Dear readers, tonight we listen in on an in-story episode, that still didn’t make it to the final publication. It is a form of interrogation, from a novel about sacrifice, ruin, and philosophy made manifest.

Woman: What. How. Ow… my head. Are those hooves I hear? Daisy? Bolt, girl! Gallop to Kroll, Mel, Voss! Get ‘em to—

Voice: Can you understand my words, human?

Woman: You don’t sound like Daisy… godcrap!

Voice: The blindfold remains. I will ask you things. You will answer. Who—

Woman: May as well start boiling water and gathering potatoes! My lips are sealed, Leath!

Voice: Potatoes? Another cursed weapon? My kind are no strangers to pain, receiving or inflicting. Your healing works against you; even the strong-willed have limits. There is no need for this. What is your name?

Woman: Tarra. Or maybe I’m lying; I’m not betraying my friends—so start smashing!

Voice: Your friends have stopped searching. Resumed their raids. Their third has left… little. As for lying, do not mistake questions for ignorance. I am Skar.

Tarra: There were rumours some could speak, but I didn’t… Where’s Kaatesh?

Skar: Kaatesh? Ah, a name. You were… the only one taken. Tell me of your tribe. How many of you remain? Your command structure makes no sense.

Tarra: Tribe? Oh, the others. Hordes! Zounds! We’re legion! If you’re so curious, untie me and I’ll go get them!

Skar: Indeed? Quite the number to fit into a few settlements and a single stronghold. I offer you a bargain, human: answers for freedom. Consider your position. Before my patience ends.

Tarra: My eyes may be brown and yet to see two centuries, but I’m not stupid! Ironwall won’t fall because of me!

Skar: This exchange displeases me as well, in spite of its necessity. We are the least of your worries. If you truly wish to protect your own, cooperation is your best path forward. Most of your secrets may remain yours.

Tarra: Least of my worries? How’s that?

Skar: All in due time. Ironwall. Is that the name of that abomination?

Tarra: You stinking goat! Take that back! If my hands were free, I’d slap you! Ironwall’s home. It’s where I was born and earned my name after a century’s basic, and I’ll not have your savage tongue tarnish a single rusted merlon!

Skar: Earned your name? Strange thing to require earning. What else would you call that prison? The three cliffs choking it were not enough, so you built another of your own. Can you even see the moons at nightfall? I would grow mad without stretching my hooves in the plains, hunting across ravines and tundras. A different sky above me every season. Even the Wastes are better. Or… perhaps not.

Tarra: Maybe we’d be stretching more if you weren’t killing us every chance you got! As a matter of fact, we’ve been doing just that!

Skar: You speak of casualties? How many of us have had to throw away… Never mind. That trail serves neither of our purpose.

Tarra: Don’t make it sound like we’re living in a cave. I have many fond memories there. Sowing and harvesting on the outskirts. Making linen strong enough for brigandines. Forging mail and plate—if only I could get those joints the way Voss does it. Maybe in a millennia or two; most grays still can’t. Then there’s currency fletching, bow training, formation drills with Saa and Kroll. Even guard duty. Sil’s not my favorite—could break you with her pinky, and you’re probably twice her size. Mel is, though.

Skar: Who?

Tarra: Melaan. Made my armor. Don’t you have gifts?

Skar: Objects? Some. Tarps, hides, furs. Wood for hafts and bone for heads and needles. But our greatest gifts are one another. The stories we utter at campfires, songs we sing. The craft we share and knowledge we uncover.

Tarra: Stories? God’s knuckles, you’d love Voss. I mean, assuming he wasn’t trying to torture you, which he would—and then he’d make a painting out of it. For music, it’s Saa you want. Kroll’s into sculpting, though he always breaks them as soon as he finishes. Never lets me peek.

Skar: And you?

Tarra: Oh, I’m still learning. Me and Sidd, a few others. Mel and Sil are… already grays. The elders are up to something with them…

Skar: And who forges your weapons?

Tarra: Spears, long-blades, bows? Everyone knows—

Skar: Scythes.

Tarra: So much for no secrets. Can’t use them.

Skar: You seem certain. We may have uncovered our own means to power them.

Tarra: Don’t think so. God’s flaking kneecaps weren’t just used to make them; that ritual made sure you’d never be able to turn them around.

Skar: You would say that.

Tarra: It’s been over three millennia. Did you ever get close? Even a hum?

Skar: We got them to wail.

Tarra: What? How? Then… Oh. Nearly had me.

Skar: Worth a try. Huma… Tarra. Do you believe there can ever be peace between us?

Tarra: I don’t know. I’d like that. Never was much for fighting.

Skar: I, too, have grown weary. The others?

Tarra: That’s… you’d have to ask them. Melaan might. Maybe not out loud.

Skar: The second raid… before we took you. I arrived too late. My granddaughter, Surak, is but a child, all I have left of her mother. Surak fled, yet one of yours was giving chase. He could have caught up, but slowed his pace. A blue eyed one. Perhaps leading, but I cannot be certain. I may have met him once.

Tarra: That’s… sounds like Mel. But if you’d met, don’t think you’d still be here. And you’re wrong. Gray.

Skar: I am not.

Tarra: There aren’t any blues left.

Skar: I will give more thought to this. Your crystals are draining. Your… hums with them. Do you have young of your own?

Skar: Human?

Tarra: No.

Skar: I see. Let us take a break. I shall return later. In the meantime—

Tarra: Oh. I think I liked you better with the blindfold.

Dragos Gaszpar writes dark, character-driven fantasy about loss, memory, and the quiet weight of long consequences. He believes magic should cost something, characters should show who they are, and stories should leave a scar. The Last Ritual is his debut novel. When not writing, he can usually be found studying myth, trying to understand the contradictions of human behavior, or rewriting the same sentence for the tenth time.

You can find Tarra and Skar on the pages of The Last Ritual.

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