I don't manage to sleep at all for the journey back to Kharbon and the keep. Not on purpose at least. More than once I find myself in the cold mud, not quite sure how I got there. But every time, I pick myself up and force my way onwards. I'm trying to go as the crow flies as much as possible, but once I find a road my trudging becomes much easier.

  Truthfully, I'm not even remotely sure how many days it takes. Between the poorly set broken arm, constant agony from the damage my essence did to me internally, and the stress of trying to get back to report this as quickly as possible I'm left an absolute mess. It's all I can do to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. I should stop and rest. I know it. But I can't stop. On the chance that that strange calamity survived, people like Garrick, Lan, and Kyla need to set out after it.

  I'm suffering, yes, and I will regret this punishment I'm giving myself, but the alternative is that thing going unchecked and wiping out another town, rendering another region unstable, or, Gods forbid, making it to a main city like Kharbon. That town, Meadowfields, had probably close to twenty-five hundred people in it. Not many were accomplished magi, but even so, the raw amount of knowledge and essence development in even a small town like that will have set the monster up to be a significant problem.

  Normally we try to prevent these events before they truly can gain momentum, but one fully succeeding and then getting away because of my failure to seal the deal and my hesitation?

  I'm just doing my best to not think about that. I need to focus. My wellbeing comes second. It's that simple.

  More time. Light to dark, dark to light. Day to night, night to day.

  Eventually, though, I make it within sight of the skyglide stop and see that I've gotten beyond lucky. A blessing from the Watcher herself. One of the floating transports is sitting on fragile-looking landing legs next to the little brick building. It must have just arrived!

  I pick up the pace, shouting at it to make sure it knows someone is coming — I would hate for it to decide it's waited long enough and zip away right as I arrive. Obediently, it lifts and begins to gently hover over in my direction before settling back onto its little legs to let me board.

  Once inside the climate-controlled little transport, I tell it my destination and an instruction for speed, "Vigil Keep. Emergency." The craft doesn't question anything — only waiting for me to present the inlaid crest on my palm to confirm my identity. Once it has, it just waits a few moments until I'm seated and no longer moving around before trilling a series of chimes to warn me of acceleration. A moment later, it sets off down the paved road towards the Kharbon at a clip far greater than their norm.

  I just collapse into the bench seat. Normally they would be the just on the comfortable side of mediocre, but today It's the most comfortable spot I've ever rested. So comfortable, in fact, that I it lets me acutely feel exactly where and how badly I'm messed up. Everything hurt at the the outset, but the intervening however many days of punishment have made it all far, far worse.

  I have about thirty minutes to get to my destination, even at this speed, so I spend some effort on cleaning up. I pull out some of my traveling supplies: a traveling soap bar, a scrubbing pad, and my medkit. First things, I use the enchanted soap to clean my exposed skin and visible wounds before carefully trying to do the same with less easy-to-reach things. The process is slow, but the grime being washed away is uplifting in a big way.

  When I'm finished, I pop a mirror out of my kit and take a closer look at myself. My white hair is knotted and matted beyond any easy salvaging — my braids that I use to keep my shoulder-length hair in check having long since only served to be the rooting point for knots now. I try and fail to run my good hand through it to untangle some but discover it's pretty futile immediately. After that, I inspect my scar-ridden face, finding a few new and significant ones on my right cheek and above my left eyebrow from where my muscles tore using my essence above and beyond the point of reason. They mar my pale skin but are mostly just joining all of the other treatment-resistant scars that my magic leaves me with anytime I have to rely on it. Finally, contrasting the rest of my face, my metallic-golden, horizontally slitted eyes. Like all of the demonkyn, my eyes have preciously little white in them, instead being dominated by the major color in my eye associated with my essence affinity. Most of my kyn have gemtone eyes in the spectra of the base essences — fire, water, air, earth, order, and chaos — but mine reflect my inheritance for the world to see.

  An inheritance that only ever hurts to see. A reminder of how I got it and who from.

