Sizilen looked up at the World Tree in wonder. Annika had done it. She and a dozen other Augurs had given their lives to breach the barrier between Ayndir and Outworld, and the proof of it was just in front of her. She’d never seen anything like it, and she was unlikely to do so again.

She reached out to touch the World Tree’s trunk. It was warm. Warmer than a tree had any right to be, but this wasn’t like other trees. This was a tree made from a seed that had aged several thousand years in darkness before it was recovered. A tree that went through the process of Twinning, taking even more lives as it grew rapidly before the very eyes of the tens of thousands of soldiers and camp followers settled in the fields below, stretching back to the river.

The warmth of the tree wasn’t that odd, she supposed. What was it that her father had said? 

Warmth radiates from quick things. 

She pictured him rubbing his hands together rapidly during a particularly cold winter. She wondered if the warmth of the tree was a result of the rapid growth or if it was to be remain warm for as long as it stood, possibly an artifact of the Elder Law or simply due to its nature.

Alongside her, dozens of engineers and officers walked through the great shimmering face of the tree. Once word had come back through the Shimmer, Borou was quick to call Third Order to ingress into Outworld, and Sizilen’s duty now lay on the other side.

She was hesitant to cross over. She wasn’t certain why. They’d been assured it was safe, that the Outworlders put up no fight. Perhaps it was the cost of the passage that held her back. Or perhaps it was something else.

Nonetheless, she and several other scribes and artists had been appointed to the First Order. They were to record the sights on the other side to be delivered to the King. The fine, expensive parchments in her satchel were merely tools in which to fulfill Othniel Caradoc’s wishes. The King would not cross yet-- not until their complete victory was announced. Until then, he would sit upon his throne in Tyrant’s Fall and see to his Kingly duties.

Only once they had convinced the forces of Outworld to bend the knee to him would he dare cross.

“It’s a sight for the ages, isn’t it, lass?”

Sizilen glanced over at General Borou, shielding her eyes from the sun. Since Annika had passed on to be embraced by Taydir, the man had insisted she stay by his side. It was suffocating, but at least she understood why. Annika’s actions had earned Sizilen the privileges due to her sister, and Borou was ensuring those privileges were recognized.

When her job was complete, Sizilen would be given the right to become a Matriarch of her own Clan. Her daughters would carry her name forward until her line eventually ended. The thought bothered Sizilen deeply. What name would she choose? She couldn’t use Freia. Freia was a name given to orphans and bastards born under the banner of Clan Ciel in the mountain city that bore the same name.

Perhaps she would choose Annika’s name?

Or perhaps, she thought with a shudder, she would choose the name of her future husband. No doubt there were already sons among the Noble Clans that sought to use her name to serve their own ambition. If Sizilen had learned anything about the Noble Clans, it was that they each had ambitions that rivaled that of any King from the line of Caradoc.

She dropped her hand from the surface of the World Tree and turned to Borou. “I’m ready,” she said.

“Aye,” Borou replied. “Then shall we?”

Sizilen nodded and joined the long line of men marching into the World Tree. The Shimmer towered above her as she walked into the great depression in its base. She and Borou paused just as they reached the Shimmer.

Borou reached out and touched it. It formed around his outstretched hand like water, and he pulled it back.

“Does it feel like anything?” she asked.

“A tingle,” he replied with a shrug. “Nothing more.” He turned to her. “Shall we?”

With a sigh, Sizilen looked straight ahead. The Shimmer itself was opaque, betraying nothing of what they might find on the other side. It was like a standing pool of mercury, rippling out as a stone might make the water ripple as the men passed through.

She held her breath and closed her eyes, then stepped in.

The passage itself was unremarkable. Sizilen wasn’t sure what she expected. Perhaps some vision, some sensation of traveling. But beyond a slight tingle as the Shimmer enveloped her, it was no different than passing through a doorway.

Once she had confirmed that her feet were still firmly bound to the ground, she opened her eyes.

The first thing she did was make note of where the sun was in the sky-- it seemed to be brighter, somehow. The heat on her skin felt more substantial. Gone was the smell of the plains on the other side, replaced instead by stenches familiar, yet foreign. The World Tree had grown in the center of a wide road unlike any she had seen before. It was smooth, devoid of the carriage ruts she was used to on well-traveled roads in Embrayya. In the center a bright yellow line was painted. All around her were the strange carriage-like constructs she had seen earlier that morning as she and Annika stared into the void.

