The Drommala Pact (Book One of The Mirrorwalkers Chronicles cycle)

Author: The Witch of Ukraine

Prologue

Recovered from the Great Council Archives

Year of the Seventh Reflection

Excerpt from The Chronicles of Mireth, Book III, Page 112

In the beginning, the countless worlds of Mireth were as one, joined by breath, by memory, and by light. Then came the Silence, and the great unity was broken. Each realm drifted away like shards of glass cast upon a dark sea.

For many ages the mirrors stood still and empty. No light stirred within them, and none knew they could be crossed. In those days, Steamhollow was one of the scattered worlds of Mireth, proud, inventive, and alone; cut off from all others by the silence of its mirrors.

There lived in Steamhollow a scholar named Alara Venn, whose heart was filled with curiosity and doubt. She studied the nature of reflection, seeking meaning in the stillness of glass. One day she laid her hand upon the mirror’s surface, and passed through her own reflection. In that moment she awakened the power that had long slept within her blood, and so became the first Mirrorwalker. With her step began the age of passage between worlds.

Those who came after were born of her line, each carrying the same quiet gift: the call of glass and silver. Among them, a few were blessed with deeper sight: they could read the hidden speech of reflection and hear what the mirrors remembered. These were called the Reflectors.

In the early days, the Mirrorwalkers brought wonder and hope, reuniting the sundered lands. But envy grows where wonder dwells, and fear soon followed. Thus came the Mirror Wars: a hundred years of broken glass and burning skies. When the fires at last faded, the survivors gathered in sorrow and swore an oath of peace.

So was founded the Great Council of Mireth: keepers of balance, watchers of the mirrors, and guardians of the fragile harmony between worlds.

Remember this, traveller : the mirrors forget nothing, not even those who wish to be forgotten.

Chapter 1

Dorian swore. Dirty, but still quite elegant, keeping his good manners up to Steamhollow nobility standards. “My tutors should be quite proud of me,” he murmured to himself, trying to fold and pack his Lucky, a handmade brass-and-steam flying motorbike, into a storage capsule. It didn’t fit, and one of its wings stuck outside, making the capsule shake and showing a warning message on its small monitor with his every attempt:

Error in resizing the item. Please try again.

After several tries, Dorian gave up, extracting the Lucky from the capsule’s compression field and restoring its size. His thoughts were too far from the problem, so he stopped fighting it. He left the Lucky behind and pushed open the door to The Suite of Discreet Delights, one of the dozens of brothels in Brassville, Steamhollow’s rusty capital.

He liked this place; compared to others, it was somehow cosy and lacked “the splendour and misery.” His dear friend Coyote once described The Suite of Discreet Delights as “just like a friendly neighbour’s house.” Dorian grinned. Exactly like that.

He stepped inside the dark hall of the brothel, and the smells of expensive cigars, cheap perfumes, and machine oil wrapped him from head to toe. Strangely enough, it was quiet inside; only the muffled sounds of birds’ theatrical moans mixed with their clients’ panting behind doors to private rooms could be heard.

He needed to clear his head, and this place usually worked perfectly. The envelope from the Great Council was still sealed and lay in his pocket. Procrastination wasn’t something Dorian was proud of, but that was exactly what he was doing now.

Ruby and Jun, just two of Madam Vox's dozen birds, stood at the doors to the hall at the end of the corridor like forgotten goddesses guarding the gates to a particularly disappointing heaven. Dorian nodded to both of them; they nodded back to him, as if he were right on schedule.

When Ruby and Jun were pulling him along to the private room, Dorian noticed Madam, who was sitting on the sofa in the hall. He bowed to her, and Madam smiled slightly at him, as though she were approving his choice. Her skin glowed in the dim light; a gold wave of her hair flowed over her shoulders; her gorgeous, voluptuous body looked so tempting tonight. Dorian regretted that Madam was retired.

Madam looked no older than her birds. Either desire preserved her, or wealth did. Possibly both, working overtime.

Ruby and Jun gently pushed Dorian inside a dark room with low, hushed light. The door slammed shut behind them.

The room smelled of sandalwood incense and industrial-grade disinfectant. Holographic fish swam lazily across the ceiling, casting ripples of blue light over the antique furniture, all reproduction pieces from Old Mireth's forgotten dynasties. The smell of cigars was quite strong here because of Jun. She elegantly picked up a long cigarette holder of amber with her bionic arm. She exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke that curled around her black shiny hair.

Expensive taste, Dorian thought.

Red-haired Ruby set the timer, a neat little brass box with numbers blinking on a narrow display, and gave Dorian a kind of predatory smile.

One hour.

He shrugged off his coat and dropped onto the bed with all the enthusiasm of a man attending his own funeral. The old, questionably clean bed sheets were semi-white and sharp at the edges. Sterilised for your protection, no doubt.

The birds undressed him with professional precision, the result of years of experience. Ruby slipped on her latex gloves with the clinical efficiency of someone about to perform surgery rather than intimacy and went to work. Jun put her cigarette holder away and leaned back on the mattress. She was slowly unbuttoning her silk shirt, revealing a pair of the heavy boobies. Her breasts were remarkable, perfect add-ons to Ruby’s skilful hands and lips.

But Dorian's body, apparently having more sense than its owner, refused to cooperate with the evening's planned activities. The Mirrorwalker Dorian Corvell, defeated by the most basic of human functions. How terribly poetic. Nothing could lift his penis, not even Jun’s amazing milky-white soft boobies smothering his body.

I cannot believe that a bloody envelope could cost me my erection.

Ruby’s hands paused. She tilted her head with a touch of kindness, a sincere one, at least he wanted to believe it.

“Lost in thought, love?”

Dorian straightened and gave a strained smile.

“You were beyond all praise.” His knuckles whitened as he buttoned his shirt and jacket with brisk efficiency. “But nothing enhances an evening like an invitation from the Great Council. Should I bring a cake, or is showing up with my face enough?” He delivered it flat and metallic, and the words hung there.

He deposited his gearwallet on the dresser. Credits pulsed, ghost-blue, an afterimage of payment still in transit. No negotiations, no regrets. He doubled the rate, as always, the city’s only honest generosity.

He moved to the bar, walking as a man who had just failed to get an erection in a brothel.

Navigating the corridor, he reached the bar and collapsed onto a stool, propped his elbows against wood sticky with the tears of disappointed men, and gestured at the house bottle because, clearly, more alcohol was the solution to his problems. He wished he had some bud instead, but his gearwallet was too slim at the moment. This month he had only managed to complete a couple of commercial Walks. He wasn’t broke. Not yet. But close to that point with every passing day.

A gloomy, tight-lipped bartender with little sense of hospitality poured a measure of what they called here ‘whiskey’. Dorian caught it reflexively and sipped.

He retrieved the envelope from his inner pocket, where it had been burning against his chest all day. The Council’s polished emblem caught the bar's flickering light and reflected it back with smug authority. Dorian's fingers hesitated at the seal before breaking it with a quick, decisive snap.

