This takes place immediately after the unknown demon from the sewers decimated Sastre with its fire breath.

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A flash of light, followed by darkness.

Sastre drifted, unnerved by the weightless sensation yet fully unable to do a single thing about it. He was aware of the pain—the terrible, gut-wrenching pain—and the repugnant scent of burnt flesh and singed hair, but it was a distant, detached awareness. He knew he had been struck a series of mortal blows by the demonic beast, and though a small voice in the back of his mind cried out for him to fight, to live on, the larger part of his consciousness simply wanted to drift like this forever, with no more worries and no more pain.

But to be killed in such a way? For most of his life, since the destruction of his home at the hands of the vampires nearly twenty years earlier, he had had recurring nightmares of dying in a scorching inferno, of sharing the same horrendous fate as his long-dead family. How many times had he chided himself for such a fear? How often had he forced himself to calmness after awakening from those nightmares, reminding himself that it was only a dream? It was darkly humorous to the Hunter, and he laughed, or rather he would have, had he control over his broken body. But here, in this timeless, deathless, lifeless place, he could do little more than drift through the all-encompassing darkness.

His mind turned to his life, and to what he was leaving behind.

Mizzely, Craed, Willow, Rosalyn… He had treated them badly, underestimated their abilities and thought of them as nothing so much as untrained children who would stagger about underfoot. How they must be laughing at him now.

Solphi, the unbelievable young woman who had come to mean so much to him, far more, in fact, than he’d ever been able to admit, even to her. Would she ever know what had befallen him? Somehow, would she ever know how deeply he truly loved her? He doubted it.

But there was more, so much more that he would be leaving behind, so much business left unfinished, so many promises left forever unkept! The vows he’d made so long ago, to avenge his friends and family, to find those responsible for destroying his life and to grind them into dust, erasing them forever from the face of Bolermos. Hadn’t that been his life’s goal? Wasn’t that the only thing had wished to accomplish, before he died.

That small, quiet voice in the back of his mind rebelled, raging against that greater portion of his consciousness that desired to simply drift away and forget the pain, to leave all of the sorrows of life far, far behind him.

No! the small voice shouted desperately. What about the joys of life, and the promises you made! What about those who care about you, those you’ll leave behind? The voice was stronger now, and the rest of the Hunter’s mind seemed to be shrinking away from it, receding like a shadow before the light. You cannot die now, Hunter! You have a purpose!

A purpose… A purpose…

Revenge.

Now he found the blissful, airy, weightless state of nonexistence in which he drifted to be a terrible thing, a thing that was keeping him here, against his will. Keeping him from life, from his purpose. He tried with all his might to simply open his eyes—his physical eyes—and live; he strove through sheer force of will to make his scorched, dying body move, to drag itself away from the towering beast that stood over him still, smirking and chortling over its victory.

Helpless, his mind turned to that one gleam of light, that one bastion of hope that had strengthened him and sustained him through all the many dark times of his life, times of pain and sorrow, times when he felt like throwing it all away and giving up.

Sacred Alaya, he prayed within his mind, patron of all those who seek honorable vengeance, please! I need you now, more than ever before, for never before have I stood so close to the edge of oblivion. Please, find it in your heart to help me, for I cannot die, not yet! It is not my time… I have a purpose! He spilled all of this out, bearing his heart and emptying his soul for her, holding nothing back, and praying all the while that she would take pity on such a frail and dying creature…

Alaya gasped as she shot awake. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she fought to control her breathing. She threw the blankets off from her, no longer comforted by their weight and warmth. From the bedpost, a red-tailed hawk squawked at its master in distress.

“Alaya?” a voice called down the hall to her. A candle flickered and approached the room in which she lay. A dark skinned woman followed behind it and entered, a concerned expression highlighted by the shadows on her face. She set the candle down on the night stand and sat next to her daughter on the bed. “Are you having those dreams again?” she asked, reaching out to push a tendril of silver hair from the pale face in front of her.

The daughter rolled off the bed, avoiding the touch. “No!” she half screamed, then calmed herself before continuing. “I mean, yes, but…I’m telling you, I’m not dreaming. They are as real as you and I talking right now.”

