Rupa-Tulak’s Search for a Flower

Rupa-Tulak hobbled along the dirt road through the Wastelands of Aseranu in the early autumnal morning. Her vision was dimmed, but her eyes were bright as she scanned her barren surroundings. She was looking for a flower. Not just any flower, but a flower that bloomed only once in one’s lifetime.

Rupa-Tulak’s lifetime was dwindling. She knew that. And so, she had gathered what she needed for her journey and left everything else behind. Not that there was much to leave in the little village she left.

She told no one she was leaving, and if anyone had noticed Rupa-Tulak’s departure, they did not say a word. There was one who would notice her absence, but by the time he realized she was gone, she planned to have found the flower already. When he saw the flower she found, that would make him lose some of his tiresome concern for Rupa-Tulak.

She made her way slowly down the dirt-packed path. The morning breeze felt cool on her skin, despite the layers she bundled in. To her right and left were fields, or rather, what once were fields. The ground was blackened and charred as though a great fire had swept across the grassy plains with a vengeance until it consumed everything that once was verdant and vibrant.

These were the Wastelands. No farmers tended the land, despite it being the time of harvest. There were no crops to harvest; they were all withered and dried. The land was barren. Nothing seemed to grow.

Yet that was why Rupa-Tulak was determined to find the flower. She knew that if she found it—even here in such a desolate place—it would mean there was still life in these lands. And for that, Rupa-Tulak held on to hope.

As she traveled, she reminded herself that the ground she hobbled upon had not always been barren. Once it had been green and full of life. But now, it seemed consumed by sickness—a sickness which left the vegetation withered and shrunken. Rain still fell upon the ground, but nothing responded to its gentle attempts of healing and restoration. The sun unwittingly scorched what little remained.

The Wastelands stretched across the land of Aseranu. Like weeds creeping through fields of flowers, they spread out slowly from their source, choking out all that lived.

Yet, the Wastelands were changing—for the first time in over two centuries since the Cataclysm. They no longer spread out toward the edges of the land. Like the tide flows and ebbs, so too the Wastelands. They were receding now. Life was returning to Aseranu.

Rupa-Tulak adjusted her homespun shawl, covering her graying head as she limped along the path, aided by her ash-hewn walking stick. Even in the early morning, the sun beat upon the earth. It drove away the cool of night with its warmth.

The farther Rupa-Tulak traveled, the more devastation and ruin she witnessed. The little village she’d been in last had struggled, but they had survived. Like all who lived in the Wastelands, they had proudly made it their home. Generations of Wastelanders lived in defiance of the dead land around them.

But the farther east Rupa-Tulak went, the more it looked as though the people had ceased their struggle against the land. The scant travelers Rupa-Tulak encountered along the road had gaunt and hollowed faces. Their clothing hung off them. They moved with less life than Rupa-Tulak. They carried with them their meager possessions, finally admitting defeat to the Wastelands. They eyed her suspiciously as they straggled along the path, heading west. Rupa-Tulak continued east, farther and farther into the heart of the deadened Wastelands.

Her eyes were sad as she looked about the land, as she remembered what once was but was now no more. Once these hills had been green, once they had rolled together playfully. Now they were simply mounds of dirt—utterly crushed like the people Rupa-Tulak had passed.

Though her heart went out to those abandoning the Wastelands, she understood. Such a place was draining. It took, and it took, and it took until there was nothing left to give—except life itself. It was better to leave while they still held onto that last, precious gift.

Rupa-Tulak walked the whole day at her slow but determined pace. She stopped only twice. Once to take a drink from the small waterskin slung across her stooped back, and once to nibble on a few roasted nuts she brought.

She looked and looked as she shuffled along, but she did not find what she was searching for. The flower still eluded her. Rupa-Tulak pressed on. She knew in her heart of hearts that she was on the right path. She knew the way. She was drawing near.

As the sun began to set behind her, Rupa-Tulak found herself on the outskirts of another village—one which crouched warily on the edge of a long-dead forest. Rupa-Tulak stared at those silent sentinels. The trees were ashen and gray, the life strangled from them. She was certain the flower was somewhere in those woods. But her search could wait for the light of day when Rupa-Tulak would not be hindered by roots and fallen branches that twisted and snagged at feet in the darkness of night.

