The large shape lumbered toward them across the uneven ground.

The people readied their weapons, prepared to take on whatever came their way.

“Steady!” The exhausted voice called weakly. “Steady…”

With great effort, Syrce broke through the invisible barrier and into the clearing.

Abandoning Flint and whatever sarcastic comment he was about to make about her unintended insult, Noble hurried to her friend.

“Syrce!”

The Saint looked at her with water dripping down her brow. “I…couldn’t leave them…behind.”

As she exited the mist, the object behind her came into the sunlight. It was one of the abandoned carts. Its hitch was missing and the front part broken from when the Pink One ran.

It was filled with the dead.

“I couldn’t let the monster have them…” Syrce’s voice was airy.

“You did well. Now come and rest.” Noble draped the other woman’s arm over her shoulder and escorted her away.

With a nod from their commander, soldiers took hold of the wagon and dragged it toward the others.

Finding a stool, Child of Promise made Syrce sit. A cup of water was brought by a servant, and Noble forced her friend to sip from it. A second glass was brought at Roan’s behest for Noble as well. She took it with a gracious smile, hoping it would dull some of the pain in her throat from both the hot and wet air.

“Therona! Find out who is missing. If anyone is unaccounted for, we must find them!” Syrce tried to stand and take charge, but Noble tugged on her sleeve.

“She can handle it. Regain your strength.”

The Saint sighed, sinking back onto the stool. “Thirty-one,” she muttered helplessly.

“What?” Child of Promise furrowed her brow.

“That is how many bodies I recovered. Not one of them had breath when I found them, or I would have brought them out immediately. How can this be? All of them have been with me for so long, and many of them were my elders.” Syrce sighed.

“I’m sorry.” Noble glanced at the wagon full of the dead. Already, they were being unloaded and identified.

It was a heavy loss after escaping from the Imperialists unscathed. But it could have been much worse.

If they hadn’t sensed the danger in time, they all could have perished.

Unfortunately, that was little comfort just now, so Noble stayed silent.

Syrce placed her head in her hands.

“It’s my fault.”

“You cannot blame yourself.” This was a game Noble was all too familiar with.

“If I hadn’t been distracted…if I had been more diligent…” the Saint berated herself.

“You had no way of knowing that there was something wrong with the mist. Taking credit for something you didn’t do will only bring more heartache to you and your people.”

A mighty wail came from one of the survivors. A man held one of the dead in his arms.

“That is his elder brother. I should comfort him.” Syrce tried to stand a second time.

‘She sits still even worse than I do…’ Noble shook her head at the Saint. “Let him mourn. There will be time for comfort after you rest.”

The group was counted and two more were missing than had been found. Despite Syrce’s protestations, she did not go to retrieve them. Noble assured her that they were gone.

“I will return and destroy you,” the Saint vowed to the swirling mist as it continued to fail to reach them.

It was time to move on.

As the caravan repacked the carts to make room for the fallen, Noble felt grief hit her.

And fear.

Not someone else’s, but her own. She had tried to be vigilant, but had not sensed any danger in the mist. Unlike most Monsters, it did not give off the hatred that Noble had come to recognize as a warning.

No, that wasn’t exactly true. Now that Noble was aware of its presence, she could feel the menacing being’s emotions. But they were so diluted by the mist that she had initially written them off as nothing.

She wouldn’t do that again.

That didn’t change what had happened. In her complacency, many had died. Just like in her first Nightmare, the numbers of the group were slowly dwindling. Noble sighed heavily.

Flint, who had healed himself enough to help her move things around in the carts, raised one eyebrow at her.

‘They are just fake people, Blondie. Don’t take it too hard.’

Noble was glad he hadn’t shared the thought aloud. Syrce would have certainly heard it. Undoubtedly, Flint would have become the thirty-fourth casualty that day.

There was an intention of comfort in his words, though. And that is why Noble did not immediately rebuke him for his callousness.

‘Their deaths may or may not be real, but my feelings are. I’ve learned that denying them only causes me problems later on. You are sad too. I can feel it.’

Flint piled a crate into the cart and pushed it to the back.

‘Of course I’m devastated. Cook died.’

Noble remembered how the lady had bossed him around. Had he found affection for her? Maybe he had inherited some feelings for her from the previous owner of the belt.

The surly Master clicked his tongue. ‘She made the best dried meat, and now I will never get her secret recipe.’

“Oh…” Noble grunted aloud.

That made more sense and was fully in line with his character. However, she suspected there was more to it. Somewhere deep down…very deep…Flint was soft.

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe what?’ Flint swung his legs off the cart to climb down. ‘Do you think someone else has the ingredients list?’

‘I wouldn’t ask just now.’ Noble shook her head. ‘Or maybe ever…’

For all his antics, the man had pulled her out of her emotional turmoil. Processing the feelings would be easier now that she was less invested in them.

Just before sunset, the group burned their dead. They would have to make better time in the morning, and they couldn’t risk burying the bodies or bringing them with them. The ceremony was short and had few words.

The people there watched the funeral somberly. It wasn’t the first time they had lost people. Most of their world had been wiped out by the Doom War and the Nightmare Gates. Like the Waking World, death was looming around every corner and sometimes in the very air they breathed.

Each day was its own battle.

“Their Nightmare is over,” Noble whispered under her breath as she watched the funeral pyre.

Flint simply nodded.

Folding his hands solemnly, Roan shifted his gaze to the horizon. “Something tells me that ours is just beginning.”

Having finished her speech, Syrce joined the three Masters. “So much needless loss. Will it ever end?”

“Only if we end it.” Noble was startled by her own conviction.

The pyre of dead before her reminded her of her helplessness in North America, in the Antarctic Campaign, and in the upcoming war between the clans. The scene terrified her, but it also made her angry.

It fueled her desire to be stronger–to defend those she loved. Her attribute, which was always working, subtly grew stronger. They were more protected for one simple reason: Child of Promise wanted them to live.

Syrce gave a sad smile. “You sound like Maelys. She says we must move forward and not look back. She says we must complete our mission no matter what. I miss her face, and Lyra’s too.”

Noble took the other woman’s hand and squeezed it gently. “You will see them soon.”

“Thank you,” the Saint lowered her chin. “You are like an anchor in the storm.”

Noble could not help but note the irony of those words. She, the floating woman who could never touch the ground, was a soul anchor for a surly Master and an emotional anchor for an eccentric Saint. There was no doubt that the Spell had a sense of humor.

But Noble didn’t think now was the time to point out such peculiarities.

Instead, she let her eyes swirl slightly, filled with the emotions of those around her.

“I am here,” Noble told Syrce. “For as long as I am here, you can rely on me.”

The Saint touched her pendant. “I know. Thank you.”

Two more days passed before they reached their destination.

The scene of the crux of the Nightmare.

As the mountain came into view, Noble finally recognized the landscape.

She had only seen the beautiful fortress city once before, but there was no doubt in her mind that this was the same hill on which Bastion stood.

“This is Mirage’s home?” Child of Promise asked Syrce as she turned the Pink Ones toward the monument.

“It is,” she answered with a shrug. “Is it not what you expected?”

Noble wasn’t sure how to answer. Roan’s assumption had been correct. Bastion and the Home of Imagination were one and the same.

There was just one problem.

That home…was in ruins.

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