Sagarius
The crackling of fire drew Sagarius from her sleep. She opened her eyes to a dim cave washed in restless orange light. She did not know where she was. Something coarse and heavy covered her body, while the smell of smoke, damp earth, and wet cloth hung in the air.
Gradually, the memories returned.
She remembered the snow, the bitter wind, and the endless sway of the horse beneath her. She must have fallen asleep while riding, overcome either by the cold or by exhaustion.
Sagarius drew a long breath and felt warmth fill her chest. The cave was not nearly as cold as she had expected. The campfire near her must have been burning for some time, warming the enclosed air and driving the worst of the chill from the stone.
With the canvas blanket rustling around her, she forced herself upright and looked across the dimly lit cave. The first thing she noticed was the horse, now resting quietly on the cave floor. Near it was a shallow hollow filled with melted snow, from which it had apparently been drinking, along with a scattering of carrot tops left from its feed. Beyond the horse, she saw the darkness outside the cave entrance.
It was clear that night had fallen, and windblown snow had gathered around the mouth of the cave, nearly sealing it from the outside world.
Only then did she notice the figure seated against the stone wall, well away from the fire.
At first, it seemed reckless. He wore only his clothes beneath a battered brigandine, with no fur to protect him from the cold, while his wet cloak hung near the fire. Then she realized that he had deliberately chosen a shadowed place near the entrance, leaving the warmth of the campfire to her.
Before she knew it, her lips curved into a thin smile. She had been too harsh toward him. As it turned out, he had been nothing but helpful and dependable.
She had even spoken harshly to him, and now she regretted it.
I shall apologize.
The fire crackled weakly among the damp branches. From the blackened wood and scattered shavings, it was clear that getting it started had been a struggle. However, several branches left near the heat had since dried. Still clutching the canvas around herself like a blanket, she rose, took a few of them, and carefully fed them into the fire.
The flames crackled brighter, eagerly catching on the dry wood.
“You’re awake?” he asked softly from the shadows, his eyes still fixed on the cave entrance.
She turned toward him and bowed her head. “Gratitude for helping me.”
He glanced at her and gave a small nod. Rather than acknowledge her thanks, however, he said, “It has been a long time since I last spoke with anyone. I may have forgotten some words and manners. I apologize if I offend you.”
“Not at all,” she replied, settling near the fire and savoring its warmth.
Nearby, the sound of their voices made the horse flick its tail and let out a soft snort before settling down again.
Once the horse had grown still again, he said, “You should get more rest.”
“You’re cold like that,” she pointed out. “I can take a turn keeping watch.”
“It’s all right.”
“I’m not a child,” she said matter-of-factly.
That made him turn toward her. “My apologies. You look very young. May I ask...?”
Sagarius understood what he meant. “I’m a few centuries old.”
His eyes widened with fascination. “That’s remarkable. I feel fortunate to have met an elf.”
“The feeling is mutual. How about you?” she felt compelled to ask.
“I... unfortunately, I can’t remember,” he said, regret weighing on his voice.
She furrowed her brow, sensing that there was a deeper problem. “What’s the matter?”
“My memories are a mess,” he began. “I remember being a simple farmer. But I was also a clerk. Then a knight. And even a lordly man.”
Her frown deepened. Even she had never heard of such a thing. “A collection of lives...?”
He snorted. “Probably just a broken head.”
Unwilling to leave her savior cold and untreated, Sagarius took a bolder approach. She rose and went to him, saying, “Let me heal you while you tell me your stories.”
The man seemed hesitant.
“You said it was all right for me to use healing magic, yes?” she asked as she sat beside him.
“Oh, yes. Healing magic leaves no trace to the wind, unlike an ethereal shield,” he replied as Sagarius examined his broken arm.
“You seem knowledgeable about magic for someone who cannot use it.” Sagarius placed one hand above the break and allowed a faint current of healing magic to flow through his arm.
The man felt warmth spreading beneath his skin. “Someone close to me was a mage, or so I believe. As I said, my memories are jumbled.”
“Mm...” Sagarius mumbled as she carefully ran her fingers along his arm, feeling through the swollen flesh for the broken ends of the bone.
“Let me know before you set it," he said.
“You’re familiar with bone treatment?” she asked.
“Somewhat.”
“You’re in good hands,” Sagarius assured him. She channeled strengthening magic through her own arms and tightened her grip around his injured limb. “How about now?”