The village was just as small and barren as her own. Few lived there—even fewer visited. The streets were empty in the growing dusk, but lights flickered behind shutters trying in vain to ward off the advances of the night. Rupa-Tulak made her way over to a tavern made of sundried bricks.

When she opened the door, she found that it was occupied by two men, both worn and wearied from a fruitless day. In the past, these men might have come to this establishment to rest from their labors, but now they came to take a break from their problems. The two glanced over at Rupa-Tulak as she entered, with surprise on their faces. It had been many moons since travelers had come to the village. More folk left in recent days than folk who came.

Rupa-Tulak shuffled over to an empty table and sat down. She smiled a weary smile as she got off her feet. She lowered her shawl, draping it across her bony shoulders, and propped her walking stick against the table’s edge.

One of the men—the tavernkeeper—made his way toward her from where he’d been leaning against the bar. A towel was thrown over his shoulder, and a scowl seemed permanently etched into his middle-aged features.

Yet, Rupa-Tulak smiled endearingly at him. That surprised the man. Her gesture was unexpected but not unwelcome. His frown faded as he remembered a time when he’d been more apt to smile than scowl.

“What can I get you, Mother?” he asked Rupa-Tulak respectfully. “Food? Water? A room for the night?”

Rupa-Tulak inclined her head slowly. “That all sounds wonderful, Child.”

She took three silver coins from her purse and pressed them into the tavernkeeper’s hand. He looked down at the coins. Shock spread across his face.

“Mother, I can’t accept this—it’s too much!” he protested. “One shill is more than enough.”

Rupa-Tulak smiled again. “Keep them. Consider the other two shills my way of saying thanks for a good meal and a warm bed.”

The tavernkeeper bowed deeply and then straightened. He hurried off to prepare her food. A renewed bounce was in his step. Rupa-Tulak’s money would allow him to continue trading with the merchants from Dir—even with the higher food prices.

Rupa-Tulak watched him go with a knowing smile and then sat back in her chair as she waited. The other patron in the tavern paid her no mind. He simply sat at the bar and drank from his glass.

It wasn’t long before the tavernkeeper returned to Rupa-Tulak with a bowl of soup and a glass of water. She smiled gratefully, and the tavernkeeper went back behind the bar, cleaning. As he returned, he and the other patron resumed their conversation, interrupted by Rupa-Tulak’s arrival. She sipped her soup and listened with interest.

“I’m telling you, Emery,” the patron insisted, “these rumors from Dir are getting more and more widespread—and there’s truth to them. The Provincials want to build forts and outposts in the Wastelands.”

“Bah.” The tavernkeeper—Emery—shrugged. He made a face as he wiped down the counter. “Hod, you and I both know the Provincials wouldn’t last two days out here in the Wastelands. They don’t have what it takes.”

“That may be,” countered Hod, “but they’re still planning on expanding their reach.”

“Why would they do that?” Emery argued. “There’s nothing of value out here. These are the Wastelands, for Aseranu’s sake!”

“There are rumors that the Wastelands are shrinking,” Hod explained darkly. “The Provincials claim their populations are growing—that means they need more land.”

He tapped the countertop sharply. “What happens to us Wastelanders when the Provincials decide to claim our land—the land we’ve lived on for generations?”

Emery sighed wearily and drew himself a glass of beer from the tap. He scratched his beard and then refilled his friend’s glass as well. “I suppose they think nobody owns the Wastelands. Dir wants to take control of as much territory as possible before the other Provinces.”

“What happens after that? Will the Provinces finally start this war that’s been brewing? They all hate each other—it’s only a matter of time before they’re at each other’s throats.”

“It won’t come to that,” Emery said. “It’s just rumors at this point.”

“Why do you think so many Wastelanders are abandoning their homes and seeking refuge among the Provincials?” Hod wiped flecks of foam from his mustache. “It’s not right, I tell you,” he continued angrily. “We have no part in their plans—no place in their societies—and yet we’re caught in the middle of their schemes!”

“It was not always so,” Rupa-Tulak said. Her voice was quiet.