Men were working all around her, setting up tents and chopping down trees along the side of the road. Wyverns flew overhead scouting the vicinity while men were throwing bodies onto a pile. She felt queasy seeing that. Corpses were never easy to lay eyes upon.

Large buildings of strange construction lined the sides of the road, structures of glass and metal. She could see several groups of prisoners-- tributes for Caradoc, no doubt. It was customary to take prisoners for the King to put to work. She saw that the Outworlders did not bear the look of demons as she had expected. There were no goblins or trolls among their number that she could see. The Outworlders were oddly human in appearance.

But one of the biggest surprises was not the oddly human-appearing Outworlders, nor the strange roads and carriages. It wasn’t the buildings or colored paints the likes of which she had never seen.

It was the great bridge that hung in the distance. It had to have been a bridge. It had high towers that reached into the sky at two points on its span, and was visible even behind the buildings.

She found she wanted to draw it. The scale of its construction was… no, she couldn’t even fathom how such a bridge could reach so high. She thought she could make out shapes moving rapidly across it at speeds that rivaled unladen wyverns. It was impossible, of course. Nothing groundborn could reach speeds such as those.

“Not much to look at,” Borou said under his breath. He looked to Sizilen. “I expected them to be… bigger. To put up more of a fight, perhaps.”

“General Borou!” called a man nearby. He walked up to the pair of them.

“Rider,” Borou greeted. “Dree, is it? Where’s your mount?”

“Blasted Outworlder killed him,” he said, pointing off toward a building. Sizilen could make out the form of a wolf leaned up against some smaller thing of metal construction. She could see it was dead.  “He was given swift vengeance.”

“We will find you another,” Borou said. “What of the other Riders?”

“They hold the perimeter yonder with the rest of the First Order,” he explained. “I stayed back to assist the Empyrean Riders.”

“General Borou,” another voice called. Sizilen looked over to see a few familiar faces. Rost and Auberon approached with a third man she didn’t recognize save for the familiar uniform of an Empyrean Riders. Auberon looked at her. “Sizilen,” he greeted, then paused. “Forgive me. Lady Sizilen.”

“Auberon. Rost,” she said. Rost smiled at her, causing her to look away. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed. Rost was a nice enough Rider, but she’d known his type in the past and she wasn’t interested. Besides, with her station now, knowing Rost any further could land him in trouble he wouldn’t be able to climb out of so easily.

She could tell Rost was willing to take the risk. A few days prior Sizilen might even have let him risk it. But now… now it was a different story. Instead, her gaze fell upon the five Outworlders kneeling on the ground nearby. She wandered toward them.

“Take a care, Sizilen,” Borou warned. “They may be bound but we know not what they’ll do if given the chance.”

Sizilen nodded and kept a safe distance. She kneeled on a slim patch of grass alongside the wide road and looked at each of them. There was an older man. His face was bloodied-- perhaps a broken nose. A young girl with long blonde hair looked up at her in suspicion. Two other men, and then a Giturnian-looking woman. 

She stared at Sizilen not with suspicion or contempt like the others. But rather, her look was one Sizilen had seen before. She’d worn the look herself many times. This woman wanted mercy.

But they were tributes to Caradoc. Moreover, they were Outworlders. She’d grown up hearing the tales of their ancient horrors. Even Emrys had reinforced it. The root of all despair on Ayndir lay in the betrayal of Outworld. Demons and poisons and the wasting curses. They’d infested her world with tragedy.

And now one of them was pleading mercy with her eyes. It unsettled her, but she couldn’t identify why.

    She sat on the grass and opened her satchel, pulling out a piece of parchment and charcoal and began to draw. She sketched out the faces of the five of them, complete with the gags tied around their mouths. Each of them looked at her with growing contempt.

Again, except for the Giturnian-looking woman. Her look of pleading persisted, and she glanced occasionally at Borou and the others while they discussed the results of the invasion.

Sizilen continued to draw, expanding beyond the five prisoners and taking in the surrounding area. The strange carriage-like construction. The building behind them, and the bridge rising high above in the distance. After a few minutes, her fingers were stained black and she finished the drawing.

She looked at the Giturnian-looking woman. “What do you think?” she asked, showing her the picture. “Not my best drawing, but I think it’ll be good enough for the King.”

The woman cocked her head to one side and mumbled something through the gag. Sizilen responded with a sad smile. “Even if I could do something to help you, that would only mar my sister’s sacrifice,” she explained. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Was she truly sorry? After all, the woman was an Outworlder. It was her ancestors that cursed Ayndir with the subhuman races. All the evils in the world were a direct result of their very actions.