The words in the letter swam before him with bureaucratic indifference:

To Dorian Corvell
Client: House Of The Great Sun
Initial Location: Veyr Sol, Steppe Loteri Lands
Request: Mirrorwalker/Reflector
Mission: Drommala
Compensation: 10,000 Credits

In case of accepting the offer, inform the great council office within 24 hours of receiving this envelope.
Failure to comply will result in immediate withdrawal of the offer.

Dorian checked his wristwatch, the mechanical one, not the digital implant.

Three hours left.

The Council, never late, never early; always at that one perfect moment when a man found himself flinching.

He folded the letter with care and placed it on the table in front of him. He didn’t let the first flicker of relief fool him. He really needed to think about it first, but the timer’s relentless ticking drowned out his thoughts.

Coyote found Dorian sipping whiskey at the corner table. Coyote’s pupils were still dilated from whatever chemical cocktail he'd shared with the birds upstairs; his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a leather harness beneath it.

“Corvell, mate. Is it really you? Or your freaking hologram?” Coyote was in a suspiciously good mood, to the point that he couldn’t contain it.

“Probably I should have chosen his birds instead,” Dorian thought wistfully.

Dorian slid an envelope to Coyote. He examined the text with surgical precision, as if he expected a trick but found none.

"Ten thousand," Coyote whistled low, returning the envelope to Dorian. "Plus whatever the Steppe Loteri throw in. Those prairie mystics practically bleed gratitude when a Mirrorwalker shows up." He leaned forward, the scent of sex and expensive cologne still clinging to his collar. "They'll give you their firstborn if you fix whatever's wrong with their precious Drommala."

Dorian swirled the unclear liquid, watching light struggling to refract through the glass. "I don't need a child. I need a reason."

"Money isn't reason enough?" Coyote's laugh was sharp. "Since when did you become so philosophical about Council work?"

“Since I started wondering if any of it matters,” Dorian thought, but he let it drift away, dissolving into the smoke between them.

Coyote produced an identical envelope and slid it across the table. “For Ophelia Rialt,” he said, smirking.

Dorian frowned. “She got the same offer?”

“Yes. She showed me the envelope proudly. Thought it meant they wanted her to prove she’s still got her spiritual mirror nonsense in working order. She actually believes they care.”

Dorian pictured Ophelia. Sharp laughter, sharper mind. The only woman in Steamhollow who could outdrink the nobility and still quote philosophy between rounds. Ironically, he found her spirituality and purity more appealing than the cynicism of most Mirrorwalkers.

“She never mentioned the Council mistreats her…”

“She did,” Coyote interrupted. “You were too busy trying to drown entropy in whiskey.”
He paused, looking at Dorian in slight disbelief. “Mate, really? How is it possible to disagree with the Great Council to the point that they banned you from government contracts for several months? Blew my mind.”

Dorian stared into his glass. The whiskey stared back, unimpressed. Let’s pretend I didn’t hear your last remark. Not the right place or time to discuss it.

“However. But why isn’t she running this one?”

“Because she’s missing,” Coyote said, voice low and almost unwilling. The words struck the air like glass hitting stone, and the silence that followed cracked wide open. Dorian looked at him in surprise. He couldn’t remember when Coyote actually cared about someone except himself that much.

Then Dorian’s voice sharpened. “How’d you get her letter?”

“She crashed at my place for a while. Debts, bad luck, the usual. She’s too pure for this city.” Coyote shrugged, but his grin faltered. “Don’t give me that look. You’re not exactly the moral compass of Brassville. Yes, I went through her things. She never left for the Loteri Lands. Her backpack is still in my apartment. I was worried, alright? She’s my friend.”

He leaned back, the mask slipping just enough to show the raw edge of panic beneath. “The Council wants you now. If they can’t find Ophelia, they’ll take the next available lunatic.”

A short, bitter laugh escaped Dorian. “So I’m the understudy to a ghost.”

“Congratulations,” Coyote said. “If you’re serious about taking this job, talk to the Keeper. That old mirror-hound knows more about the Drommala and maybe Ophelia.”

Dorian drummed his fingers against the table, tracing a faint scratch. “The Drommala,” he muttered, his voice slipping between irony and curiosity. “Still the same old tale? Sacred creature of the Steppe Loteri? He leaned back. “I’ve never met one. I’ve dealt with smaller things, fluffy, adorable, and generally edible, but not the legendary one. I’ve seen a real Drommala once in my life; the Loteri didn’t even let a fly near it without their permission.”

The letter to Ophelia lay sprawled between them like a challenge.

“Did you read it?” Dorian asked, though Coyote’s smirk answered for him.

He got Ophelia’s letter from its envelope with the delicacy of a man handling stolen evidence. Same pompous heading, same bureaucratic vagueness, different only in name and deadline.

“Forty-eight hours,” Dorian murmured, tracing the number with his thumb. “And I got twenty-four. Actually…” He checked his watch, mechanical hands slicing his future into fractions. “…make those two hours left to decide.” His gaze sharpened. “Why the rush? What aren’t they telling me?”

Coyote’s grin faded. “The rumour is, Loteri’s Drommala is extremely sick. Maybe already dead. Steppe and Desert Loteri are panicking. No Drommala means no water, no crops, no mercy.”

Dorian exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a curse. A Reflector’s job then: to converse with a dying god. He finished his drink and braced for whatever insult destiny had queued next.

Before leaving, Coyote threw out the words, “You know the deal. I can pay you for Loteri artifacts far better than the Council.”

Dorian pulled on his coat, shoulders heavy, and pushed through the brothel’s murky hallway. The air outside was a mixture of fog and something burning. He found his stubborn motorbike exactly where he’d left it. He reached into his coat, fingers brushing the envelope. Ten thousand credits.

For Dorian Corvell, that almost qualified as hope.

Chapter 2:

Recorded in the Year of the Third Reflection
From The Chronicles of Mireth, Book II, page 47
Loteri Lands Oral Histories, Steppe and Desert Accounts

“The Elders said that in the first time the Loteri Lands were whole. There was no Steppe and no Desert, only endless green grasslands. Prey was plentiful, and life water ran freely through fertile fields. The Loteri lived without borders, sharing water and land, settling disputes in circles rather than behind walls. The land answered them because they listened first.

In the far North lived one Loteri apart from the others. His name was left unkept. The Whisperer Spirit of the Lands tested him, and he failed. Greed took hold. He dammed the rivers, built a fortress around the deepest springs, and demanded payment for water. Gold came first, then leather and tools, and finally children. The land suffered with every bargain. Grass cracked, prey fled, and water withdrew beneath the ground. Some Loteri left, but many stayed, unwilling to abandon their homes.

The Great Sun judged him with fire. The fortress burned, stone split, and gold melted into the soil. The greedy one was found later, his eyes burned out, the ruins ringing with children’s cries. Yet the land did not heal. Water hid itself deeper still, and thirst remained.

