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I slam shut the door of my cottage and lean my whole weight against it as if the ghost of the man might burst through at any minute. My heart is beating violently, drumming in my ears and blurring my vision. What did I just witness?

Why would he rush across the border after I warned him of the consequences? Was he out of his mind? He willingly ran toward the barrier like it was nothing! Did starvation drive him into madness?

The image of smoking ash and the ring of earth scorched like a battle scar seared into my mind. No matter how hard I close my eyes, there’s no escape from it. It’s there, repeating itself again and again – our conversation, his charging forward, the sound of his scream. It’s all there, haunting me.

The room’s taunting quiet offers no comfort. I grab the bottle of whiskey on the dining table and swig straight from the bottle. Though the fiery liquid burns as it slides down my throat, it fails to distract from the chaos swirling in my mind. I take another much longer swig and squeeze my eyes shut, begging the whiskey to erase the memory.

Tales of men crossing the barrier, no matter how bone-chilling they may be, still pale in comparison to the reality of watching a man reduced to dust. His life ended so quickly. A chill curves down the length of my spine, and I force down another gulp.

By gods, why did he do it? His face changed so suddenly, and the air between us shifted. Could I have done something to prevent him from crossing? Did I fail him?

Oh, for the love of those above, I’m going to be sick.

Three knocks land on the old wooden door, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It couldn’t be that man, could it? No, I saw him disintegrate in front of me. But what if another came after him? What if he blames me for what happened to his friend? I move in silence to grab a mallet from the cupboard, praying that the intruder might leave me alone, but the cupboard emits a loud creak as I open it.

I halt, forgoing the mallet lest I give myself away.

Still, stay very still.

Venturing out to the border is never a good idea. If my nightmares hadn’t been so unforgiving, then I might never have seen such horror.

But my nightmares never show me mercy. They sink their claws deep into my mind, refusing to grant a single night of reprieve. Sometimes they come in vivid detail, other times they are merely flashes in the pan. And sometimes, gods forbid, they cause so much distress that I can’t remember them at all. My mind wipes the slate clean, leaving only a racing pulse and sweat pooling around me. It terrifies me to think about the possibilities of what could be so horrifying that my own mind shields me from it. Last night had an even greater intensity than normal. It left me in a crippling panic with nothing to do but run.

The only guarantee when it comes to my nightmares is that when I wake, the burning red eyes will find me.

As a child, I thought that the red eyes were monsters uncaged from my dreams, following me into my waking life. As I grew older but no wiser, I imagined them to be more like sentries who guarded me from evil. But that theory becomes less and less credible as time goes on. The supposed sentries cannot, or do not, come to my rescue. They sit. They watch. They lurk. But they do not help. If they were capable of protecting me, wouldn’t they try to pull me out of my nightmares to save me from the pain?

No, they are only floating orbs of light carved into the shape of a serpent’s eyes. That menacing black slit at the center sees everything but helps nothing. Rescues require bodies, hands, and consciousness, all of which these eyes seem to lack. They are nothing more than a menacing presence.

And, besides, the moment that I acknowledge them, they always disappear.

Three more knocks sound at the door, and I nearly leap out of my skin trying to grab the mallet, until I’m squeezing it with a white-knuckle grip.

“Radya, I can hear you in there!” A voice, that unmistakably belongs to Tana, sets my mind at ease. She might be a bother on most days, but now I’m somewhat relieved to see her.

The second I open the door, she bursts inside, buzzing past me like a gnat. The relief that I felt in hearing her voice fades just as quickly as it came.

I am not in the mood to deal with Tana Tovian.

It’s not her fault that I push her away. She comes from a good place, albeit that place is probably akin to pity, but I prefer to be alone. I find peace in solitude and comfort in the quiet. Sometimes she brings me gifts – chocolate, bread, or even ale – and that’s always nice. Hell, I could use it. But not today, it seems. She appears to be standing empty-handed.

“Radya! Have you heard the news?”

News? What kind of news could she possibly have that’s worth a trip to the edge of the village? Her cottage must be two miles from here – a route thickened by trees and thorns. The distance is my defense, my safeguard. It keeps me from conversations just like this. Nothing remarkable happens here, and I’d rather not listen to useless fodder.

Unless she wants to warn me about a creature on the loose? Sometimes animals ravage our gardens, stealing any sustenance they can scrounge up. Like the concos. They lurk on the edge of the forest, unaffected by the barrier, and then rip up our vegetables, forcing us to start afresh. Their pillaging can lead to starvation if they’re not stopped soon enough. But I deal with them on my own, so, surely, she must have something else in mind.