Emery and Hod broke off their discussion and looked over at the old woman. Rupa-Tulak continued to eat her soup and then set the spoon down, finished. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and looked up to see that the two men still stared at her. She smiled faintly.

“It was not always so,” she said again.

Emery frowned and leaned forward. His elbows rested against the bar top. “What do you mean, Mother?” he asked.

Hod also looked interested, wondering if she would agree with his viewpoint or with Emery’s. Either way, he and Emery would listen. The old were wise, after all, and she looked older and wiser than most.

Rupa-Tulak beckoned for them to join her at the small table. “Come, and I will tell you,” she said. Taking their drinks, Emery and Hod went over to sit next to the old woman. Rupa-Tulak took in a deep breath and then began her tale.

“Once, the people of Aseranu were not divided but whole. The land was lush and full of life. There were not four Provinces, but one. This was before the existence of the Wastelands, before the Cataclysm which separated the people of Aseranu and tore the land apart.”

Rupa-Tulak’s sad smile deepened, and she spread her handkerchief on the table.

“That is not the world we live in today, as you well know, but once it was so. Since the Cataclysm which birthed the Wastelands with its poisonous magic, mankind has been scattered to the four corners of Aseranu, separated by the Wasteland’s deteriorating reach.”

As she spoke, Rupa-Tulak tapped her handkerchief with a bony finger, indicating places on her makeshift map. Emery and Hod were engrossed in her tale; held captive by it. It didn’t matter that these were things they already knew. To hear of the past was what one did to remember.

“Here the Province of Ave.” Tap. “The Province of Sal.” Tap. “The Province of Dir.” Tap. “The Province of Nom.” Tap. “Four Provinces in the four corners of the earth, each with their own agendas and plans to conquer the others. The rumors you’ve heard are indeed true. The Wastelands are deteriorating. Life is returning to Aseranu.” Rupa-Tulak poured some of her water where she had marked the Provinces on the makeshift map. The three of them watched as the water slowly spread, soaking the cloth.

“What does that mean, Mother?” Emery asked. “Is the Cataclysm finally being undone?”

Rupa-Tulak nodded. “The Wastelands only exist because of the dark magic worked by Mages long ago. They created the Cataclysm. While they still live, the Wastelands persist. But as they fade, so does their magic.”

Hod shuddered at the mention of Mages and touched the talisman hidden under his shirt. Emery did the same. Rupa-Tulak knew the reason for their apprehension. She did not react as they did.

“If what you say is true,” Emery said, “and the Wastelands are fading away, what does that mean for us? Will we be taken over by the Provinces? Will war plague us just as the Cataclysm has?”

Rupa-Tulak folded up her handkerchief and wrung out the water into her empty bowl. She looked at the men and saw the desperation, the fear in their eyes. Wastelanders knew what it took to survive. But theirs was a struggle against the unforgiving harshness of the environment, not against mankind. She shook her head.

“I don’t have the answer to those questions, Child,” Rupa-Tulak admitted. “I’ve found that the hearts of mankind are often like a garden. Properly cared for, they will grow beautiful flowers of life and happiness. But if they are neglected, wicked seeds will grow weeds of destruction and pain.”

Emery and Hod mused silently over Rupa-Tulak’s words. Each wondered what they meant. Could people really be cultivated to create a culture of peace and prosperity? Hod was skeptical, but Emery was hopeful.

“Why have you come here, Mother?” he asked. “Our village is a long way from others. It’s even farther from the Provinces.”

Rupa-Tulak smiled and sipped her water. “I am looking for a flower,” she said. “One which blooms only once in a lifetime. I’ve heard rumors that it can be found in the Forest of Senatcha. That is why I am here.”

At her explanation, Hod gasped. Emery’s face went white. Both unconsciously touched their talismans again to ward off evil. Rupa-Tulak noticed their fear; she could practically smell it in the tavern.

“What is the matter, Children?” she asked with a frown. “Did I say something wrong?”

Emery shook his head grimly. “Even if this flower you seek can be found in the Forest of Senatcha, you’d do well to avoid the woods, Mother.”

“Why?” Rupa-Tulak leaned forward in her chair.

