.

  Fjalla was tired, the road was hard, and she was beginning to regret her decision, but it was too late to turn back. She’d already made it quite a distance up, and it shouldn’t be too long before the path began to wind back down to the lowlands. Besides, Papa had warned her of the highlands before. Contrary to the peaceful lower forests of South Rock, which hosted nothing but several small animals and birds, the highlands were known to host harpies and griffins occasionally. Although it was unlikely she would run into one, Fjalla was not willing to take that chance.

  It was arduous, draining and longer than she had expected. The path ahead took them up harsh inclines, across tight edges and through narrow corridors, but fortunately, it all came to an end. For as the night sky bore the first light of day, the girl and her mule had come upon the precipice of their climb. Taking a minute to breathe the chill morning air that brushed along her face, the girl stretched her arms wide as her silver hair ruffled and glistened in the wind.

  Beyond was a clear trail, winding down the mountain towards the foot, where fields of clustered lavenders stretched as far as the eye could see. Hues of purple, pink and green along the lustrous earth ahead were embraced by the cool greys of the mountains on either side, and crowned by the golden yolk of the sun rising to the east. An attestation to Gaia’s grandeur, almost as if to challenge every craftsman claiming to bear God’s gift in imagery.

  However, what caught the girl’s attention and drew a wide, silly smile across her sleepless face was the centrepiece of this display. Sitting almost perfectly within the spiral of a golden ratio, haloed by rays of dawn, was the silhouette of a hilltop Metropolis.

  It was all worth it now. She kept her promise, and before her was the goal for the day, Tir Albis, “The Lavender Gate of South Rock”.

  By the time she’d crossed the well-guarded gates of the regional capital, the day was well in effect. Crowds of people in all sorts of work attire poured in and out of town; some came on foot, others on mounts, and some, more fortunate, even rode in on chauffeured chariots. The city was home to people of different races and colours, namely: Asgardian Norfolk, Mokish Refugees and the native Narmites.

  There seemed to be no elves in, though, likely due to the legal repercussions following the recent outbreak. With her hat covering her ears, however, Fjalla appeared just another Asgardian girl riding her mule into town.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Tir Albis was unlike anything she had ever seen. Its streets were lined with tightly packed limestone settlements that clustered and layered upon one another as the path wound around the hill. The main road was wide and paved with bricks of grey stone, arranged as close as they could; tufts of hardy weeds and grass grew between the gaps. Every so often, the road would split into narrow alleyways. They led to courtyards where children played, and adults hung clothes to dry, hidden from the public.

  From their windows, locals hung terracotta planters, cradling local herbs and flora. Small trees, deciduous and coniferous, were brown in pits alongside building walls and in private yards, contrasting the pale, bleached tones of the local architecture.

  Unlike the small towns she’d come across on her journey, every corner of the city was a sort of store, workshop or tavern, distinguished by hanging signs and lanterns. No place, however, housed as many vendors and craftsmen as the central square. Well-lit, loud and swarming with all sorts of people, the bustling marketplace was the heart of Tir Albis, marked by a central Pire denoting the grave of a Nu Panthean Saint.

  At the western edge of the plaza, towards the road leading up from the square, was a sign denoting “IVALDI’S STABLES”. The structure was massive, boasting wooden beams, high ceilings and two heavy sliding doors that were left wide open to expose its vast interior. Despite that, Fjalla would have struggled to see it through the crowds had she not been sitting up on the back of Rosie.

  She rode her mount around the perimeter of the crowded market to avoid bringing attention to herself, a tactic that worked as none of the guards perched up against the walls seemed to pay her any mind.

  Once by the entrance, she could see that the doors respectively acted as entrance and exit gates, allowing equines easy navigation through the main aisle. Separating the doors was a thick square beam, where a framed document stated “Human Hands Only” above the crossed-out outline of an elf. A certification hung in pride to signify that the stable did not rely on an elven workforce; those privy to political loopholes knew such credentials were a superficial bauble.

  Fjalla felt a bitter taste in her mouth, which made her wince; nonetheless, she continued through.

  The stables were spacious and dimly lit, having no light sources of their own, yetrelying on what little came through the doors and vents. The aisle inside was paved almost flawlessly; it curved to take the shape of a “U”. There were stalls on either side of the aisle, most of which were home to the resident equines, while others, located closer to the exit, took the role of storage compartments. Near the entrance towards the right corner, there was a small room constructed as part of the structure. It had a standard wooden door and relatively large windows, allowing anyone inside to comfortably view affairs within the stable.

  Out of the room walked the figure of a middle-aged man, average of both height and build; he wore a blue, collared shirt and grey trousers. His features were northern, and a set of circular spectacles framed his deep blue eyes. He was mostly bald, growing only the sides of his head, which connected to thick reddish brown mutton chops that wrapped around his chin and above his lips.

  “Goodevening their missy!” boomed the baritone voice of the stable master, “ how can I help you fine ladies?”

  Fjalla dismounts slowly.

  “I would like to…” she could barely muster the words she had to say.

  Clenching her fists, she spits out, “ I would like to sell Rosie!”

  She said it so quickly that it was almost indecipherable, at least she secretly hoped it would be.

  Unfortunately, the stable master, who was taken aback yet understanding of the behaviour, deciphered her request just fine. He strokes his chin.

  “Rosie, huh?” he mutters.

  He quickly inspects the mule, checking her teeth, hooves and joints, before brushing her mane. The gesture reminded her of how the Smithy treated Rosie, simultaneously leaving her with conflicting feelings of nostalgic sadness and reassurance.

  “Healthy. Healthy. A beautiful name for a fine stead!” the stablemaster proclaimed,“ For Rosie, I am willing to put down 120 bezels! What do you say?” he nods as he looks to the girl for approval.