If anything, I’m the one with a story to tell.

“I haven’t heard anything of interest,” I tell her, though the man’s death rattle still echoes in my ears.

She marches toward my raggedy old dining table, ignoring the three broken chairs left barely standing, and takes a seat at the only functional stool that remains. That leaves me to stand, I guess. The boldness of some people amazes me. But there she sits, all five foot two of her, with her long black hair falling to her hips and shining in the light of the arched stone window. She steadies herself with her hands in her lap and forces a serious look. “I heard reports that men are prowling on the edge of the forest.”

Her words quake through me, and my face turns a bright shade of red, judging by the amount of heat surfacing on my cheeks.

Men, plural.

I only saw the one.

If there are more men out there, might they tempt fate with a crossing of their own? I can’t stand the thought. What are they doing here? This village has nothing to offer. It’s small and remote. We have no resources worth plundering, no great treasures hidden within. Why bother us?

The rising panic in my chest makes my fingers tremble as I tell her, “I saw a man today. Just like you said. He was grisly and unkempt. And he –” my voice catches on the lump working its way up my throat. “He tried to cross.”

Her jaw drops so low that I can see the back of her throat. “Good gods, Radya, did you really? When? Tell me all about it!”

After I recount the story to her, I fear that she might burst at the seams from the shock. Or, maybe it’s excitement? She’s a gossip through and through, after all, and I just gave her a new story to peddle. A prowler roaming the woods was decimated by the barrier, leaving behind only a pile of ash. I can practically see the story making its rounds, twisting and warping with each telling.

“What did he want?” She asks, but I doubt that concern is what’s spurring her appetite to learn more. More like crafting the story that will soon spread through the village like wildfire.

Regardless of her intentions, a small part of me is thankful that I have someone to talk to about the whole ordeal, even if it is Tana Tovian.

“I don’t know. It was odd. Maybe he wanted food? Or maybe he wanted to attack? I don’t know, maybe both?” The whiskey starts to work its magic, and I feel the buzz calming my mind.

“How tragic! Imagine being lost in the woods and surviving just long enough to see food within arm’s reach just to… you know.” Her gesticulations add more drama to the story as she acts out a scene of longing and loss, nearly tossing herself to the floor in the process. “That poor soul, may he rest in peace.” She bows her head in silence for only a split second before resuming her interrogation. “Do you think there are more people out there, creeping around the village?”

“If there are, then hopefully they learned to stay far, far away.” I begin to reach for the whiskey bottle but then stop myself. If Tana catches me drinking before noon, then it might add an unsavory element to her tales that I wouldn’t appreciate spreading around the village. Assuming she hasn’t already smelled it on my breath. I bite my lips together to keep the scent from reaching her.

“Do you need any protection from the guard? Since you live so close to the barrier… all alone…” She says ‘all alone’ with a judgment-coated tongue that strikes a nerve in me.

It’s uncommon for women my age to be alone – living with neither parents nor husband – but it is my choice. Few have understood why I cannot give my heart, but I have no heart to give. Inside, in the place where love and happiness should exist, there is nothing but emptiness and pain. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember like a void eclipsed my slow beating heart.

It is better to be alone.

Still, the words linger for a moment before I rise from my seat and head toward the front door, pulling it open with extra emphasis. With all of the sincerity I can muster, which isn’t much, I say, “Thank you for your concern, Tana. I have errands to run today, and I really should get a start on them.”

Thankfully, she seems to accept the dismissal and follows me to the door.

“I’m always happy to help a neighbor in need, Radya.” She flashes a fulsome grin and places a hand on my shoulder.

I fear that when Tana Tovian refers to me as a neighbor, what she really means is that I am her charity case – the lonesome girl on the edge of the forest, in need of comfort and rescue. In her eyes, I am a good deed crossed off the list to uphold her own ego.

She forces her arms around me and squeezes tight before skipping to the door. I quietly close myself inside the moment her heel slips through the frame and then return to the stillness of the ghosts that surround me, clinging to the walls like paintings.

I see my parents in every nook and cranny of this home. Their laughs still ring through the walls, and the warmth of their hugs lingers in each room. To me, they are as alive as ever.

My father was the stable master for Lord Myles, who rules over Carcera. He died in an accident at work when I was five. I can hardly remember him – only bits and pieces of stories remain, woven together like a faded tapestry. My mother, on the other hand, died of the blight just a couple of years ago. She took all of the laughter and love in this home with her when she passed.