The Loteri gathered in a great circle and smoked the sacred bud. They listened rather than pleaded. From their prayers, the smoke, and the reflection of missing water, the Mother was born. Vast and patient, plated in blue and old copper, she listened to the earth itself.

The Steppe and Desert Loteri called her Drommala, She Who Finds Life Water. In older speech she was Morrawyn, She Who Walks the Buried Rivers.

She found life water and turned the Loteri from dead water. She stood between them and storms, and did not move aside when war crossed the plains.

When the Mother left, she gave the Loteri her daughter Drommala, so they might survive what the land had become. In return, she demanded care without possession, guarding without chains, and listening without command. This was the binding of the pact.

A daughter Drommala lived close to a hundred years. When her end neared, the Loteri sought the Mother again. She judged them by stillness. If she agreed, another daughter was given. If she refused, nothing could move her. Long ago, the Loteri tried force, and every attempt failed. They learned the rites were invitations, not commands.

In early generations, some Loteri carried the old reflective tongue in their blood and could commune with the Mother directly. Over time, wars scattered families and memory fractured, and the tongue fell silent among the Loteri.

Then the Mirrorwalkers appeared. They carried the old tongue through reflection, altered yet intact. They did not command the Mother nor speak for the Loteri, but served as vessels, carrying truth between need and judgement.

Thus the pact endured. The Lands were no longer whole and life was no longer easy, but it remained, changed by time, bound by care, and unbroken.”

***

Liana had been gone from her commune for days, roaming the uneven border where the Steppe slowly gave up and turned into the Desert. Her braid was pulled tight to keep it out of her way, though it did nothing to stop the sand from finding every possible place to stick. She was hunting Feather-tail Cats, small colourful creatures with tails tipped in metallic feathers, the best kind for fletching Solbloom Bow arrows, durable and light enough to fly true.

The cats only showed themselves during their short mating season. At dusk, the females rolled in the sand and called to the males with a click-clock sound that carried across the dunes. It would have been romantic if it were not so loud. During that time, their Stillness Veil, the magic that froze you stiff before you could blink, weakened just enough to make hunting possible.

Liana heard the call, low and steady. She crouched, whispered her counter-spell, and felt the air snap back to normal. There it was, sleek and golden, tail glowing like metal in sunlight. She moved quickly. A clean snatch. A twist. She came away with a metallic feather. The cat dashed off, offended but very much alive.

She stood for a moment, brushing sand from her knees, and glanced at the feathers in her hand.

“Three days of chasing for nine feathers,” she muttered. “Perfect math.”

There was a hint of pride in her voice. She carefully packed the feathers into her pouch and started back toward camp before the heat decided to argue again.

A memory rose uninvited. Her father sat beside their leather tent, turning a broken feather between his fingers, examining it as if it mattered.

“Not bad for my daughter, for the first time,” he had said. “Excellent for any other Steppe hunter.”

He was a Steppe legend, though he never acted like one. A hunter and guide who could read the wind better than most could read a map. People said the Drommala trusted him, and maybe that was true. He did not talk much. He did not need to.

Her mother had died when Liana was born, so it had been just the two of them. He raised her between hunts, between long rides and longer silences. No speeches. No soft words. He showed her things instead. How to track by shadow. How to hear water under stone. How to keep moving when the world did not care if you stopped. He was not gentle, but he was steady. His kind of love was not something you said. It was something you did. Liana learned every bit of it.

She was still smiling when a silhouette cut the sunset clean open. Toren. Covered in dust, panting, hair a mess.

“Such a nice surprise,” she thought, then said aloud, “Took the wrong turn, Toren?”

It had taken him longer than expected to find her. His guiding magic, the one that let him sense other Steppe Loteri across distance, weakened the moment he crossed into the borderlands. The desert interfered with it. Sand scattered and reflected the magic, breaking its direction like light in a mirror. Every step sent his sense spinning the wrong way. By the time he caught Liana’s trail, he had lost nearly a day circling dunes and dry wind.

When he saw her at last, crouched low with her bow and dust in her braid, relief hit harder than he wanted to admit. There was no time to rest. The Drommala was dying, and he had already spent too long finding her. He looked at Liana, confused, not understanding the joke. His expression was lost, almost boyish.

“The Drommala is dying,” he said quietly.

Liana’s eyes darkened. Her lower lip trembled before she caught it. The loss of the Drommala was not just sorrow. It was sacred. The Drommala was the heart of their life and balance.

“The Elders sent me,” Toren said. “They are gathering the guides. It is down to hours. Maybe less.”

They packed in silence, throwing her gear together without caring about order. When everything was ready, Liana whistled sharply. Ineya lifted her head from the steppe grass and galloped toward her.

Liana swung into the saddle and nodded. “Come on.”

He swung up behind her and locked one arm around her waist, anchoring them together. On any other day, he might have blushed at the closeness. Not today.

He reached inward instead, sinking his awareness into the quiet, patient strength of the Steppe. The land answered. With his free hand, he drew the power up through himself and fed it forward into Ineya.

The horse surged beneath them, hooves barely touching the ground. Dust rose in a tight spiral around their path as the Steppe pushed them on, relentless and swift. Ineya ran as if the wind itself had chosen her.

It took only a couple of hours instead of half a day before the faint outline of the commune appeared on the horizon.

Darkness had already spread across the land when they arrived. Smoke rose in the distance, first thin, then thick above the fire pits. Toren still hoped the healing rites were continuing. He had burned the herbs himself the day before, circling the Drommala with smoke, praying she would recover.

The air changed as they neared the centre. The fires no longer smelled of herbs, but of farewell. Then they heard it, the funeral song, low and trembling, spreading through the night.

They were too late. The Drommala was dead.

Her body lay still at the centre. The once-brilliant hide had cooled into blue and burnished copper scales, fitted together like worked metal. Her long trunk curved downward, its segmented length resting against the ground, the tip half-coiled, as if movement had only just left it. Torches packed with healing herbs burned around the pyre, their smoke thick and bitter-sweet, returning brief colour to her body. In the flicker of firelight, the Drommala looked both tragic and majestic.

The Loteri sat cross-legged, mirrors pressed to chests and brows, faces striped with ochre and grief. No one spoke. No chatter. Just the old funeral song, wrapping everyone in its rhythm. Liana and Toren joined the crowd, adding their quiet, uneven voices.

When the song faded, the Steppe and Desert Elders formed the first circle around the pyre. Ritual masks marked with ancient runes were fitted with small pieces of mirror, tied with red thread, their hands woven together in the old gestures.

Liana dropped to one knee, palms pressed into dust. Toren joined her, bowing his still-messy head. Words did not come. They had not for a long time.

“Yesterday,” Toren whispered. “I thought maybe she would recover.”

Liana did not answer.

The chanting shifted. Desert Elders took over, voices deep and rolling like sandstorms. They lifted small brass mirrors tied with red string and called her Morrawyn, She Who Finds Life Water.

