“There’s no point in describing how I simply violently defended myself against anything and everything that came my way. I’ll tell you about how I got my name, though. That part might be fun.”

  Nadeden was first known as “The Scorched,” mainly because of her birth in the flaming pyre she was dragged from, but also because some who sought to strike fear into the heart of the enemy would say that she had died during her birth and now haunted the battlefield.

  That legend obviously faded as Nadeden aged, but she still found it oddly humorous, although she was much older when she first heard it, and the “Archer” part of her name had begun to play a much greater role in her legend.

  “They said my arrows burned like fire that pierced the cosmos. I was honestly very proud of that, since I was self-taught, and archery to me always seemed like one of the more difficult killing methods, but it certainly is an efficient one.”

  “What about your real name, though?”

  Nadeden was taken aback by Smith’s question, “Oh, that? Well, Eden is an ancient human word that means paradise, at least I think so. I heard a combat nurse say it when I was a child, so I guess I thought it was my name, but eventually I added the Nad part in front of it.”

  Smith narrowed their eyes in the darkness. “Why?”

  Nadeden laughed, “Because it sounds nice.”

  That was one of the few times Nadeden gave a full smile during her tale.

  The next was when she told Smith how she met Gelmidas, and the last was when she told him about Adamus.

  She spent quite a while talking about Adamus.

  About how worried she was when he was an infant and would have trouble falling asleep.

  About how she stressed over finding him the proper things to eat.

  About how she simply had no other option but to hire Helena to look after her home because she spent every waking moment looking after him.

  About how she always wished for Gelmidas to come over and see how big he was getting and how close he was to saying his first words.

  About how tightly she had to hold him to be sure he wasn’t injured when she fled from the central Division planet after Helena’s death.

  About his first steps, his first words, the first time he called her Mom, his first friend, his favorite food, his dreams, his nightmares, how he learned to read so quickly, how he had so much energy that he would spend days just running in the fields or going around the village trying to help out however he could, and how he learned the names of everyone in the village by doing that.

  Then Smith learned how he died.

  And it was a while before Nadeden spoke again.

  When she finally broke her silence, it was to tell Smith how the Rusting affected Terra-gilma.

  She told him how Dreadnoughts fell from space and bodies rained down with them and how billions had to evacuate their homes and start anew in this brutal, backwards state of reality. Hadel had discovered a way to protect a small assortment of metal from succumbing to the Rusting. He did it simply by listening to what little Nadeden could recall about the heads that she knew must have had something to do with all of this. The actual containers he made to protect those portions of metal were pale imitations of the genuine articles, and many of them didn’t even work at all, much to Nadeden’s frustration.

  She was eager to get off Terra-gilma. Eager to kill Gelmidas for what he had done.

  A group of travelers later arrived on Terra-gilma, proclaiming that the war had ended because of the Rusting, which they said was a deadly weapon unleashed by Emperor Gelmidas. That only confirmed her suspicions and strengthened her thirst for vengeance. She tossed aside her metal prosthetic, which had long since turned to dust, and carved herself a wooden leg, refining its design until she could run with it, walk with it, and kill with it.

  Nadeden spent those twelve years in exile relearning how to harness her killer’s instinct. The thought of killing Gelmidas was all that kept her heart beating through her long, restless nights, while barrels of ale were all that fueled Hadel’s.

  The last act of Nadeden’s tale concerned what Smith had already pieced together.

  Nadeden had caught wind of a rumor that a Division Bioship would be arriving to trade goods with Fiskesjef and hurried to confirm it.

  After beating down a few doors and persuading the right people to answer the right questions, she learned that the rumor was true.

  She then rushed to the top of a hill belonging to a village that had been among the first to fall to the Rusting and waited for the right time to strike.

  The tale definitively ended when Nadeden informed Smith that Orson had been on the ship and that she had killed him before rescuing Smith.

  That fact had little effect on Smith, who had already been emotionally exhausted enough for one night.

  Smith did have questions, though, mainly concerning “The heads. I didn’t want to interrupt you, but I’m curious about them. When I found the Mystic on that pirate ship, after they died, the captain struck their head on the floor and broke it. Somehow, that head opened a portal and healed me before bringing me to a white room and asking what I wanted to wish for.”

  The comment captures Nadeden’s interest. “Well, what did you wish for?”

  “I wished for the Mystic to come back to life.” Smith answers before adding that “It didn’t work.”

  The pair grows silent again before Nadeden asks her last question of the night. “Do you remember learning anything about the heads or how they worked from the other Machinists?”

  Smith shakes their head, saddened and frustrated by their lack of knowledge. “No. No one ever spoke about these heads. We have our abilities, of course, like summoning metal, building with it, and using portals to transport it, but nothing like that. If it is something from our ancient history, only the Mystics would know what the heads are and how they work.”