The “dreams” had been happening for months now. They had started as incoherent whispers alongside her normal dreams of Arius, Febrien, and the rest on Bolermos, and nightmares of vampires and wizards. Now, they took over the space behind her eyelids, and the whispers had morphed into shouts for help. People flashed before her eyes in their hours of need, and before their life was extinguished, they all shouted her name. She felt strongly that these complete strangers, races from the world she left, were somehow reaching out to her and asking for whatever aid she could provide.

“Darling, I believe this may be some sort of cabin fever. It’s been 3 years since you were last on Bolermos, and I know you wish for that life of action.” Meerie smiled. “You always had a problem sitting still for long.”

The ranger looked at her mother. “Do you really think me so twisted to imagine people being torn limb for limb as they shout my name? There are images in my head so horrific only a demon could think them. Am I a demon, then?” She looked away from the stare she was being given as she saw the sting of the words pain her mother’s face. “I do not claim to be a hero, nor a saint, and never would. But there are people somewhere that do for some reason. Believe what you will, but I refuse to believe that I am that horrific.”

The dark skinned woman cast her eyes to the ground. It pained her greatly to think her daughter felt she was accusing her. “My child. I do not believe you a monster or demon.” She walked to the open window, placing her hands on the wooden sill as she stared into the night sky. She stood for a few moments before breaking the silence. “Your father and I have looked at these stars for more moons then I can remember. Do you know why?” She proceeded, not expecting an answer. “We have looked for one constellation, one star, which is familiar to us. We have long since stopped our search, for we know it is in vain.”

Meerie turned from the sky to the violet eyes that watched her. “This sky is not the one you or I grew under, Alaya. We do not know where it is we now live. We could be worlds or universes away, and time moves differently, I think. We were only here weeks after you were left on Bolermos before you appeared here, a grown woman.“ Her eyes watered as the memories surrounding that day flooded over her again, when she realized she had lost out on her only daughter’s childhood. Regaining composure, she continued. “I think it unlikely at best that a world far removed from our own would be calling to you.”

The ranger threw her arms up in frustration. “That this place we call Zerhala is not Bolermos, I do not disagree. There are similar creatures as we remember them, but somehow not the same. And we have yet to meet a single race like ourselves here.”

“But we have each other Alaya. You have your family again, against all odds. Isn’t that enough?”

Alaya fought the urge to once again lash out with the malice that tainted her tongue. She wasn’t truly angry with her situation and definitely was not upset with her family. Rather, it was her frustration in not being able to understand what was happening to her. She brushed aside her anger long enough to smile at her mother. “Go to bed. I promise I’ll be fine. I just needed to cool off a bit.” Alaya climbed into bed, and Meerie and her exchanged cheek kisses before she left her daughter’s quarters.

Instead of going to sleep, however, Alaya grabbed her father’s cloak, the one she had found the day they disappeared, and threw it around her. The wolf skin covered her bare shoulders as she tied it in front of her neck. Silently, she climbed out the window into the night. A voice beside her startled her briefly. “You know, I’m not an owl! I can’t see a thing in this dark!” One of the many things this world had done was give hawk and master the ability to communicate in a language only they could understand. At first, it had been difficult to accept, but now the ranger didn’t know what she would do without Kyrie’s snarky commentary.

Together the pair headed for the stable that had been built the year before by her father and brothers. The family had never owned horses, and coming to this place had not changed that. Still, Alaya grabbed the lantern outside the building, lit it, and entered.

Inside the only stall heaved a great mass of blue-black fur. A growl emanated from it, short and seemingly controlled. As she got closer, the growling ceased and the massive bulk stood up on four giant legs to tower over her. A mouth that could easily have fit her entire head in its gloom reached down, and licked her face with its immense tongue. Alaya giggled as she brushed the saliva off with her arm. “You wouldn’t be going soft on me, would you Melanor?” The dire wolf quickly turned his grin into a menacing growl to show off how fierce he could be. “Alright, alright! Sorry to offend! We’re going out, you mean ol’ wolf!” she said playfully to him through her smile.