Morrawyn vel, na shara ven.

They asked the Great Sun for justice, not mercy. The smoke would carry her home.

“Do you think she will be back?” Toren asked quietly.

Liana said. “Only if we deserve it.”

The Elders signalled. Children and Wise Mothers moved to the outer ring, lighting small fires and scattering steppe grass seeds. Smaller circles formed. Bone pipes were brought out, smooth and darkened with age, packed with sacred bud.

The smell spread fast. Dry and green. Familiar. Sweet on the first breath, bitter underneath. Smoke mixed with the burning wood and settled heavy in the air. The pipes passed hand to hand. No one hurried. Each person drew, breathed toward the fire, passed it on. The smoke settled over faces, clothes, thoughts. Not to erase the pain. Just to make it bearable.

Stories followed. Quiet ones. The first time she led them to water. Her shadow at sunset, long enough to cover a caravan. Toren spoke of getting lost as a child, of her turning them from dead water. Heads nodded. Everyone remembered something.

Liana listened, pipe resting on her knee, saying nothing. The smell wrapped around her like an old memory. Every breath heavier. Slower. Easier.

They spoke of fifty-three years of the Drommala sharing their lives. Of life water found and dead water avoided. Without her, there would be no communes. No trade. No life.

When the pipes burned out, no one spoke. They watched the last sparks drift upward. It was no longer sadness. Just stillness. Acceptance.

The Drommala was gone. The Steppe would have to find a new protector. Silence returned, heavy and absolute. Only the fire crackled. Liana exhaled. Toren did too.

The ritual was over.

Some Loteri remained seated on the ground. Others lay where they were. No one rushed. No one was moved along. Liana rose slowly, brushed the dust from her palms, and looked toward the faint glow of dawn behind the dunes.

“Come on,” she said. “Tomorrow everything starts again.”

They walked away in silence, not quite steady on their feet, smoke curling behind them. On the way to the communal tent they shared with few other young Loteri, Toren spoke.

“Liana. I think someone or something helped the Drommala die.”

Liana stopped mid-step, brow tightening. “What do you mean? How would that even be possible? The Caretaker’s job is to protect it no matter what. And the guardians wouldn’t just let it happen. Not with the Drommala’s power.”

“When I was burning the herbs and walking the healing circle around her,” he said, “I saw markings on her scales. Near the belly. Runes, half-hidden by the plates. I have never seen that kind before.”

“I hope you told the Elders.”

“Of course. That is why they are calling me to the Elders’ tent tomorrow.”

Dawn thinned the last of the smoke. The Steppe waited, silent, for whatever came next.

Chapter 3

Morning dragged itself across the Steppe. Smoke from the funeral clung low to the ground. Liana and Toren walked in silence. No one greeted them. No one looked up. The commune moved carefully, not from grief now but from worry.

They passed the Drommala’s body. Herbal smoke still lingered, thinning as the sun rose. By firelight she had looked asleep. In daylight she looked final. The spirit was gone, though her vast body remained, heavy and unmoving, as if the land had not yet let her go.

Ahead, the Circle of Elders waited. A ring of stone seats carved with sun-lines and wave-marks, Steppe and Desert set side by side. The stones were old, heavy enough to feel permanent, rooted deep into the earth. Behind the Elders, a few mirrors hung on wooden frames, tied with red string, shivering faintly in the morning wind.

Liana inhaled slowly.

Toren muttered, “Feels like we’re about to be judged.”

“We are,” Liana said. Her voice stayed flat. She had faced Elders in worse moods than this.

People gathered in tight rows around the Circle, sitting, kneeling, or standing with stiff backs. The First Elder rose last, looked around the circle, and struck her staff against stone. Every whisper stopped.

When she spoke, her voice carried clearly, scraped clean of softness.

“We stand after a night of loss. Our Drommala has entered the smoke, on the path the Mother set for her.”

The crowd bowed. Even the wind fell silent.

She waited for the quiet to hold.

“We must find the Mother Drommala as soon as possible, and ask her to gift us her child. Only our voice matters to her. Only truth.”

Silence deepened.

Liana felt Toren tense beside her.

“Thirty years ago,” the Elder said, “the Forest Loteri marked her last known resting place. They keep the enchanted maps. They released them to us at dawn. The Mother was seen near the roots of the forests of Ashen Valley. That is where the search begins.”

People shifted uneasily. Ashen Valley was far from safe.

“We have asked the Great Council to send us a Mirrorwalker, and we pray the Great Sun does not turn them aside. They see reflection where we see only dust. They know the Drommala’s old tongue. Through them, we will find her and be heard.”

She looked across the gathered faces.

“Steppe and Desert Loteri. Our community needs you to guide the Mirrorwalker across the Loteri Lands. To stand before the Mother. To ask for her child.”

She let the words settle.

“Who will volunteer?”

No one stepped forward quickly. Not because the Mother harmed anyone. She did not. The fear was in failing her. Failing everyone. Or losing your way in lands you barely knew.

Nothing moved.

At last a dark-skinned Desert woman stepped forward. Her braids rattled with bone charms. A tall Steppe hunter followed. A rune-reader joined.

Then Liana.

She stepped forward with steady calm. She felt Toren watching her but kept her spine straight.

Toren’s feet moved before he thought. He stepped forward too, pale but steady.

Five more came. Ten in total.

“Speak your reason,” the First Elder said. “Say only truth.”

The Desert woman started. “I know signs in the sand. I saw the Mother’s shadow once, and I can read the marks she leaves behind.”

The hunter said, “I offer endurance. I can cross dunes for days, and I do not break when the heat rises or the wind turns.”

The rune-reader said, “My knowledge of stone paths is strong. I can read and understand old magic.”

Then Liana.

“I know the Steppe and Desert,” she said. “I travelled far with my father. I learned parts of the Forest paths and the River routes. I can guide the Mirrorwalker across all lands.”

Toren spoke next.

“My father is Forest Loteri,” he said. “I know Forest ground. I sense shifts in Steppe magic. I can protect and heal the Mirrorwalker if the journey turns dangerous.” His voice shook only once.

The remaining five volunteers spoke in turn. The Elders listened in silence to the best crossbow hunter, a skilled Steppe herbalist, a Desert protector with deep knowledge of magic, a quiet scholar, and a young but strong shaman.

The Elders conferred briefly.

“Ten will remain,” the First Elder said.

The chosen stepped aside. The rest returned to their work, relieved but guilty.

Liana glanced at Toren. “You volunteered faster than I expected.”

“I panicked,” he said.

“Good panic.”

Before she could say more, an Elder with sharp cheekbones put a hand on Toren’s shoulder.

“You,” she said. “Come.”

“Try not to collapse,” Liana murmured.

Toren managed a thin twitch of a smile and followed Elder Mother Elasya to a tent near the inner circle.