Emery and Hod exchanged ominous looks before Hod answered her. “Those woods are cursed by the spirit of Kanane, Mother. No one who enters the Forest of Senatcha ever comes out again.”

Rupa-Tulak’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Kanane. Unnoticed by either of the men, her hand clenched into a fist below the table. She tilted her head to the side and adopted an expression of interest.

“Kanane? As in, the Kanane who took part in the Cataclysm?”

Hod nodded and stroked his beard with a shaking hand. “Aye, that’s the same fiend.”

He settled back in his chair as Emery stood to fetch him another drink. Even though Emery knew this tale just as well, Hod was the village’s storyteller. Rupa-Tulak waited, interested to see what had been remembered about Kanane—and what had been forgotten. When Emery returned, Hod began.

“Listen and remember, as I speak of the Cataclysm and the curse of the Forest of Senatcha,” Hod started in a whisper.

“As children, we grow up knowing about magic—to be wary of it and those who practice it. After all, magic is energy, pure and simple. It cannot be created or destroyed. Therefore, it must come from somewhere. Mages discovered that anything with life in it can be used for magic. Or, as it’s more commonly referred to—the Lifesource.

“Aseranu was once plagued by malevolent Mages who sought to steal the Lifesource from their friends and fellows and keep it for themselves. That’s exactly what they did to those poor, unfortunate souls left without talismans.”

Hod paused to take a drink. He was recounting the history of Aseranu. That took time. He wasn’t sure how to apply Rupa-Tulak’s advice to people, but he did agree with her in some fashion. Like the hearts of mankind, stories were also like a garden. They had to grow with proper care to become beautiful.

“Knowledge of how to create talismans—the greatest of wards against magic—was given to mankind by the three-faced god for whom our world was named: Aseranu.”

Here, Hod and Emery touched the talismans hanging beneath their shirts, tied around their necks on fine chains. Like all Aseranuans, they were given their talismans by the Warders at birth. No Aseranuan went a moment without wearing their talisman. They didn’t dare. To do so was to invite a Mage to steal their Lifesource. Rupa-Tulak did not mirror their actions.

“Of course, talismans are only effective as long as they are worn,” Hod continued.

“If they are removed, the protective wards are undone. Mages realized this. They began to steal life from mankind once more, using magic to do wicked and powerful deeds. Some used magic to sustain their own lives, often living for centuries among unsuspecting mankind—feeding off them. Even with the talismans given to them by Aseranu, mankind lived in fear of Mages and magic.

“That is why the Order of Magehunters was first established. Those brave men and women sought out Mages—wherever they could be found—to put an end to their reign of terror. They were trained to kill those who used magic, and they guard their secrets against all outside the Order.”

Hod lifted a cautionary finger.

“That is why the Cataclysm occurred. Mages were being hunted down and killed—and rightly so. Until that time, they had acted as individuals, but after the Order of Magehunters began their bloody campaign, Mages banded together out of necessity and survival.

“The Mages fought against the Magehunters here in the lands now known as the Wastelands. Kanane was among their leaders. There were nine—each more terrible than the last.”

Hod’s face was grim in the dark tavern, illuminated only by the flickering fire in the hearth and the candle upon the table. He spoke the names in a whisper.

“Kanane. Geral. Hegrif. Lialle. Jyn. Ovri. Trela. Quor.”

He paused.

“And the last? The most dreadful and villainous creature to have ever walked the face of this earth? The Dark Matron herself—whose name I will not even dare utter.”

Hod and Emery made signs to ward off evil and took deep drinks from their glasses. Rupa-Tulak said nothing. She simply sat there, weariness in her aching bones.

“It was because of those nine—those accursed individuals—that the Cataclysm occurred,” Hod continued hoarsely.

“The Mages were losing the war against the Magehunters. They were making their final stand—running out of their stores of magic, having used most of it during the war.

“It was the Dark Matron—the leader of the Nine—who devised a terrible plan. All life could be used for magic, remember? That included the plants, the trees, the grass—the Lifesource of nature. Anything is within reach if one is powerful enough to hold it. And the Nine were. They stole the Lifesource from the land of Aseranu itself, leaving it withered, cursed ground—the Wastelands.