She assembled her necessities: her bow, Snowfall, and arrows, including some silvered ones she never left without, her flail, and her backpack with various equipment. She signaled to the wolf, and he lowered himself to the floor to allow the passenger to climb aboard. She never placed a bridle, saddle, or barding on him, mostly because he did not need it. He took direction exceedingly well, and this place somehow had strengthened his fur, acting like built in armor. Kyrie rested herself on the space behind her master on the mount, gripping the fur with her talons. She would not risk flying in the dark more than was needed.

The trio left the building, the ranger ducking to avoid the entrance to the stables as they exited. Padding towards the forest, Melanor sped up when they hit the tree line. The trees whizzed by, the dire wolf expertly navigating despite the darkness. It wasn’t an occasional trip they were making, especially lately, and as such it was not hard to avoid the obstacles on either side.

The moons had climbed their way to the top of the world and were now falling over the other side. Still, they ran, and did not stop until the first rays of morning started showing on the horizon, and the celestial bodies struggled over reign of the skies. When the wolf finally ceased movement, his rider dropped down from his back, and sat on the dew filled grass, dangling her feet off the side of the 500-foot cliff they were perched upon.

Before them, the sun was coating everything in a heavy golden light, creeping along the landscape like syrup on pancakes. She closed her eyes, basking in the morning rays. Melanor laid down behind her, and she leaned back against him, drinking it all in, while Kyrie shot off to find herself breakfast. In all of this land she had explored, this was her favorite place.

She realized she had fallen asleep when she next found herself clutching her skull, an ineffective defense against the assault hammering inside. Voices were shouting into her brain, flashes of people and blood and pain accompanying them. The most troubling part was not that it had happened again, but that it was still happening, even after she had woken. It was all the evidence she needed to finally debunk the theory that these were just dreams. She stood up, trying to shake the voices out, trying to make sense of it all when a bright light hit her somewhere in her brain, and she felt it more than she saw it. The sudden sensation caused her to take a step back. Her foot missed the cliff, and she went over the side.

With lightning fast reflexes, Melanor grabbed her by the front of her shirt, keeping her suspended over the drop that would spell her doom. The angle at which he had grabbed her was awkward, and made it more difficult than usual to lift her, and as such it was not an immediate relief from a painful fall. As he was bringing her up the last few inches to safety, his foot slipped as a rock came loose.

Before she knew it, rider and mount were both tumbling through the air, and Kyrie was screaming as she dove towards the pair. She clung onto Melanor with her claws, trying not to believe what was happening as now all three fell.

The voices did not halt, even in the face of her own death. Alaya heard the pleas for help from hundreds of unknown sources, and thought grimly Who do I pray to? One voice in particular she could make out, and it was fitting, as the words that flooded her mind mirrored exactly the ones she herself was thinking.


I cannot die, not yet! It is not my time… I have a purpose!

Darkness, followed by a flash of light.

Within his mind, Sastre cried out, for the scene before him must surely have been a hallucination. He watched in mute shock as the young woman tumbled over the edge, the screech of her hawk as piercing to the Hunter’s ears as if he’d been standing right beside her. In vain, the massive dire wolf caught hold of the mysterious woman, trying to hold her up, to keep her from plummeting toward whatever nightmares waited below.

The ledge gave way.

The young woman and her lupine companion fell.

Strangely, Sastre fell with her. He was sans body, for only his mind, it seemed, had been allowed passage to this place. He was buffeted by the wind as he fell, his cloak and his long hair whipping about him furiously as his arms and legs churned the air in a futile effort to slow his descent. Upon the back of the dire wolf, its claws dug firmly in, the hawk screamed.

Below, darkness loomed.

Sastre clenched his eyes shut, ignoring the hot tears that spilled from them only to be sucked away on the wind. He reached out, straining his muscles as he attempted to catch hold of the mysterious woman as she fell, willing his already-taxed body to reach, reach! It was no use, for though he tried, the woman was just too far away from him.

Suddenly, an outcropping of stone filled his vision, and he let out a strangled cry as he struck it head on, his phantasmal body rocked by a collision that should never have happened. He was, after all, without a body, wasn’t he? He would have thought it an illusion of some kind, had the pain and shock not felt so real. His vision blurred, then faded, while below the woman continued to fall into the darkness.