Inside, two other Elders sat cross-legged on woven mats. Between them knelt the Caretaker of the dead Drommala, a man bent low, shoulders shaking, breath breaking as he struggled to contain himself. One of the Elders lifted a hand toward Toren.

“Tell it.”

Toren hesitated. “Tell what?”

“The runes.”

He swallowed.

“When I was burning the herbs and walking the healing circle,” he said, voice steady despite himself, “I saw markings on her scales. Near the belly. Strange ones. Not part of her plating. Runes, half-hidden beneath the scales.”

Silence followed. Even the Caretaker’s breathing slowed, rough but restrained.

Elder Mother Elasya rose. “Come.”

Only the two of them went to the Drommala’s body.

The morning sun had burned away most of the smoke. Toren led her to the place he remembered, kneeling and running his fingers lightly along the scales.

The markings began to fade.

The lines thinned as he watched, sinking back into the natural pattern of the hide, as if the skin itself were swallowing them.

Toren froze, hand hovering uselessly.

Elder Mother Elasya acted at once. She pressed her palm flat against the scale and spoke a binding phrase under her breath. The air tightened. Light caught sharply along a single remaining line.

Only one rune held.

“We are fortunate to have preserved even one,” she said.

Elder Mother Elasya stood before the Drommala for a long moment in silence. The morning light caught on the great body, dull now, emptied of movement. She placed both hands against the hide, forehead bowed.

Toren heard her murmur softly, not to the Elders, not to him, but to the Drommala herself. An apology. A request for forgiveness for what had to be done.

Only then did she turn to Toren. “Help.”

With deliberate care, they loosened a single scale. No force. No haste. It came free cleanly, lifted as if it had been waiting, wrapped at once in clean cloth.

Then Elder Mother Elasya did something Toren had not expected. She moved to the Drommala’s trunk and drew a short, precise cut. Thick navy-blue blood welled slowly, heavy and luminous, dripping drop by drop from the incision. She deepened the cut just enough and produced a small glass jar from her leather bag, catching the blood with steady hands.

When the jar was sealed, she made one final cut and removed a substantial section of the trunk. It was wrapped carefully, the same cloth, the same respect.

Toren did not ask.

She spoke anyway, as if answering his thoughts. “We must try to understand how she died, Toren. We cannot place her daughter at risk.”

The scale, the blood, and the piece of trunk were carried back to the tent together, each treated as evidence, each handled with the care given to a relic.

Inside, the Elders examined the rune in silence. One of them tilted his head.

“It could be a natural pattern,” he said. “A coincidence of growth.”

Elder Mother Elasya’s reply was immediate. “No. I know the Drommala’s pattern well. This was placed.”

The Elder did not answer at once. At last, he looked to Toren. “You will not speak of this.”

Toren inclined his head. “I will not.”

“You are dismissed.”

Toren stepped out into the light, the tent closing behind him. Whatever had marked the Drommala had not wanted to remain.

Toren found Liana among the other volunteers, seated in a rough half-circle before the First Elder. She stood with her staff planted in the ground, posture unyielding, voice level.

“A Mother Drommala does not hear noise,” she said. “She hears weight. Stillness. Intention. Do not perform. Do not beg. Speak only what is true, and speak it once.”

No one interrupted.

When the words of guidance ended, small cloth pouches were passed into volunteers’ hands. Magic powder, fine and pale, faintly luminous even in daylight. The First Elder bowed her head once.

“She has already gone,” she said. “Now we help the body follow.”

The Elders moved first, touching flame from their torches to the dry grass circling the Drommala. As the fire took, they began the old chant, low and steady.

Morrawyn vel, na shara ven. Gone with the smoke.

The volunteers formed a wide open circle. One by one, they stepped forward and cast the powder into the fire. Each offering bloomed upward in colour. Blue, red, gold. Smoke thickened, rose, folded in on itself. The Drommala’s great form broke apart with unnatural efficiency, scales dissolving into light and ash as if they had never been solid at all.

By the time the last pouch was emptied, the body was gone. Only white ash remained. Magic had brought her into the world. Magic carried her out.

When the fires died down, the First Elder gathered them again. Pipes packed with sacred bud were passed out, along with parchment slips, feathers, and ink.

“You will write,” she said. “Not poetry. Not persuasion. You will write what you would say to the Mother, if she stands before you. Prepare yourselves.”

The circle loosened. Smoke drifted. Flatbread and honey were shared in silence, broken only by short, practical exchanges. Words were tested, discarded, reshaped.

Liana rose and moved away from the group. Toren followed. She sat heavily and dropped her head into her hands. “I hate speeches.”

Toren lowered himself beside her. He sat close enough to catch the scent of smoke tangled in her red hair, warm and herbal. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, familiar as something he had learned without trying.

“You can track anything,” he said. “Words just refuse to behave for you.”

“Tracking makes sense,” she muttered. “Words do not.”

He took the paper from her fingers and smoothed it flat. “Start simple. Say who you are. Why you came. What you offer. No flourishes. Just truth.” He handed it back. “The rest can wait.”

She grunted and bent over the page again. Toren stayed still. His fingers twitched. His breath caught on the way out. The sacred bud softened the edges of his thoughts, loosened the care he usually kept wrapped tight.

“Liana. There is something I need to say.”

She looked up. “What now?”

He hesitated, then lifted his eyes. When he spoke, it was stripped bare.

“I have feelings for you. I want you safe. We grew up together. You know me better than anyone. I do not know what waits for us out there, but I want to stand with you. I needed you to know that.” He swallowed. “Would you marry me?”

Liana blinked once. Her shoulders tightened, then eased.

“Toren. Now is not the time.”

The words landed hard, but not cruel.

She added, quieter, “It is not wrong to feel. Or to protect. But we help our people first. Then we think about the rest.”

He nodded. “All right.”

She looked back to the paper. “Now help me write, or go panic somewhere quietly.”

“I am not panicking.”

“You might,” she said, unimpressed.

They sat side by side, scratching words onto paper as the sun sank low, painting the Steppe red-gold. Behind them, the Elders spoke in low voices about runes, and the enchanted Forest map glowed faintly with the Mother’s old trail.

Everything was moving.

Whether the Loteri were ready or not.

Chapter 4

Dorian left the Great Council Administrative Office with his contract confirmed and the travel advance received. The formalities were complete. The Council had him now. Officially.

He tucked the paperwork into his coat and stepped back into Brassville’s Government District, all stone and glass. The building towered cold behind him.

Haven Tavern came next.

He slipped into a narrow side alley behind the Office. Warning posters advised citizens against employing unauthorised Mirrorwalkers. To Dorian’s surprise, Coyote’s face had not appeared on any of them.

“Progress, then.”

He scanned the alley for a mirror, a term Mirrorwalkers applied generously to anything that reflected well enough for crossing. Moving between worlds required blood. Haven did not.