Is twenty-two too old to be considered an orphan?

These are the cards that life dealt me – trapped in a village, left to fend for myself, caught somewhere between lonely and alone. It is what it is. There will be no statues in my honor, no books written of my valiance. I am simply a nobody from nowhere.

Books keep me company just fine. Actually, I prefer books to people because, unlike books, you can’t stop a person from carrying on a dull conversation by simply closing the cover and moving on to the next. And, more often than not, I spend my days feeling overwhelmingly tired since the nightmares – and those damned red eyes – keep me from sleeping soundly. I would rather not expend the little energy that remains suffering through trivial conversations and stifling my yawns. If that makes me the village hermit, then so be it. I’ll play my part.

Nonetheless, I really do have things to do this morning.

I used the last of my coffee beans yesterday, which, admittedly, may have contributed to my curtness with Tana. Paul, the coffee trader from Alium, comes in today, so my number one priority is getting to the market before he sells out. Again.

I slip on a plain blue dress that’s hung in my armoire for years. The billowing sleeves have frayed from repeated use, but it hides the evidence of my too-long and thin frame. I run a comb through my hair, trying my best to smooth the tangles forming at the nape of my neck. The comb catches, sending a shooting pain running up the back of my skull. Oh, gods. I’ll have to cut out another chunk of knotted hair.

My hair has become too long to manage, but I dread having to cut it again. Since my mom passed, I’m forced to cut it myself. It always goes awry, leaving the sides uneven and the length too short. I end up cutting more and more off until finally I accept defeat and wear it in a knot, like a golden cinnamon bun, for weeks to hide the evidence of my failure.

Another week or two won’t hurt.

I fasten the belt just above my waist and tie the coin purse to it. As I pull on my old leather boots, I notice that I can feel the cold stone floor on my toes. I’ve been saving up for a new pair, but money is tight right now.

The woodwork pieces that I sell in the market every week aren’t selling like they used to. The day that I can no longer sell those silly little figurines was bound to come sooner or later. There are fewer than a thousand people in Carcera, and each person can only buy so many pieces. I’ll have to get more creative if I want to keep turning a profit.

Fortunately, I still receive my father’s pension payments from Lord Myles. It’s only ten silvers per week, but those who struggle would appreciate even a quarter of that kindness. Many people, especially those born without such good graces, question the gesture’s fairness since most pensions end after a couple of years. At every turn of the sun, I hold my breath and pray that the funds don’t run dry. But the money keeps flowing. It must be an accounting error, but far be it from me to point that out. I’ll continue to hold my breath each month as I wait for the courier to arrive with my coins.

As I leave the cottage, an odd feeling creeps into my fingertips. It tingles and pulls, like a tether tugging me away – to where, I don’t know.

I study the garden intently, looking for signs of motion, but the remarkable stillness leads me to question my sanity. This morning must be making me paranoid. I realize that my fists are clenched into a tight ball once I feel the sharp pang of nails digging into my palms. I open my hands wide and force a deep inhale.

Coffee. I need my coffee.

* * *

The market’s cream-colored tarps hang overhead, drooping so low in some parts that I have to duck. Tables line up side by side in rectangular patterns. The vendors in the first section are quiet today, for the most part. Some are drunk and rumbling, slumped over in chairs. The few that I recognize cast side-eyed glances, the others ignore me completely. I don’t take offense, though.

When I move into the second section, which is much larger and better supported, a toothless man stops in front of me, pressing his clay pots into my face like the aggressive force might somehow convince me to cough over a few silvers.

It won’t.

“Sorry, sir,” I say as I push past him, reminding myself to keep my eyes on the floor. He mutters something indecipherable that must be an insult. When the market isn’t busy, like today, sellers get aggressive. When I sell my pieces here, I try to do the exact opposite – quietly allowing people to pass, knowing that the pieces sell themselves. Well, typically they do. My current downturn is just a fluke, a minor setback. Not at all indicative of my skills, surely.

This is my first time seeing this particular vendor, but it’s not the first time I’ve experienced such treatment. The vendors can be a wild bunch. I elbow my way past him and trudge forward. I move so quickly that I run directly into a man thin enough to see his collar bones protruding from beneath his tunic. He startles and then his cheeks flame. “Radya,” he says quietly.

Is that Marco? He was a couple of years ahead of me in school, but we shared the same teacher. He looks different – more sickly and frail. Almost unrecognizable.

Hoping that I’m mistaken, I ask, “Marco?”

