Breathes. Micol Fusca

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      The Eye of Zephirot has shone for thirty years, as bright as the first morning star. Magic had returned to cross the borders of the Western Lands.

      The Henders had strengthened their armies, establishing new Readers and Paladins. Their symbols, rod, and sword were forged by the same fire: filled with God's blessing now they were placed next to the precious crystal, the Eye, now of their investiture.

      Nephelim had coughed blood, burying the pain of detachment in the darkest part of his soul: it was what he had wished for himself since he had had the power of intellect. The birth of Dalain had only strengthened his purpose.

      He found it bizarre that his people should fight magic by using it.

      A Paladin had to owe his soul to its protector: accompanying his footsteps wherever his intervention was required.

      The Soul Reader saw beyond all appearances: his mind possessed the agility needed to unravel the most tangled skeins.

      He was able to discriminate against every emotion, inflection, reaching the most hidden truths.

       Nephelim was preparing for a new wait: he hoped not to have to preside over the interrogation of a poor woman, accused of witchcraft for having served a healing herbal tea to the mayor. It had happened many times. Too many.

      The nervous smiles of the stable keepers made him fear that the Reader would have been late: they looked away from him, fearing some reproach.

      He was happy to see his companion coming down from the Temple steps.

      «Whisper Forest. »

      He approached him, making it clear that the help of others was not welcomed. Dalain was still light-hearted, so much so that he made no effort while he was helping him up in the stirrups.

      He took over his patch and climbed on the saddle, taking one last look at the boys. He did not bother to leave, directing his mount towards Porta Grande.

      «You're always unpleasant. » Dalain reached him, curling his nose the same way he did when he was a child. An expression that expressed both reproach and amusement.

      «I am not trained to collect benevolence. » He waited until he was beside him.

      The Reader smiled. He knew the origin of his cousin's unhappiness: he was not happy to escort him outside the confines of the capital. Nephelim would have preferred keeping him confined under a glass bell.

      He supported his curious gaze. «A witch. So, say the wives of the Central Counties. »

      «Do you already have your own thought? »

      «Reports from the priests in the area confirm the hypothesis. Many peasants disappear into thin air without a trace. Others show a violent personality unfamiliar to their temper. »

      Nephelim had plucked his eyebrows, waiting.

      «A Maldana. She's not the Witch the Henders are looking for. »

      The Paladin nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.

      They found the witch in a wooden cottage, which was once the Lord of the Shire's hunting lodge, in the middle of the Whisper Wood. They tied their horses to a tree not too far away: they had become bizarre as soon as they reached the thick of the forest.

      Dalain had decided to wait until the morning to enter the mist that enveloped the place.

      Nephelim carefully observed the bare, thin trees. Hunched trees: the tree-trunk was growing curved, forming a wave that was rising from the ground straight up to the milky sky. He could feel the magic even though he was not skilled in it.

      He waited for them, still, in front of the ruined fence. A good-looking woman.

      The Reader stopped walking, holding on to the decorated stick: the crystal on the top had turned coloured. He closed his eyes, letting the essence of her filling him.

      The dark aura that overwhelmed him became as cloudy as tar. He felt pain, pleasure, greed. She had given herself to the Nameless with full awareness: she was God's vehicle in spreading hate and despair.

      Her appearance began to change soon she would reveal herself for her true nature.

      «She is yours, Paladin. »

      Nephelim drew his sword without delay, letting the blade be brought to life by the same light as the rod. The Reader had delivered his sentence. His task was to carry it out.

      The horses had successfully freed themselves: they had succumbed to fear.

      Nephelim secured the belt to Dalain's chest, sideways, placing the sword behind him.

      When he lowered himself in the clear intent of putting it on his back, the Reader laughed. «We are too old for this. »

      «I can walk for days; I've marched into worse situations. Get on. »

      Dalain sighed, knowing he had no choice. He grabbed on, letting Nephelim lifting him. After a few miles he got used to the rhythm of the Paladin's walk: regular, as he remembered.

      «Have you decided what gift to buy for your wife? There are only a few more moons to her birth anniversary. »

      Nephelim turned in an impatient movement. «No. I know you'll think about it. »

      «You could pay more attention to her. »

      «Veridiana would disdain an affectionate husband, let us spend the time together to respect conjugal vows. She dislikes me. »

      The Reader did not take the provocation. «She wishes a child. »

      «I have no intention of procreating an unhappy one. » He gave him a hard look, turning his head towards him. «The damn race laws are driving our people to collapse. The obligation to mix blood with family members only makes our children paler and sicker. »

      «I am not unhappy. »

      Nephelim silently struck the blow.

      «You would be a good father. »

      «Is that what I am to you? »

      «No.» Dalain looked up to the sky, thoughtful. «Can you see the shades of blue above us? »

      The Paladin marched on.

      Dalain laid one cheek on his shoulder, letting the tranquillity of his walking overcome him. «I still wonder why you love me. »

      Nephelim did not answer, of course he would have fallen asleep within a few miles, cuddled by his footsteps. He smiled only when his regular breath came close to his face.

       Indigo sea caressed by clouds of white foam. I wish to drown in a thousand skies.

      “Which God has established that love must achieve triumph through the union of two bodies?

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