A square, ordinary mirror had been set into the wall, its surface plain and well-maintained. The Haven emblem marked the frame: a broken mirror split through the centre. Such mirrors existed only in Steamhollow and led to Haven, nowhere else.

Dorian stepped closer, placed his hand against the surface, and focused. “Well, hello,” he murmured. The metal softened and accepted him. The transition was clean. It always was with Haven.

He emerged into the long corridor. Mirrors lined both sides, their frames collected across centuries. One Walker arrived through a neighbouring mirror a moment after him; another departed through the glass at the far end of the corridor. Mirrorwalkers used them as doors between Haven and Steamhollow. Reliably.

Dorian straightened his coat and walked towards the Central Hall.

Haven was a Brotherhood place. If you were a Mirrorwalker, you were welcome. The Tavern did not care who employed you or which laws you bent, as long as you could obey the Keeper’s rules. If you could not, you were corrected. Permanently, if required.

Haven lay between worlds, suspended in reflection rather than place. Nobody remembered when it had been built. The Keeper themselves were ancient.

On the way to his usual table, Dorian registered raised voices. A few Walkers at the bar were arguing fiercely but still civilised. Drunk Walkers argued. He ignored them.

Dorian sat. A moment later, a large man loomed over him. He leaned in close, filling Dorian’s space with the smell of cheap smoke and overcooked onions. “Corvell,” he whispered. “What a pleasant surprise.” Dorian looked up at him, expression mild. He did not return the greeting.

“I have some special artefacts.”

If this was meant as temptation, it had been misjudged. “Congratulations,” Dorian said. “Your friends will be delighted.”

The man laughed loudly. “Those cunts can’t even appreciate their own balls.”

“That is unfortunate,” Dorian replied. “I am broke.”

He removed the man’s hands from the table with care. The man swung once, missed, and steadied himself with visible disappointment. He stared at Dorian, then withdrew. Dorian did not watch him go.

A steady voice followed. “Some of the Walkers are far too enthusiastic about seeing you.” Mireal stood in front of him. Robust, copper-toned skin. Dark hair brushed with silver tied back in plain cloth. Her eyes were kind only when she allowed them to be. The faint scarlet beneath them marked her as immortal. A healer by trade. The Keeper’s Right Hand by fate.

“You are thinner,” she said. “When did you eat last?”

Dorian considered this. “Yesterday.”

She waited.

“Possibly the day before,” he amended.

“That is not an answer,” she said. “You will eat.”

“Yes, my lady.” He did not argue. He never had.

She turned and moved away, the matter concluded. Dorian smiled faintly. Old rules still applied.

He finished his meal just as the door to the Altar of Mirrors opened. The Keeper entered the hall. Tall, lean, ageless. Pale hair caught the light as they moved. Scarlet eyes reflected the room without participating in it. Their vampire origin was unmistakable. The hall adjusted, Mirrorwalkers stirred. One moved as if to approach, then stopped when the Keeper lifted a hand. No words were required.

They reached Dorian’s table and paused. They always paused.

“Dorian,” they said. “You look alive. That is encouraging.”

“Debatable, but acceptable.”

“What brings you to us today,” the Keeper asked, “leisure or business?”

“Leisure? Not with my luck.”

The Keeper inclined their head once, “Business, then.”

They passed through the curved glass doors and entered the Library.

Ink and metal polish settled around Dorian immediately. Rare maps and scrolls lined the shelves. Someone had nearly died for each of them.

Dorian placed the contract on the table. “They want me.”

The Keeper opened it with care. “For real?” they said. “After your previous performance, this is unexpected.”

“If they had a choice,” Dorian said, “they would avoid me.”

“They did,” the Keeper replied. “To begin with.”

Dorian smiled thinly. “I am now second on a very short list of people capable of retrieving their precious Drommala.”

The Keeper nodded.

“Ophelia is missing,” Dorian added. “That appears to have improved my standing.”

“Ophelia is missing indeed. My sources in the Loteri Lands are confident the Drommala is already dead,” the Keeper said. “Do not treat this contract lightly.”

“Ophelia never left for the Loteri Lands,” said Dorian. “Coyote still has her stuff, including her contract.”

The Keeper looked at Dorian. “It sounds more complicated than I thought.” They paused, “Right. I told her what I’m going to tell you now.”

“Any advice would be appreciated.”

“Follow their ceremonial rules exactly,” the Keeper said. “Ask Mireal if you must. Born Loteri once, always Loteri. Their Elders will tolerate you. Trust is not guaranteed.”

“I am very good at being tolerated.” Dorian’s mouth hinted at a smile. It did not reach his eyes.

The Keeper placed a thin brass tablet on the table. A Great Council licence to unseal a permanently closed mirror and, more importantly, to seal it again. “Use it wisely.”

“I will.”

“Ophelia picked a few scrolls with River Loteri spells.” The Keeper added.

“I will speak to Coyote. Maybe those scrolls are still in her stuff.”

The Keeper nodded once. Then they unfolded a map.

“This route leads to Veyr Sol,” the Keeper said, and tapped a mirror marked at the edge of the north-west of Steamhollow. The ring on their finger shimmered against the parchment. “Central Steppe settlement. You will meet the Circle of Elders there.”

Dorian leaned in. He recognised most of the marked mirrors. Some of them he saw for the first time. The Keeper tapped along the rest of the route, making short remarks. “Stable. Unstable. Sealed. Do not return through this one. Fatal if rushed. Safe.” Dorian stored the information.

“Do not be overconfident,” the Keeper said. “Keep your eyes open. Your mouth shut.”

“I will try.”

The Keeper sighed softly. They had known Dorian too long to believe that.

“One more favour.” They produced a sealed document. “Retrieve a scroll from the Desert Mirrored Library. Present this to their Senior Archivist.”

Dorian accepted it.

“Return with the scroll,” the Keeper said. “Return alive.”

“I will attempt to disappoint you as little as possible.” He inclined his head and left.

Dorian was tackled immediately.

R’Yussa, Haven’s resident guardian cat, launched himself from a pile of cushions with enthusiasm and limited coordination. White and red, violently fluffy, and tall enough to reach Dorian’s waist when standing, he landed poorly, recovered instantly, and charged. Dorian and R’Yussa went down wrapped in a ball of fur and snot. R’Yussa climbed onto his chest, purring loudly, breathing with profound satisfaction. If he decided to show affection, it was done without any consideration or consent.

He licked Dorian’s face.

“Yes,” Dorian said scratching R’Yussa behind his ears. “Later.” R’Yussa disagreed.

Mireal observed the scene, enjoying Dorian’s discomfort. She decided he had enough and called the cat’s name. R’Yussa obeyed at once, moving to her side, purring. Dorian stood. They walked down the corridor together.

“My clients are the Steppe Loteri,” he said. “I am going to Veyr Sol.”

“They will test you,” Mireal said. “Accept what they offer. Food, drink, smoke. Whatever is placed in your hands. Speak truth or not at all. Repeat their words when they judge you. Do not be greedy. Share what is shared. Always.”