  Moving lower, my clothes have long since cleaned and repaired themselves to some semblance of wearability with their baseline enchantments. I'm still otherwise coated in now long-dried blood. It's an awful feeling, so I set about the task of cleaning with as much gusto as I can manage in my current state. Gratefully, while some things require more forceful scrubbing, most of it comes off readily from the essence-infused soap.

  After a particularly bad twinge of pain, I look down at the broken arm and really take it in. Hanging and tied up in a makeshift splint, the skin around the break is angry. The cuts there and the muscle beneath the surface are mottled with angry blood red and the rotten green of the essence of decay and sickness. Venenum and Sanguis essence vying for dominance through the poor care it's received. My kit doesn't have anything to handle this kind of infection, though, so I'll just tough it out. I've come this far without it killing me. Another hour won't finish me off.

  Once the craft finishes its many switchbacks up the mountainside up to the keep, I'm feeling a bit better. If nothing else I don't look like I've gone a couple rounds with a meat grinder and should be able to get into the keep while avoiding dealing with most people. My second biggest concern after the monster.

  It pulls up into the 'stables' of the large, looming, black keep. Buildings now alternately devoted to maintaining the Vigil's beasts of burden, the menageries of our beast tamers and monster masters, and the skyglides. There's a few people standing around as my transport comes to a stop. ALl of them are wearing our order's standard armor in various fits and styles — an advanced enchanted armor known generally as "Essential Mail" or more simply "mail" to most.

  Each person stares at me, gawping as I hobble out of the skyglide. One in particular, a Vigil seer named Rae, reaches out to steady me. "Nyss? What happened?" The moment we make contact, I feel some magic pass between the two of us — something diagnostic, probably. So, I shrug out of their grasp and push on while muttering a quick apology and walking away towards the front of the keep to the Watch Commander's office. Rae says something to the others standing around while shouting after me, but I push it out of my mind. They've had a problem with me since we were kids and I don't feel like dealing with it right now.

  The watch commander is far easier to deal with — one of the more senior knights in the order who oversees all of the on-duty staff here for the week — takes my report quickly. I don't give them everything. Because of the nature of the anomaly, I want to put it into the Blackthorn's hands first and foremost and let them, the founders and leaders of the Vigil, make the decision on how to proceed.

  The commander urges me to seek medical attention, but after some explanation on my part, they give in and leave to find the on-duty Blackthorn — Serafina Blackthorn, our Archivist. He tells me to meet her at her office in about twenty minutes, so I split off. Picking my way through the keep to my personal room in amongst the other senior staff and specialists takes about five minutes of the allotted twenty.

  Along the way, I catch plenty of people staring — reminding me exactly why I was dreading coming back after such a long expedition. Eyes settling on my horns and tail as always. People giving derisive looks at my disheveled appearance. ALl of the normal treatment I've come to expect in the last few years.

  But…it's fine. This is why I practice for fighting alone. Whatever other people think of me doesn't matter. I'm taking up the mantle of one of the Slayers soon. After that, I can do what my mentor, Garrick, does. Staying anywhere but the keep, sticking on the road, and traveling to help people. I don't need this place to get out there and solve problems, kill monsters. It's all white noise here.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I just need to recover and finish the last bits of my training with Lan.

  I push the plans and thoughts out, returning to awareness as I make it to my room. The room is sparse. A sizable space with all of the accoutrements pressed up against the outer walls to give me plenty of space for private training in the center. All of the furniture is dark wood, consisting mostly of a bed, a desk, a couple dressers, and an overlarge cabinet with a glowing, essence-imbued lock on the front.

  Otherwise, the space is dim. I'm not oversensitive to light, but I prefer it at this level of light in case anyone ever comes calling and sees me some way other than totally covered by armor or clothes. Far harder to pick out my scars that way. For them and me.

  In short order I strip down from the damaged remnants of my armor, only just now realizing quite how bad off it all is. None of it will be salvageable. Maybe the enchanting materials could be recovered, but that would be about it. It'll get dropped in a sublimation furnace and be forgotten.