But then, she had expected hulking beasts with tusks and eyes that glowed red. A people who thrived beneath a hellish sky. This sky was blue, like her own. And this woman, at least by appearance, was as human as Sizilen herself.

Sizilen’s attention was suddenly pulled away by a whining noise far in the distance. It was growing closer. It was loud, like a wolf’s howl except the oscillation of the pitch was much slower, running from high to low steadily.

It also drew the attention of the five prisoners, who looked down the road eagerly. Sizilen recognized the look in their eyes. It was hope. Whatever it was, they felt it was there to help them. Sizilen slipped the drawing into her satchel and stood up, rejoining Borou and the others.

“What madness?” Borou asked.

In the distance beyond the perimeter formed by the Wolf Riders, Sizilen could make out one of the strange carriages coming down the road at surprising speeds.

“It’s one of their transports,” Auberon said. “They sit inside of it and it obeys their commands. We’ve yet to work out how.”

“And the noise?” Borou asked.

Auberon shrugged. “They growl and roar,” he said. “We haven’t heard them whine like that. This is the first we’ve heard make such a noise.”

Borou narrowed his eyes. Sizilen observed a sly smile spread across his face and recognized the look of realization in his eyes. “Outworlder constabulary,” he said. He raised his voice. “Sound the horn! First Order! Prepare to attack!”

A man nearby sounded the war horn, attracting the attention of the entire camp. Wolf Riders zipped by toward the speeding carriage. It was moving fast. So fast. The whine grew louder, but it stopped just before their perimeter line. She watched as two men emerged from the carriage doors. Sizilen stepped forward to get a better look, but was then met with Borou’s outstretched arm keeping her back.

Suddenly, the air around her cracked in quick succession, echoing off the trees and nearby buildings, causing her to tense up instinctively. She looked on in shock as riders fell from their mounts and the wolves themselves yelped in pain before falling over.

“Why do they fall? I see no arrows. No slings,” Rost commented.

More cracks echoed, and yet more riders fell from their mounts, motionless on the ground.

“Naia’s tits!” Borou exclaimed. “Riders, converge! On them! Now!”

From the Outworlder’s flanks, three Wolf Riders emerged and bounded across the wide road toward them. One of the men turned around. Another resounding crack echoed from around them, and a wolf fell over dead.

“How are they doing that?” Auberon asked.

They watched as another Wolf Rider reached the men and jumped on him, mauling him on the spot. Two more sharp cracks erupted from the other man before even he was overtaken by another Rider.

Finally, it was silent.

Behind the two dead men more strange carriages lined the road. Great red ones easily the length of three of the smaller ones. Big white ones. All of them had flashing lights erupting from them, but they were no longer drawing near.

Borou chuckled to himself. “I see,” he said. “The Outworlders are creating a perimeter of their own. They intend to siege us. A fat lot of good it will do them.”

“What shall we do now, General?” Rost asked.

“You three? You’ll fly,” he said. “I want reports on their locations. Don’t get too close, at least not until we find out what killed those wolves and riders. But when the rest of the men come over tonight, it won’t matter. We’ve fifty thousand men thirsty for Outworlder blood. We’ll overrun them with sheer numbers.” He glanced over at Sizilen for a moment, then turned back to the distance. “And bring the bodies of those men to me, as well as their carriage. I want a good look at them.”

“What of the tributes to Caradoc?” Rost asked, gesturing to the five prisoners.

“Dree!” Borou exclaimed. “Put a hood on them. Take them to the transports on the other side and have them make their way to Tyrant’s Fall.” He looked to Auberon. “He’ll know they come as a gift from Raptor Company. I’ll make sure of it.”

Sizilen cast a glance back at the King’s tributes. Their look of hope had turned to despair. Something bothered her about that. The tales said that Outworlders reveled in cruelty. To see them in despair should have felt vindicating.

She looked back toward the flashing lights coming from the carriage and to the two Outworlders lying dead on the ground, then looked to the carnage around them.

Two of their guardsmen had killed nine men and five wolves. Another two wolves lay dying. Sizilen suddenly became aware of the feeling gnawing at her. Embrayyan Wolf Riders were feared across the continents. And two Outworlders had just killed seven times their number. Two.

She looked at the tributes again. Commoners. They were little more than commoners. What would happen when the Outworlders came in numbers?