  “Maybe the heads are the actual heads of the Mystics?”

  Smith squints at Nadeden’s theory.

  She shrugs. “Guess you’ll just have to ask around when you get back to the Forge.”

  Smith’s head lowers at the mention of the Machinist home planet. “I guess so.” They mutter, tossing down a stone, bouncing it across the dirt as Nadeden lies down to sleep among the headstones. “Goodnight, Smith.” She yawns. “It was good talking to you.”

  Smith stands, their mind still racing from everything Nadeden told them, as they walk away to find a bench to pass out on.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “I’m willing to grant you amnesty, Nadeden, but the fact of the matter is that you and Mr. Smith are both fugitives, not to mention the conflicting feelings my villagers have about your sudden resurrection,” Triminiv informs both Nadeden and Smith after bringing both of them to her cottage the following morning.

  She explains the situation in her ghostly, stern tone of speech, “You can stay as long as you like, but you’ll both need to pitch in. I won’t have anyone in this village just lying around. I’m sure I’ll be able to find something for you and Mr. Smith to do to occupy your time.”

  Smith squirms at the words while Nadeden remains calm and collected. “Uh, Lady Triminiv…” Smith uncomfrotably stumbles out the words.

  “Yes, Mr. Smith? Do you have any objections?” The stark eyes of the elf narrow in on Smith.

  “Just one, if it’s not too much to ask, can you stop referring to me as Mister?”

  Triminiv smiles at the basic request. She expected to face some sort of resistance regarding her orders, but she now realizes that Smith is not the type for confrontation. That is one thing that firmly distinguishes him, or rather them, from Adamus.

  “Of course, that’s not a problem at all. Would you prefer to simply go by Smith?”

  “Yes.” Smith gulps in response, still anxious from having to bring up the subject in the first place. Yet they simply had to.

  These organics are so odd and forceful in how they immediately leap to conclusions regarding gender, and Smith is ultimately glad to have the matter sorted.

  Nadeden agrees to Triminiv’s deal before the pair exits her cottage. “I suppose I never even thought about it, but being called things like He, and Mister must be pretty weird for you, given that you spent most of your life-”

  “In a normal body.” Smith finishes Nadeden’s sentence as they look down at the pale hands that are not their own.

  Nadeden swings an arm around Smith’s shoulder, balancing on them as she limps forward with her walking stick. “I can’t pretend that I understand how you feel. I can only tell you that I can sometimes feel my missing leg and that I wish I could see with both my eyes. So just like how I made a wooden leg and wrapped Hadel’s bandana over my eye, I’ll do my best to make you comfortable.”

  Smith begins to walk with her, helping Nadeden move forward into the village. “Thank you, Nadeden, but you don’t have to do that, I’m not Adamus after all.”

  Nadeden chuckles in the same way that the mention of her son used to drive her to tears or anger. “You don’t have to be my son for me to be nice to you, Smith.”

  Then why were you so critical of me before? Smith wonders as the pair walk through the bustling activity of the village together.

  Everyone seems to be preparing for something. Children run back into their houses as their parents guide them. Some place out baskets and barrels and stand at attention.

  Before Nadeden or Smith can properly ask someone what is going on, Shanna pulls the duo aside, ordering in a hushed voice, “You two need to make yourselves scarce.”

  “Why?” Nadeden demands out of concern.

  “They weren’t supposed to be here until next week,” Triminiv says in the closest equivalent to a shout she can muster while still keeping her voice low and spectral.

  Nadeden’s eye widens as she hears the hooves of Grogrung galloping in the distance.

  The sound is getting closer.

  “Get us to that workshop, Smith.” Nadeden points to the closest structure.

  Mr. Cusack huffs at their entry, tearing himself from his workbench to slowly make his way outside. Nadeden keeps her gaze trained on him as he leaves.

  The Republic officers gallop into the village on the backs of their Grogrung to greet Trimininv. A rather familiar one whose eyes still reek of coffee is the first to leap from his saddle and speak. “Elf of Death! How are you? Everything’s well, I hope.”

  “It was until you showed up, Sinmartin,” Triminiv states.

  Smith raises their head just enough to watch from behind the workbench. Nadeden quickly shoves them back down to the floor.

  Sinmartin grins, playfully placing a hand on his chest, “Oh, Timiniv! Even in that dull voice of yours, you wound me.”

  “Would you like me to take a different tone then?” The Elf of Death’s ghastly voice hides a low roar beneath it that prepares to strike as Sinmartin raises his hand.