  I, on the other hand, will never leave this keep without a full panoply again. The idea of me being lightly armored and equipped for that training exercise ensured that I wasn't able to deal with that calamity. The fight that preceded it would have been trivial if I was properly equipped, so that won't be happening again.

  After some work, I gather my simple off-duty uniform, setting it to the side before fishing around in my dresser for the hat that goes with it. I find it after a bit of searching but find that with my horns now fully grown in and solidified, the hat doesn't even remotely fit anymore.

  I always felt it was tacky anyways. Who puts a feather in a duty cap as a standard feature? I'll take this small win. Instead, I pluck out an amethyst hairclip and secure it under my left horn with some effort. It depicts the Watcher's Eye, a symbol of faith for militant followers of the God of Guides and Guardians. It's a heavily stylized eye with three notches beneath and above it all situated over a single large tear dripping from the corner of the eye.

  It clips into place comfortably, sitting nicely to break up my skin and hair with some color, and I set about getting the rest of the way dressed.

  Now comfortably in a set of light utility clothes — simple black pants and a long sleeve shirt in the same general visual style as our armor that is fringed the purple and gold thread and runic channels that manage the temperature of the wearer and keeps the clothes clean and whole — I step out into the hall outside my room. I feel a bit better even though the process of getting into and out of my clothes was agonizingly painful. I still feel a bit lightheaded and disoriented and it doesn't seem to be getting any better, so I opt to make my way through the keep the simplest way possible.

  I set off, closing my eyes and counting my steps. I keep them measured and consistent while running my hand along the essence channels in the walls. I've done this often in recent years and can navigate most of the keep with my eyes closed now. It lets me move without seeing anyone, and my ability to sense essence is sharp enough that I'm not going to run into anyone. Fifty-four steps to the branch from my room. Then forty-five to the right to the medical wards and sixty-eight down the left to the barracks rooms.

  I would love to go straight to the wards, but I need to see this information passed along, so I decide to head down towards the barracks and cut through. Changing took too long and I'm running behind when I should be getting there. So I'll save a couple minutes and cut the corner. This time of day I shouldn't run into anyone in there anyways.

  "Hey! Nyss, wait up!" Out here, though, evidently, I am not going to be so lucky. I set my jaw, tensing hard enough to grind my teeth as I come to a stop, turning slowly.

  I see, paired to the concerned-sounding, sharp voice, a raven-haired lapin — rabbitfolk — woman who stands a full foot shorter than me bustling up to me. Her long, obsidian black hair is relatively straight, falling to frame a face etched with performative worry. Her features are gentle, kind and make me ache somewhere deep inside until I smother the feeling with a layer of duty.

  Her ruby-red, reinforced longcoat swishes to a stop as she starts to dig into a large, boxy case at her waist, starting to pull out tinctures before looking up at me incredulously with her emerald green eyes piercing through me while matching essence mist leaks from them. Doing a first-step diagnosis on my condition.

  May is a near-peerless medical magus for her age. A fact that saw her be adopted into the Vendala chartered family early on in our…relationship. Something that happened specifically because of her association with me. And conveniently, shortly after being taken into that family, she stopped finding much time for me. It painted a pretty clear picture of what that whole situation was. "What can I do for you, May?"

  "What do you mean, 'What can I do for you?' Did you hit your head or something? Rae came running to find me when they saw you stagger out of a skyglide looking like you'd been thrown from the Mother's Boughs and hit every branch on the way down." Her tone brooks no disagreement. The norm for her talking about anything health-related, and I almost let myself give in to it out of habit. "Why aren't you going to the wards? You look awful."

  The insult digs under my skin immediately so my voice comes out far sharper than I initially intend. "Because I have something important I need to do. Our expedition ran into a calamity after one of the monster masters lost control of their damned war ogre. I was able to bring it down, but I need to see the Blackthorns about five minutes ago." Without another word, I pivot and walk away. I catch a glimpse of May out of the corner of my eye as I go and see her staring at me looking wounded.