“The Nine held a force of power, unlike anything the world of Aseranu had seen before. They crushed the Magehunters—though it is said that holding onto such power also tore them apart. They were scattered on the winds, with only fragments of their souls remaining. It’s said that a fragment of Kanane’s soul landed here—in the Forest of Senatcha—leaving the woods cursed forevermore.”

Hod spread out his hands with a frown.

“Who knows whether or not it is true? I have spoken. Listen and remember my tale of the Cataclysm and the curse upon the Forest of Senatcha.”

Silence fell as Hod finished speaking. Emery drained the rest of his glass and patted Hod on the back. Rupa-Tulak was contemplative as she sat.

Hod knew the story. Or, rather, he knew part of the story. To Rupa-Tulak’s knowledge, there were few left who still knew the full story. Only the storytellers of old remembered. The stolen Lifesource had been a terrible force to wield—almost too great to bear. Using it had caused the Cataclysm, but it had not destroyed the Nine as the story suggested.

The truth was, the story of the Nine was not yet finished. But she would not speak of such things. The truth did not always need to be told—even to correct a fellow storyteller. That was not why she came to this small village near the Forest of Senatcha. She was not looking to set old stories straight. She was searching for a flower.

Rupa-Tulak inclined her head toward Hod respectfully.

“Thank you for the story, Child,” she said, “but I must continue my search. Even if the spirit of Kanane lurks within the Forest of Senatcha, tomorrow morning I will look for my flower.”

“But Mother,” protested Emery, “there are dangers in the woods beside the spirit of Kanane—wild animals and monsters!”

Rupa-Tulak smiled. “I am old, Child, older than I look—and I know how old I look. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you will realize that certain tasks must be done—regardless of the risk. Everything of value must be obtained at a price. The greater the value, the greater the price. I am willing to take the risk because this task is rather important to me.”

With that, Rupa-Tulak stood and bid them good night. Emery showed her to her room in the small tavern. Then, he too bade her good night and left. Rupa-Tulak stood alone in a small room with simple comforts.

She leaned her walking stick against the wall and removed her shawl and waterskin from across her back. Her motions were slow and careful. She looked about the room and noticed there was a potted plant on the windowsill. It was wilted and dried—out of bloom and out of life.

Rupa-Tulak tutted to herself and picked up the plant. She regarded it carefully and then touched its withered body lightly.

“Such a beautiful thing needs proper care,” she muttered softly to herself. She placed it back on the windowsill. Then, she shuffled back over to the bed.

Rupa-Tulak sat on the bedside, staring at the lamp flickering on the nightstand. Listen and remember. She had listened and she did remember. She simply remembered differently than what she had heard. Rupa-Tulak drifted off to sleep.

---

As Rupa-Tulak arose with the sun at dawn, she looked over at the windowsill. The potted plant there bloomed in the morning rays. It was a beautiful flower; its petals were vibrant and full of life. Rupa-Tulak smiled.

She gathered her belongings and headed out the door. Emery was at the bar, cleaning its already spotless surface. Rupa-Tulak reached into a pocket on her dress and pulled out a sealed envelope. She placed it on the counter before Emery and weighed it down with several more silver shills. Emery raised his eyebrows when he saw the silver.

“A friend of mine will be along shortly,” Rupa-Tulak told the tavernkeeper. “He’ll be asking after me. When he does, give him this.”

Emery bowed his head and pocketed the silver. He frowned. “If this man will be along shortly, why not just wait for him?” he asked.

Rupa-Tulak smiled. “I’d sooner not wait, Child. He has a longer journey than mine,” she said cryptically. Then Rupa-Tulak inclined her graying head to the tavernkeeper. “My thanks, Emery. You have a fine establishment here.”

With that, Rupa-Tulak hobbled for the door. Emery’s frown deepened at her abrupt departure. He called out after her. “Wait! This friend—how will I know he’s asking for you? You never gave me your name, Mother.”

Rupa-Tulak paused, her aged hand upon the door. Then she turned back to face the tavernkeeper, a strange light in her eyes which held years upon years in their gaze. “My name is Rupa-Tulak,” she said. “And when he asks, tell him I am searching for a flower.”