“Reasonable enough.” He memorised it.

She pressed a small wrapped bundle into his hand. “Healing balm. Especially for River magic wounds. River Loteri had ties to the Mother,” she added. “At least, we believe so.” She straightened. “And do not be a heroic idiot.”

“I make no promises.”

“I know.”

She watched him leave and murmured softly, in the old River Loteri tongue, “Nal ven, sha’ri.”

The mirror returned Dorian to the alley behind the Council Office. He messaged Coyote. The reply came quickly. Coyote was home. Dorian unpacked Lucky and headed towards the outskirts of Brassville. Smog reduced visibility to little more than guesswork. He continued on foot.

Like any rough neighbourhood across the worlds, Rustwing Alley was not a place to draw attention.

Dorian noticed a cornered figure. At first, he thought it was a woman, but as he moved closer, he recognised a performer, likely from one of the sketchier places nearby. The dress was torn. The wig slipping. Makeup smeared with soot and blood. One eye closed. One finger bent wrong. He had fought until he could not. The three drunk men circling him muttered about refusal and entitlement.

Dorian approached quietly from behind. The first man turned. Dorian punched him in the throat. The second lunged. Dorian broke his arm. The third drew a knife. Dorian shattered his knee. Silence followed.

Dorian draped his coat around the performer’s shoulders and guided him upright. At the cab, the performer finally stopped shivering and looked at Dorian gratefully, “I don’t know how to thank you. Maybe ...”

Dorian stopped him with a look.

“Government District Hospital,” Dorian told the driver, uploading double the fare. Travel advance was very handy.

“Learn to fight,” Dorian turned to the performer. “Some defensive spells would help too.”

Then he headed back into the alley.

Coyote always did choose charming neighbourhoods.

Chapter 5

Dorian left Brassville in a foul mood and with an uncooperative machine.
He had fixed the Lucky before the trip. The Lucky took this personally. The machine misbehaved all the way across Steamhollow. A small oil leak appeared. Dorian noted it and stopped caring.

By the time the factory district came into view, he was thoroughly irritated. The factory had not collapsed. It had been consumed. He noticed it only because the Keeper had been precise with their maps and because Mirrorwalkers were cursed with sensing a reflective pull. They called it Mirror Call. From above, the place barely registered.

He brought the Lucky down near an abandoned washhouse.

“I swear,” he said quietly, packing the Lucky away, “I will dismantle you bolt by bolt when I get back.”

Inside, the factory smelled of old oil and damp stone. The reflective signal stayed unhelpfully vague until he reached the stairwell. Then it sharpened. Not stronger. Just accurate. The cellar.

An irritating sound filled the space. Dorian drew his blade and went down slowly. That was when the rats decided he was a suggestion. Steamhollow rats were not creatures so much as urban policy failures. Large. Pale. Scarred. Far too confident. They came, convinced numbers would solve the issue.

Dorian disagreed. One died cleanly. Another lost its head. A third latched onto his sleeve and learned why that was a poor decision. He crushed the fourth under his boot and let the blade finish the discussion. Blood pooled. The survivors paused, recalculated, and retreated.

“Run along,” Dorian said. “I charge extra.”

The mirror he did not know waited in the cellar wall. Only when he came within a few metres did it pull at him properly. Dorian stopped short and sighed. “Of course you’re hungry.”

He rested his right palm against the mirror. The surface was cold, unresponsive. Like any unopened mirror. Then he turned the wheel on his bloodbound ring. The crystal darkened to scarlet. Dorian slid his left hand to the edge of his corset and pressed the ring against bare skin. He closed his eyes.

The needle deployed. A sharp sting. Clean. Efficient. His pulse jumped as adrenaline flooded his veins.

The mirror rippled at once. At first it drew only a few drops, thin threads stretching from his chest to the glass. Then the pull deepened. Blood lifted in a narrow stream, suspended between Dorian’s body and his reflection, drawn with steady appetite. The mirror drank.

Its surface softened, bending inward like heated metal. Recognition settled through the glass, quiet and unmistakable. This one knew Dorian now. From here on, a few drops of his blood would be enough to cross it.

“Happy now?” Dorian murmured.

He pressed the ring back to the puncture. The needle withdrew and folded itself away without resistance. The wound sealed immediately, leaving only a faint mark.

He stepped forward.

The mirror took him.

Heat followed at once. Dry. Relentless.

Dorian stepped out onto hard earth and coarse grass. He checked himself out of habit. Shirt intact. Corset clean. No blood. Neat work.

Light-headedness crept in anyway, and he paused to recover. He turned the wheel on his ring until the crystal shifted to deep blue. The stored reflective energy flowed into Dorian from the ring, threading in dark blue strands through his body. He exhaled slowly and waited. The blood draw for the crossing had been modest. The recovery was almost immediate.

Only then did he turn around and freeze.

A half-circle of people stood waiting for him in silence.

“Well,” he said, dry as dust, “this is new.”

Mirror crossings were famously unreliable. Even competent Walkers landed a few metres off. Arriving exactly on schedule was not one of the advertised features. He glanced down at the ground, then back at them.

“And you got the spot and the timing,” he added. “That’s annoyingly precise.”

A staff struck the earth. Once.

Liana stood at the centre. Tight braid. Bow across her back. Already unimpressed. “This is sacred ground,” she said. “Do not joke.”

He inclined his head, unbothered. “I’m not. I’m recalibrating.”

It was not just what he said, but how he stood there. His travel-worn clothes were handled with careless elegance. Dust was treated as optional. He was too relaxed by half. He spoke with a posh accent and carried himself, in Liana’s estimation, like an entitled twat. He did not behave like any Mirrorwalker she knew.

The volunteers moved in and guided him away from the mirror. No hands. No force. Just certainty. Liana walked ahead, clearly irritated. They took him toward the settlement and the Circle of Elders. Dorian followed, displeased despite himself, and quietly impressed.

The Circle waited. Stone seats formed a ring. Mirrors hung behind the Elders, tied with red string. Dorian stepped forward when indicated and stopped. One Elder raised a hand. Another lowered theirs. The Circle aligned.

They spoke together, voices layered rather than loud.

“Mirrorwalker.” Not a greeting. A naming.

“I hear,” Dorian replied.

“You cross by blood,” said one.

“Yes.”

“You pass by reflection,” said another.

“Yes.”

“You arrive where the land allows,” said a third.

“Usually.”

A pause. Dust shifted. The mirrors stirred.

The life water was brought forward in a shallow stone bowl, clear enough to hold the sky. Dorian took it with both hands and drank without hesitation.

A pipe followed, packed with sacred bud. He drew once, almost successfully suppressing the cough, measured, and breathed the smoke downward into the earth.

The Elders watched closely. Not his face. His hands. One Elder leaned forward.

“You stand where the Mother’s shadow rests.”

“I stand.”

“You will not bind what walks.”

“I will not.”

“You will not take what is not given.”