He nods, folding his arms across his chest and staring at his dusty bare feet in the dirt. I never knew him to be bashful, though I of all people know how the wounds of time can scar a person.

“Is everything okay?” Judging by the looks of him, the answer is a definitive no.

“Yes.” When he looks up, his whole face sags and his bony shoulders slump. “No. The butcher fired me last year. Then last month, a pack of concos destroyed my garden. Now I have…” he chokes. “Nothing.”

Though it’s been years since we last spoke, his appearance cracks open something in my chest. Be it pity or outrage, I’m not sure. But I already watched one man suffer the consequences of starvation today. I refuse to stand by helplessly while another man falls victim to it, especially when I don’t deserve the life-giving pension awarded to me each month.

“Here,” I say as I reach into my coin purse and hand him ten coins, leaving only one for the coffee. It’s not much in the long run, but it’s a start. New boots can wait, his need for sustenance cannot. I can see it in his eyes, how long he’s waited.

It’s clear that his pride wants to deny the help but his grumbling stomach yelps its thanks.

“I’ll see you at Beorscia?” Ten coins plus the feast tomorrow will keep him alive for a little while longer. I’ll check in on him next month to be sure.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“Great!” I smile and turn away, waiting until I hear a coin land on the meat vendor’s counter before I start moving.

* * *

The coffee vendor’s stall, where coffee beans, mangoes, and papayas are placed neatly into woven baskets, looks the same as it always does when I arrive. Paul is hunched over the grinder, churning away.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing a grin so wide that my cheeks hurt.

He turns over his shoulder to look at me, still bent to a near ninety-degree angle. He waves an acknowledging hand and mumbles something under his breath before turning back to his station. Despite my best attempts at flattery and smiles, his cranky disposition never changes. Well, maybe not my best attempts, but I do make an effort to be cordial on most days.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, as they say.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” I try again, shoving down the thought that this morning has been anything but lovely.

“Yes, yes, sure. Give me a moment, will you?”

“Of course, take all the time you need.” My words come out with a little more sarcasm than intended, so I widen my smile even further to compensate. A gesture that he never turns around to see.

I wait while he fiddles with one of the crates, shaking it back and forth like he’s shaking out the dust from it. One after the other, he inspects and then shakes the boxes. It’s a gruelingly slow process that doesn’t seem to end. My patience starts to run thin, so I call out to him, “Just one bundle of coffee, please.”

The grouch’s bony hands finally reach for the coffee beans. He proceeds to measure each scoop meticulously, making sure that each one holds not even a single bean more than intended. One by one, the beans fall in a maddeningly slow process. Finally, once the bundle meets his measurement standards, his thin eyes meet mine as he extends the bundle toward me. I try to grab it, but he holds it tightly in place with his spindly hands. I tug it again but to no avail. For such a frail-looking man, he sure has good grip strength. The wrinkles above his brow crinkle with the widening of his eyes – now vacant and aghast.

“Paul?” With his arm still extended, his hands begin to tremble. Several seconds pass in an eerie silence, so I repeat, “Paul?”

His terror-stricken stare is fixed on something unseen behind me. I turn around, but there’s nothing unusual there, only the typical weary vendors and a couple of wandering patrons. Not a single soul is paying him any attention, and yet, you would think that he’d seen an entire row of archers aiming their bows directly at him.

I start to turn and walk away, coffee be damned, until he breaks the silence with a guttural gasp. Then his voice lowers to a rasp as he says, “The time for your homecoming nears. Your seat shall be returned to you. The nations shall bow to you. Return! Return!”

I blink rapidly as his eyes come back into focus and the terror fades away, returning him to his typical grouchy countenance. All vestiges of that ghostly demeanor disappear in an instant. “Are you going to take it or not?” He asks, as if he didn’t just ramble on about absurdities like a fortune teller from the depths of the crypt.

“Excuse me?” I snap, unsure of what words would even be appropriate for this situation. “What homecoming? What seat? Why on earth would nations bow to me? Does he have the gift of sight?” Or is he losing his mind to the gods?

He dismisses me with a puzzled shake of his head, as if he has any right to look confused after that nonsense. “I got you your damned coffee, now would you like to take it?”

“Where were you suggesting I return to?”

“Take it or leave it.” He drops the bundle on the table between us and turns to grab a melon from his cart, mumbling curses just loud enough for me to make out a few words. I take the bundle and drop my lone coin on the table.

I stumble out of the market with confusion burning a hole inside of me. It feels as if my nightmares overtook my waking life. What on earth is going on here?