Rupa-Tulak turned and headed out into the early morning. She did not see how Emery’s face went pale, as though lifeless. He stood frozen in place. Then, as the door shut, Emery found he could breathe again. He shuddered and made a sign to ward off evil.

Rupa-Tulak hobbled toward the edge of the Forest of Senatcha, a mask of grim determination upon her face. She paused at the tree line; the boundary of the cursed woods. Then, she took in a deep breath and ventured forth, searching for the flower.

The trees were tall, looming overhead, but they were simply skeletons of what they once were—lifeless husks. Rupa-Tulak made her way slowly through their ranks. Her gaze swept across the earthen floor, peering in the dim morning light for signs of the flower she sought.

In her heart of hearts, she knew she was close. And so, when Rupa-Tulak found herself in a clearing with a small cabin in the dead woods, she was not surprised. Nor was she surprised to see smoke rising from the stone chimney, wafting up only to be whisked away by the wind.

She was even less surprised when the cabin door opened, and a young man in flowing black robes stepped out to confront her. He, however, did look surprised. His cruel, yet handsome features were uplifted in momentary confusion. He gazed upon the old woman with a frail frame as she leaned against a walking stick for support.

For the briefest of pauses, the two stood facing each other. Neither said a word. It was as though the moment was frozen, outside of present reality. Then, Rupa-Tulak spoke. Her voice shattered the still silence, returning them to the reach of time.

“Your greed gave you away, Kanane,” she chided him. “I wouldn’t have been able to find you if not for the rumors of villagers disappearing in the woods.”

The youthful man frowned, darkening his features. His hands were lowered, but he was tense, like a predator about to pounce upon his prey. As he peered at the old woman, recognition flashed across his face, and with it, shock.

“Rupa?” he gasped. “Rupa-Tulak?”

Rupa-Tulak inclined her head, straightening from leaning on her walking stick.

The beginnings of fear shone upon Kanane’s face. Then, he covered it up with a scowl. “I almost didn’t recognize you, old woman,” he sneered. “We all thought you were dead. Tell me, how did you survive the Cataclysm?”

Rupa-Tulak tilted her head to the side as she considered his question.

“The Rupa-Tulak you once knew did not survive the Cataclysm,” she answered. “She died after releasing the magic she held—just as the rest of the Nine should have died.”

She was the exact opposite of him, in stark contrast to one another. She was hunched over; he stood tall and proud. Arrogance and derision were upon his face as he beheld the aging woman.

“Look at what has become of you, Rupa-Tulak,” he said. “When did you stop taking Lifesource from others?”

“I saw the error of our ways,” Rupa-Tulak told him sorrowfully. “Magic is not meant to be used as we did. Aseranu did not intend for it to be used to steal life from others. I will never again seek to use magic for my own personal gain.”

“That’s weakness,” Kanane scoffed. “All evidence points to the fact that this is exactly how magic should be used.”

He spread his arms out wide, indicating himself. “Look at me, Rupa-Tulak, and then take a good look at yourself. Two hundred years have passed since the Cataclysm, and I have not aged a day. Can you say the same?”

Rupa-Tulak smiled sadly at him and shook her head.

“Age is more than appearance, Child. It is everything that we experience and more. That is what makes life worth living because those experiences are not things that last. The same should be said of life itself. All lives must end at some time—including yours and mine.”

“Bah.” Kanane waved his hand dismissively. His eyes glinted cruelly at Rupa-Tulak. “To think I would hear such talk from you. Frankly, Rupa-Tulak, it’s embarrassing to see how far you’ve fallen. You were once the greatest of our number, but now, you’re a disgrace to everything we stood for.”

“I did not come here to persuade you to seek a better path, Kanane,” Rupa-Tulak said quietly.

“So, why are you here?”

Rupa-Tulak smiled at Kanane. There was no warmth in her ancient eyes. “I’ve come to reclaim what has been stolen, Child.”

Kanane’s eyes narrowed and then widened in realization. “You’ve been hunting down the Nine,” he whispered. “I thought it was the dying remnants of the Order, but no. You’re the reason that the Wastelands are receding.”

Rupa-Tulak nodded gravely. “I seek to undo the evil we did all those years ago, Kanane. I seek to restore what has been lost.”