Sastre could feel his hold on this unusual place weakening, and though he strove to fight off the weariness that was overcoming him, he soon drifted away once more to that timeless, lightless place from whence he’d come.

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Time passed.

How long, the Hunter wasn’t sure, but still he floated along in the unending nothingness, his thoughts no longer on his own survival, no longer even on his desperate plea for rescue from St. Alaya. No, his thoughts now were with the silver-haired woman who, despite all of his efforts, was most certainly now dead. Why had visions of this woman come to him? Who was she, and from where did she come from?

These, and a thousand other questions, tormented the Hunter as he drifted. Slowly, though, a new sensation began to make itself known to him. His eyes opened onto the inky blackness as a slight jolt of pain shot through him. This pain was quite different from what he’d felt when he’d struck the cliffside while attempting to rescue the mysterious woman, though. That had been a pain of the mind, as if his spiritual body had struck some sort of barrier through which it hadn’t been allowed to pass. This sensation, this pain that he now felt, was alien, new, and yet somehow familiar. Something, some memory, played at the edges of his understanding, until…

Physical pain!

Yes, he was feeling the slight, distant echoes of pain from his body, which he’d left behind hours ago… Or years, or even decades ago, he wasn’t sure. This was it! If he could cling to that pain, then he knew that he could find his way out, find his way back! With all of his might, the Hunter took hold of that thread of pain, unwilling to let go no matter what. In doing so, he felt the pain amplify, eliciting a short gasp of agony as heat like an inferno washed over him.

Still, he held fast.

Now he began to climb, lifting one hand above the other as he pulled himself up. It was slow going, and with every inch he climbed, the pain that flooded through him was redoubled. He clenched his teeth, pushing the hot agony aside as he focused on one thing only: pulling himself out from this hell. If he did that, maybe, just maybe, he could find out who the silver-haired woman had been, and why he had been witness to her final moments.

Higher he went, and tears of sheer torture coursed down his cheeks. His skin burned and peeled, his hands bled, his lungs were filled with fire. Still he climbed, one hand over the other in an endless cycle, his pain-clouded mind focused only on escape, on returning to where he belonged…

On his purpose.

Days passed, and weeks, and months, yet onward he persisted, never stopping, never resting for even a moment. His muscles protested, and he wept at the pain, and at the disconcerting numbness that, in its own way, was worse than the pain. His hands were shredded, the flesh long since gone, the bones of his fingers slipping as often as not as they sought purchase on the ever-growing thread of pain, of reality. He cried out in torment, every fiber of his being demanding that he stop.

And yet, for the sake of that doomed young woman, he carried on.

Without warning, all of the pain that Sastre had been feeling was magnified a thousand-fold. He clenched his eyes shut, swallowing the miserable cry that threatened to escape him. He felt himself suddenly being grabbed by strong hands, and lifted up, and then he was moving. His eyes opened, and through vision distorted by blood and tears, the Hunter saw it, the demonic beast that had caught him in the inferno and cast him away into the shadows.

And Craed.

Sastre was being carried over the dragonborn druid’s shoulder, and he was moving away from the monster that had nearly killed him. He let out a short, gasping sob, as much from relief as from the horrible pain that enveloped him so completely. Ahead, the entrance to the long, winding tunnel that had brought the group here loomed. Mizzely and Rosalyn were there, stricken looks upon their faces as Craed hurried on, putting as much distance between himself and the demonic creature as possible.

“A… Alaya,” Sastre murmured, his lips cracked and bleeding. It seemed that she had come through for him yet again, though perhaps not in the manner that he’d expected. Somehow, the Hunter knew that the vision of the woman and her animal companions had come from the Saint of Honorable Vengeance, and though Sastre had no clue as to its meaning, he understood that it had been the desire to save the doomed young woman that had led to his miraculous return.

He would, of course, find out the vision’s meaning, for that there was a meaning Sastre was certain. Now, though was most certainly not the time.

Just before lapsing once again into unconsciousness, Sastre whispered, “Craed… Thank you…”

Thank you for saving me… Thank you, for now I can continue to pursue my purpose…