  “Your little parlor trick doesn’t scare me, Triminiv. Unless you would like to use it at the center of your little village that you’ve spent so long caring for?”

  Triminiv scowls at Sinmartin’s comment on her destructive power. She shifts back into her ghostly voice as she looks to Shanna, then to all the cabins and the people huddled inside of them, “Why are you here? Our tribute isn’t due until next week.”

  Sinmartin turns to his fellow officers, exchanging knowing looks with them before answering Triminiv with a question of his own. “You wouldn’t have happened to stumble into the Scorched Archer, have you?”

  “Scorched Archer? Why would she want to come here of all places? Don’t be ridiculous, Sinmartin.”

  The Republic officer rolls his eyes at Triminiv’s quick dismissal of the question. “Then explain why my men told me they chased her down to the cliff side, only for her to disappear after diving into the waterfall just three kiloclicks from here.”

  Sinmaritn shoves his face up to Triminiv’s, challenging her.

  “The waterfall? Wouldn’t a drop from that height kill someone?” Shanna steps forward, hoping to de-escalate the argument before it erupts into something more. Sinmartin and Trimininv both turn at the comment.

  The elf leaps at the newly presented opportunity. “She’s right, besides, she was by the lake with her son the other day, and neither of them saw a thing.”

  Sinmartin steps back toward his officers. One of them shouts, “Where are the fish then? If you were by the lake, you had to be fishing, right?”

  Shanna lowers her head as Sinmartin nods, “That’s a good point, Grayson.” He then claps his hands at a sudden idea, “Tell you what, give us your fish and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Fine.” Triminiv reluctantly exhales the cold breath like a phantom, motioning for one of the villagers to hand over a large barrel.

  “I thought that we ate that fish last night,” Shanna whispers into Trimininv’s curved ear.

  “We did. That barrel is our stock for the winter,” Triminiv whispers back, keeping her voice low as Sinmartin opens the barrel.

  A satisfied expression crosses his face as he shuts the wooden lid. “Very good, so good in fact that we’ll go ahead and take our entire tribute early.”

  “Wait!” Mr. Cusack calls out with a cough. “If we were to tell you where the Scorched Archer is, you wouldn’t need us to pay tribute, right?”

  “I suppose.” Sinmartin grins at the old man.

  Triminiv flexes her hands, pressing them on her mouth as if she were wiping moisture from her lips before harshly muttering in a fearful tone that is anything but ghastly, “Lie.”

  “She’s retreated into the city!” The repairman blurts out, unnaturally and hastily explaining that “I spotted her fall into the lake, but then she got up and ran back toward the city.”

  Sinmartin strokes his chin as Mr. Cusack clasps his mouth, and Triminiv gasps.

  “Interesting.” Sinmartin states, leaping onto his saddle, “Thank you, Mr. Cusack. You’ve been most helpful. My men and I trust your good word. I suppose we’ll only take half of your food for tribute.”

  The Officers trot forward, snatching several boxes and barrels, placing them on the backs of their Grogrung. Triminiv does nothing to stop the troop as they speed off into the hills.

  “What was that!” Nadeden yells, dragging herself out from behind the workbench. “Why do you need to pay tribute to a capitalist government?”

  “They’re a mixed market.” Nadeden silences Shanna with a finger and a stern look as Triminiv speaks, “The Republic owns this planet now, Nadeden. I may be strong, but I’m not as stupid as you to take on a whole government. They know who I am, they know who Shanna is, and as you just saw, they know who you are, so they do their best to make sure that we don’t disturb the peace.”

  “Peace?” The group all turn to Smith. “This isn’t peace. You’re prisoners.”

  Nodding in surprise, Nadeden turns back to Triminiv, “I agree with Smith, this is nonsense.”

  “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” Triminiv snarls, the ghastly voice nearly disappearing. Nearly.

  “We will,” Nadeden promises, limping back to Smith, who helps her steady herself.

  How could I ever think that this place was like the Forge? Smith wonders before choosing to speak their mind rather than stay quiet, “Humans always just take whatever they want, don’t they?”

  “Well,” Nadeden pauses in shock at Smith’s newly adopted defiance, “Some of them. Especially ones who think a badge or a crown makes them a god. You’d think that with how infamous Triminiv is, that those officers would at least be afraid of her, but they know how much she cares about this place, so they have her under their thumbs.”

  “It isn’t right.” Smith sighs. “I’m sick of people pushing me down and having to hide because of it. If we keep running into trouble, I don’t want to have to hurt anyone, but I don’t want to be a coward either.”

  “What are you saying?” Nadeden asks.

  Smith clutches their hands into fists.

  The reaction sends fear bursting through their mind: “I’m saying that this universe isn’t going to change, but I have to.”