Kanane laughed in disbelief as he eyed the old woman. “To restore what has been lost? Rupa-Tulak, you are a fool. Did you think you could come here and simply ask me to let go of the power I hold?”

Rupa-Tulak shook her head. “I know such words would fall on deaf ears. But I offer you the choice, as I offered the other Nine—release it, or I will.”

Kanane stood tense; he pushed back the sleeves of his flowing robes past his elbows. His eyes were narrowed and wary; a dangerous light gleamed therein. “You have to know I won’t let it go willingly,” he said softly.

Rupa-Tulak nodded. Her eyes were filled with sad determination. “I know, Child. I know.”

The two faced each other on the edge of a precipice. This was the short calm before the growing storm. Once, they stood side by side. But now, they were against each other.

Rupa-Tulak gestured, and the trees around them awakened as she gave them new life. They stretched their branches out like hands toward Kanane, trying to grab hold of his flowing robes. He snarled and slashed his hands through the air. The branches snapped and fell to the earthen floor—severed limbs.

Rupa-Tulak grimaced, weakened, but gestured once more. The severed limbs at Kanane’s feet—cut off from the Lifesource but still containing it—sprang up. They threw themselves at Kanane. He cried out in disbelief but dove to the side, managing to evade Rupa-Tulak’s attack.

Then, Kanane went on the offensive. He did not seek to control the trees as Rupa-Tulak did. His was a more direct approach—a vengeance of raw power. He hurled the energy at her, releasing some of it from his vast store. Like an arrow from a bow, it hurtled toward Rupa-Tulak.

She caught the energy on her walking stick; the stick shattered, sending splinters flying. Rupa-Tulak fell to her knees. Kanane’s strength was overwhelming. The power he held in his hands was too great for Rupa-Tulak to face alone. For a moment, she regretted not waiting for her friend.

“Look at you,” growled Kanane. He stalked toward her with dark venom in his gaze. “You cannot hope to stand against me, Rupa-Tulak. Not when the only source of your magic is yourself.”

It was true. Rupa-Tulak drew in breath raggedly, her face ashen and gray.

This was the truth for those who used magic. It had to come from somewhere. Aseranu had given magic to mankind because they had wanted to hold the power of creation—as he did. But everything had its price, and the price of magic was life itself. Because Rupa-Tulak refused to take from others, she drew from herself to use magic. And her Lifesource was dwindling.

Still, she smiled. That was enough to make Kanane pause. On her knees, her hands were against the earthen floor. Rupa-Tulak gritted her teeth in determination and reached down, deep into the earth.

Kanane frowned. Then his eyes widened with alarm as the ground around him burst open. Roots wound themselves around his feet and hands. They held him in place. Arrogantly, he had fallen for Rupa-Tulak’s trap. As he drew close to her, he was finally within reach of the tree roots that stretched deep beneath the earth.

Rupa-Tulak clambered to her feet. She felt the exhaustion begin to creep in. She could feel her Lifeforce leaving her, as she noticed its absence whenever she used magic. It was leaving her quickly now. She regarded the still-struggling Kanane in his fruitless endeavor to free himself.

Slowly, she limped toward him, even slower without her walking stick. As she drew close to him, he thrashed more wildly, trying to break free of his bonds. His eyes were wide with fear as she reached toward his neck and the talisman hidden beneath his voluminous robes.

“Rupa-Tulak, please,” Kanane begged. “Don’t do this!”

Rupa-Tulak gave no response other than to pull the talisman from around his neck. It was made of carved and warded metal—a small circular disk that hung on a metal chain. As she lifted it off of him, Kanane’s face went white with rage and fright.

“Redemption is beyond you, Rupa-Tulak!” he snarled. “Even if you do this, you can never atone for your crimes against mankind. You think this will save you?”

Rupa-Tulak threw the talisman away and placed her hand on his forehead. She closed her eyes in concentration and felt the magic held within him. Centuries of power were stored—stolen away as he greedily took from others so he could remain young and vibrant.

Rupa-Tulak’s face was grim. She had been like him once. But no more. Rupa-Tulak took hold of his power and yanked it away from him, ripping it all away. Kanane went limp in his bonds, lifeless.