“I will not.”

“You will leave when told.”

“I will.”

A stone struck the ground once. “You are received,” the Elders said. “As guest. As Mirrorwalker.”

The Elders turned away, already moving on. “You will rest. You will eat. When the sun turns, we will send for you. You will meet those who would walk with you.”

“Understood.”

And the ritual was done. Dorian was quietly satisfied. Clear terms were a rarity.

The Desert woman stepped forward without ceremony. Dark-skinned and tall, braids threaded with bone charms. Pale ritual paint crossed her eyes and brow. She inclined her head and turned away. It was not a request. Dorian followed.

They moved between the outer tents, the ground hard-packed and warm beneath his feet. The settlement breathed around them now, purposeful rather than tense. People watched without staring. A Mirrorwalker was notable, not spectacle. She stopped beside a guest yurt set slightly apart from the others, opened the door, and stepped aside.

“For your face,” she said, indicating a basin of clear water and a folded cloth. “I will bring food.”

Dorian thanked her and went inside, passing her in the doorway. The space between them was narrow. Her shoulder brushed his sleeve. She breathed in Dorian’s scent. Oil first. Clean machine oil and brass. Beneath it, heat and skin. Not sweat. Something heavier. Alive.

She turned away at once and left, her breath catching despite herself.

Dorian set his gear aside and stripped with habitual efficiency. Dust clung to him. Dried blood marked one knuckle. He leaned over the basin and washed thoroughly, water running down his arms and across his stomach.

The door opened again. The Desert woman stopped. She did not retreat. She simply looked. Dorian’s body was lean and muscular, built for endurance rather than display. Scars crossed him without pattern or apology. Old ones faded pale. Newer ones darker, some poorly healed. Forearms, ribs, low on his belly. Her gaze lingered longer than politeness required. Appraising. Interested.

Dorian lifted his head.

“A knock,” he said mildly, “would have been courteous.”

She blinked once and straightened. “I will remember.”

He finished washing, dried, and dressed without haste. The Desert woman set the tray of food on the floor. Flatbread still warm. Honey in a small clay dish. Horse meat, carrying the scent of smoke. A cup of steaming herbal tea, sharp with bitter root and mint.

Dorian regarded the food, then gestured to the space opposite him.

“Eat with me.”

She sat beside him, close enough that their knees nearly touched. It was a deliberate choice. Dorian noticed. He ignored it. Curiosity followed Walkers. Proximity. Attention. Fascination. It came with the work. He treated it like heat or noise. A condition of the environment, not an invitation.

They ate in silence at first. She took her time with it, attention drifting back to him more often than hunger required. When their hands brushed reaching for the bread, she did not apologise or withdraw.

Dorian continued eating, unbothered. Only when he tore another piece of bread did he speak. “I will need a welder. My machine leaks oil. Brass seam.”

She nodded. “There are several. Any will do.”

He took another bite, then added without emphasis, “And who is considered the best guide in the Steppe?”

This time she paused. “Liana,” she said at last. “Of the Steppe.”

The name settled.

When they finished, she rose and motioned for him to follow. The welders worked quickly. They did not ask questions. The seam was sealed, reinforced, tested. The Lucky was returned intact. Dorian reached for his credits. They refused at once.

“You are a guest,” one of them said. “Guests are not charged.”

Dorian nodded and put his gearwallet away. Instead, he produced a small clear crystal, no longer than his thumb. The air cooled as he turned it.
“For melting work,” he said. “It lowers the temperature.” The welders accepted it at once, handling it with care.

Before leaving, Dorian asked again. “The best guide?”

“Liana,” they answered, without hesitation.

He thanked them and left. The name stayed with him.

When he came back to the guest yurt, a young runner waited nearby. “The Circle calls for you,” the boy said. Dorian inclined his head and followed.

When Dorian returned to the Circle, everything was already arranged.

The Elders sat as before. The mirrors stirred behind them. Around the outer edge, ten people stood waiting.

Volunteers.

Dorian was allowed to sit. Not among them. Near them. Close enough to hear. Close enough to be measured.

“These are those who have offered to walk with you,” an Elder said. “They will go with you to speak to the Mother.”

Ten was still excessive.

“They stand by choice,” another Elder added. “You will take who you need.”

Silence followed.

The volunteers stepped forward one by one. Names were given. Brief. Skills followed just as plainly. Hunters. Guides. A healer. People who knew the Steppe and expected it to answer back. Dorian listened. He did not comment. When the last volunteer stepped forward, Dorian stiffened slightly.

“Liana of the Steppe,” she said.

The name clicked into place with mild, unhelpful amusement. The tight braid. The bow. The expression that suggested she had disliked him on sight and seen no reason to revise that opinion. So that was her. The best guide in the Steppe. And already irritated by him. Of course.

The Circle waited. Dorian let his gaze move over them once. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then he spoke. “Liana.” Nothing else.

For a moment, no one moved. The Elders exchanged looks. Concern, not disapproval. “One guide?” an Elder asked. “The way to the Mother is not kind.”

“I know,” Dorian said. “That is why I chose her.”

Liana’s mouth tightened. She did not argue. Duty came before preference.

Behind her, Toren went very still. “No,” he said, before he could stop himself. “She should not go alone.” Several heads turned.

“You may choose more,” an Elder said. “For safety.”

“One guide,” Dorian replied. “I do not need an audience.”

Silence stretched. At last, a staff struck stone. “The others are dismissed.”

Reluctantly, the volunteers stepped back. Toren lingered a heartbeat too long before Liana looked at him sharply. He obeyed.

Only Dorian and Liana remained.

The Elders invited them inside the tent and brought the enchanted maps forward. Treated hide and polished glass layered together. The markings never quite stilled. Lines drifted when untouched. Distances adjusted themselves with quiet defiance.

“Thirty years ago,” an Elder said, “the Forest Loteri marked the Mother’s last resting place, near the roots of Ashen Valley.” The lines shifted inward. A murmur passed through the Circle. Unease, earned honestly. Liana said nothing.

“Far,” Dorian said.

“And not kind.”

Dorian nodded once.

When Dorian and Liana stepped outside the Elders’ tent, two groups were already waiting. One for him. One for her.

The women moved first. Barefoot, hair loose, long linen ritual robes cut with high slits. They circled Dorian, attention focused and unspoken. Among them, he recognised the Desert woman he had shared food with.

Across from them, the men closed around Liana. Barefoot, in linen trousers, Steppe- and Desert-born. They formed a loose ring, not touching, but clear in their intent. Dorian’s attention caught on Toren among them. The line of his shoulders. Blue markings following muscle and bone.

Without ceremony, the groups separated Dorian and Liana.

Dorian let himself be led, faintly amused. Liana turned and went with the men, stride quick, shoulders set. On the way, Dorian thought about Liana. She was the best. The dislike mattered too. Antipathy drew clean lines.

One guide. Competent. Furious.

Boredom was unlikely.