  But if she didn't want me to treat her that way, maybe she shouldn't insult me and keep acting like what we were is still what we are.

  The barracks is another thirty-two steps onwards, so I make them quickly and push the door open with a bit too much force. To prevent it slamming into someone's bed I have to lurch forward and grab the handle before closing it with more control. I take a moment before turning around, drawing in a stabilizing breath. The quick motion jostled my arm and brought fresh tears to my eyes until I can wipe them away and straighten up again.

  I feel it coming on. It's been on the fringes of my awareness since Meadowfields… and probably well beforehand as well. Running into May, walking into here, the wounds, the stress of needing to go talk to someone important. All of that and the maybe-calamity. The person I probably killed who may have just needed help.

  It all brings my anxiety to the forefront of my mind and wraps it around my throat. Constricting like a snake waiting for me to show weakness and stop fighting back. I try to take some breaths — I read something a little while ago about controlling these sorts of a anxiety attacks with controlled breathing — and turn to cross the barracks to the opposite door.

  I, continuing my trend of luck, am ripped from my attempt to focus by the last person I want to deal with right now.

  "Oho, the Little Slayer made it after all." Standing in my way directly in front of the door is Lars. He's one of the most experienced people in the Vigil here — a peer of Garrick and himself a pretty accomplished slayer. He's a beastmaster, a fact that, alongside everything else, sets me on edge. That and his using that stupid, derogatory nickname.

  The reason I got so terribly messed up before that calamity was one of his subordinates war ogres breaking free of its spirit bindings and deciding to make it my problem. I killed it, but only barely. And, of course, it had to be an ogre. They're a recurring piece of trauma in my life because the world has a twisted sense of humor sometimes.

  "Sure did, Lars." I respond, beginning to call and form Ignia essence into a simple imbuement on reflex. I keep my voice clipped and short. I'll humor May — we were very close once and despite what she did I don't hate her. Lars and his ilk could drop off the edge of the world and I couldn't care less. I'm tired of him needling me and if he does anything untoward I'm going to floor him.

  Making me look prescient, he starts. "When the rest of the expedition made it back without you, was real worried." His snide tone grates further, but it precedes him slapping me on the arm in some mocking attempt at camaraderie. My left arm. Right on the break.

  It sends a lance of pain through my brainstem and I react on without thinking — straight muscle memory. I grit my teeth and stamp a boot down on the arch of his foot. Something cracks. While he reels, I grab his collar and tug him forward into a headbutt — one led by my horns.

  The crack that comes from the impact sounds bone-shattering, but with both of our relative levels of physical and essence development it only sends him staggering backwards before falling when his ankle twists on some boots he steps on. He falls in a terrible clatter, but I just stare at him for a few seconds. Waiting for something relating to an apology.

  When he looks back up at me accusingly, I just huff, roll my eyes and walk away. The display saw a lot of people look up from what they were doing to stare between the two of us. A couple people reach out for me and say my name, but I push out into the hallway, clipping my arm on the door frame in my haste. A molten spike of pain drives into my mind, so I take a few steps and duck into an alcove in the brightly lit hallway with tears forming in my eyes as my arm grinds.

  I speak to myself softly under my breath. “Alright Garrick, I’ve watched you do this a few times, it can’t be that hard and it certainly will hurt less than it does right now. Head down, power through.” Grabbing just below the break on my arm. I take a sharp breath and tug down and away and wrench the disconnected bone into the ideal angle.

  It causes me absolutely blinding pain. I squeeze my eyes closed and hold my breath, biting down on my lip. My naturally-sharp teeth dig in and I taste a small bit of blood, but I try to compose myself with a couple staggering breaths.

  I feel it. Anxiety building up. I’ve just had so much happen. I’m more than a week beyond exhausted, everything hurts miserably, and I still have a sword hanging over my neck just by existing here. I just wish all of this could be easier.

  But it's fine. I'm used to it.