Rupa-Tulak was filled with Lifesource and power. At that moment, she could feel it all. She held power in her hands that could level Provinces—power that could keep her alive for centuries. She had not held such power since the Cataclysm.

For a moment, her form shifted. Her stoop straightened, and she grew tall. The lines on her skin disappeared. In the place of the old woman stood a young maiden, fair and beautiful, fierce and terrible. She hesitated, holding onto the power, its allure tempting her to keep it.

Then, she smiled to herself and let the magic go, giving it all away freely, returning it to Aseranu. She returned to her former, wearied state. Rupa-Tulak had withheld herself from the magic’s seductive whispers. She let the magic go free.

With a slow and faltering gait, Rupa-Tulak stumbled and slumped against a large oak tree. The once-dead husk was beginning to return as it once was—its Lifesource restored. All around Rupa-Tulak, the forest began to bloom and grow as before.

Rupa-Tulak smiled as she observed the restoration of what was lost. Proper care. All was right in Aseranu again. The Wastelands were dwindling. The Nine were all gone; their powers relinquished. In time, the Wastelands would vanish entirely. The land would be whole. Her own form was losing what little life she had left. She had given it all away and was now fading fast. Rupa-Tulak closed her eyes, a smile still on her face.

---

The man led his horse through the once-dead woods, carefully picking his way through the foliage. His stature was tall, confidence was in his step. His eyes scanned the Forest of Senatcha. His hand was upon the hilt of his sword, though it remained sheathed at his hip.

He wore a multi-pocketed vest the color of the changing foliage—autumnal patterns with greens, oranges, browns, and yellows—worn under a long, knee-length overcoat of forest green. A quiver of black-shafted arrows was slung over his shoulder, and an unstrung longbow was tied to his horse’s saddle. He wore no necklace around his neck, no talisman hidden beneath his clothes. This strange absence marked him a Magehunter—one of the last of his dying Order.

A still-sealed envelope was held in his hand, given to him by a wide-eyed tavernkeeper in the village on the edge of the cursed woods. The man didn’t know what had caused the man more trepidation—him, or the woman who had left the letter.

As he went deeper into the Forest of Senatcha, all around him were signs that life was returning to the woods. His features were nevertheless grim. He pulled his horse forward more urgently.

Eventually, he made his way to a small cabin in the clearing which now teemed with life. The cabin was overrun by foliage, consumed by the forest reborn. The Magehunter took in the scene, his heart heavy.

He saw the lifeless body of Kanane, still held upright by roots that burst from the ground. He made sure that the Mage was indeed lifeless. The Magehunter’s gaze turned away from the corpse and looked elsewhere in the clearing, searching. There.

Underneath a large oak tree, with broad limbs which stretched out overhead, there a small, frail old woman lay in the green grass. Her eyes were closed, as if in sleep, though her chest no longer rose nor fell. A faint smile was upon her face.

The Magehunter knelt and placed his hand on the old woman’s shoulder. He closed his eyes painfully, his face ashen and gray. She had finally done it. Just like she promised she would. Then, he opened the envelope with a trembling hand and read the note therein.

Valden—

I’m sorry I left without you. You still have a long journey ahead of you. In my life, I have seen and done many things, and I am thankful that you were beside me for a great many of them. I know that without you, I would not be who I am today. Ours was a friendship that should not have been but was, and I will always be grateful for it. There are many things I’ve done wrong in this long life of mine. You and I have worked to undo some of those mistakes and right those wrongs. Thank you.

The Nine are finally no more. Our magic is undone. I don’t know what Aseranu will look like without the Wastelands, but I am confident that all will be well. It’s in your hands now, my friend. Give it proper care.

—Rupa-Tulak

The Magehunter—Valden—read the letter once and then read it again. Tears fell from his face, and he wept over the form of his fallen friend. Then, he sat back, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Be at peace, Rupa-Tulak,” he whispered.

It was only then that he noticed a small flower sprouting up next to her, slowly at first. It stretched its petals out—a beautiful creation. It was a flower that bloomed only once in one’s lifetime—at the end—given life with a final breath.

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