  “No!” she shakes her head as she explains.” Papa said not to accept anything under 150!”

  The stablemaster tilts his head side to side, closing his eyes, as he ponders,” Tough… Tough… Your papa is an ambitious man!”

  He opened one eye to peer at the girl for a moment, hoping she’d change her mind, but she stared back at him blankly with wide innocent eyes.

  Sighing, he takes a final look at the stead before offering, “Tell you what. I’ll give you 160 Bezels if you throw in the saddle!”

  “Okay!” she shrugs. She had no intention to walk around with the saddle on her shoulder anyway.

  “A deal it is!” he shakes her hand, “Take what you need from the bags while I get your money!”

  From the bags, she draws some tack, cheese and the letter, stuffing them in her satchel. She also took her wool-laced cloak that her father had packed for the winter, and tied it around her waist. By then, the master had returned with her money, 160 Bezels in paper tied by a tin clip.

  “There you go, little missie,” he said, extending the wad of cash, “ the amount as we agreed!”

  She grabs her payment before requesting, “Can I have a moment with Rosie, please?”

  “Go ahead,” he gestures forward.

  She walks up to her mule and gets close to its face, looking it closely in the eyes before holding it by the sides of its head.

  “I need you to be brave. And I need you to be strong. And I need you to be a warrior ok? Like Skadi, ok?”, she repeats to the mule as if expecting an answer.

  Rosie stared right ahead, oblivious to anything that was happening or being said. There was a moment of silence before she blew her nostrils and shook her head.

  “Oh, Rosie!” sighed Fjalla before hugging the mount by the head.

  Rosie was like family to the girl; she was the only consistent thing in her life that remained. Losing Rosie was to lose the last spiritual semblance she had to her life in the forest, and that brought her so much pain. Pain deep enough to have made a former version of herself bawl for hours. But this was no place to cry, no reason to cry; she knew Rosie would be in safe hands, and some day she would come back for her.

  A stable hand then escorted the mule away to be washed. She asked the stable master for directions to the carriage station before bidding him farewell as she went along.

  “Goodluck out there, Missy!” he shouted by the gate as she waved back at him.

  It was almost dusk by the time she reached the station. The bustling streets of Tir Albis were beginning to settle down as the townsfolk retreated to their homes and frequented taverns. Even the birds had flocked in the indigo skies, chirping as they searched for their nests. It seemed the sounds of chatter and music weren’t eliminated, but rather lightly suppressed by the porous walls of sleepless taverns, granting the nighttime atmosphere of Tir Albis a unique charm none could match.

  The station was a humble structure constructed almost entirely of wood, standing at the edge of an intersection. It doubled as a postal office with a request board posted on its facade. In the front, the door to this shack had a window, barred halfway down, where the station’s clergy could be seen standing inside the lamplit room. There seemed to be no one in line.

  “Full-Expense ticket to Dansfurt, please!” asked Fjalla with her sweet, high-pitched voice.

  The clergy, a young Narmite woman, looks around to see who is calling to her. She finally looks down before bluntly responding, “ That will be 140 Bezels.”

  Digging in her purse, she pulls out the wad of cash and stands on her toes to hand it over to slide it beneath the bars.

  Taking the cash, the lady notices she’d been given an extra 20 Bezels, which, for a second, she considers pocketing for herself. She takes a second look at the heedless young girl before rolling her eyes and handing her the ticket with the change.

  “Your wagon should be here soon. Please don’t tarry far.”

  “Thank you, miss!” Fjalla tells the clergy as she puts the items in her satchel. She turns around to bump into the frame of a man who was standing behind her. The strong scent of lavender prompted her to glance and examine the figure.

  Another Northerner, this time much younger. He was tall, lean and wore a uniform: a grey-blue coat and white pants. He had striking stormy eyes that glimmered even in the faint light of dusk. Soft, pale Northern skin was crowned by a thick, shiny head of slick black hair. And sat below his perked youthful nose was a daring moustache, stretching along his top lip as he revealed his pearly teeth in a smile. On his hips, he carried a gun and sword… Could he be? A warrior?

  “Hey,” he greeted the girl, leaning over to look closely.

  “Hm?” she whimpered shyly before scurrying away to hide behind a tree, too embarrassed to look back.

  The exchange had left her mind in a jumble and made her heart race; what was this she was feeling? Why did her cheeks feel warm? Why was her tongue so heavy? She felt stupid, so very, very stupid.

  “Calm yourself! This is not how a warrior behaves!” she whispered to herself, controlling and steadying her breath.

  By the time her head had cooled, she had been sitting curled up into herself, her mind truly clear for the first time in days. Instantly, however, the onset of fatigue and tolls of the day felt clear as ever. Allowing her no time to begin a new thought before her eyes shut and her body soon followed. Yawning, she carelessly fell into slumber.

  She was back in the forest, standing in the clearing, looking at her home.

  There was no one inside.

  No one outside.

  The door begins to open …

  “Hey! Hey! Our ride is here! You’re heading to Dansfurt, right?”

  Her eyes fluttered open to a face she’d seen but couldn’t quite recognize. Stormy eyes, pretty face… OH MY.

  She pounced up immediately, her eyes agape in awe, and her cheeks flushing scarlet. Her hands instinctively flew to the rims of her hat, securing it in place and ensuring her ears were covered.

  Slowly, she looked up at the young man, who was smiling gently at her and nodded gently.

  “Let’s go then! We’ve got a trip to catch!” he commanded.

  As they both raced back towards the station, he turned to her and said, “My name is Walshland, but my friends call me Walshie!” he snuck words between heavy breaths,” What’s your name?”

  The girl’s mind froze for a moment. “My name?” No one had asked her name before.

  “Yeah, silly, your name!” he snarkily responded.

  “My name is -”