The man gritted his teeth.
Sagarius carefully pulled the broken bone back into place. A wet crunch echoed through the cavern, and the man let out a low groan.
“I need to make a splint,” she said as she gently lowered his broken arm into his lap. Then she set to work, selecting several straight branches from the pile.
She was about to tear a strip from the canvas for a bandage when he stopped her. “I think you may find something useful in the other saddlebag.”
“Are there bandages inside?”
“It depends,” he said. “If your subconscious believes there is a good chance of finding medicine there, then you may find it.”
She turned toward him, saying, “The laws of this place.”
His only response was a subtle nod.
Sagarius approached the horse from the front so as not to startle it, then reached for the unopened saddlebag. Inside, she found medicine, clean bandages, and even a small store of travel provisions, including dried meat wrapped in waxed cloth, a wedge of hard cheese, a small bag of flour, and several packets of oatcakes.
As Sagarius brought the contents over to him, he was quick to comment, “That is good. The saddlebag I opened held only rope, wooden cups, a fire-starting kit, hard biscuits, and carrots.”
“I suppose I’m more optimistic,” Sagarius said with a touch of pride.
He chuckled, catching the subtle note in her voice. He was more perceptive than most.
Carefully, she fashioned a splint from the straight branches and bound it around his arm, keeping the broken limb steady. Afterward, they shared the oatcakes, which were dry and crunchy but filling.
Noticing that his gaze remained fixed on the entrance, Sagarius asked, “What are you afraid of?”
“In weather like this? Wraiths and liches,” he answered. There was no jest in his voice.
The answer unsettled Sagarius. “You truly think they might come?”
“They always did before,” he said. “But as I told you, this is not my world. I think that as long as I remain with you, I am safe from them.”
Sagarius let out a quiet sigh of relief. A fell beast was already trouble enough. She did not even want to think about the undead, especially when she had never encountered one herself. Worse, she did not currently have access to even Empyrean Fire.
Though she could draw power from several sources at once, nearly all of it was needed to continue healing her injuries, strengthen her recovering body, and mend the man’s arm. Her dwarven weapon also had only two charges remaining. Replenishing them with her magic alone would take a considerable amount of time. Dwarven artifacts, as always, were temperamental.
“Well, even if they came, they would not bring their undead with them,” he added. “Walking corpses would simply freeze in weather like this.”
“That is one mercy the cold affords us,” Sagarius replied calmly.
She placed a hand over his broken arm and began channeling healing magic into it. “It will take several hours,” she said, “but by then, the bone should be firm enough for you to fight.”
“You’re a real lifesaver.”
Sagarius snorted softly. “Last I recall, you were the one who saved me.”
“Then consider your debt repaid.”
She was pleased to hear it, though she did not show it. “I still feel indebted. You suffered this wound while saving me. It is only fair that I heal you.”
The man chose not to argue.
“Would you mind if I probed you?” she suddenly asked, unable to restrain the curiosity stirred by his black hair, the near absence of magic within him, and his unexplained presence in her Corridor of Mind.
“What?” He stared at her as though he had misheard.
“With magic,” she explained. “You will not feel a thing.”
Still seated with his back against the stone wall, he replied, “I suppose, if it is not dangerous. Go ahead.”
Sagarius closed her eyes. Magical probing took a long time, but they had little else to do. Outside, the wind continued to howl, driving an ever-thickening layer of snow against the cave entrance. Within, there was only the crackling of the fire and the horse’s occasional snort.
The man remained still, quietly watching the entrance.
Physical barrier?
Finally, a breakthrough. Sagarius opened her eyes as she saw through him, and what she found fascinated her.
“You’re starved of magic,” she exclaimed, prompting him to turn toward her.
Stroking the coarse hair along his chin, he murmured, “That would probably explain a few things.”
“You’re armored,” she said, still gathering her thoughts.
He furrowed his brow. “I’m wearing a brigandine, yes.”
“No, I mean your body and limbs,” she explained. “They are protected so thoroughly that even I can barely peer into the magic within you. More importantly, you are severely deprived of magic.”
His eyes widened. “I have magic?”
“Every living thing possesses some measure of it, though one still needs a source to become a mage. But that is beside the point. I’m telling you that you have a condition.”
“A sickness?”
“Yes. But as long as you have not been corrupted, I should be able to heal you.”
“Well, gratitude, then. But don’t force yourself,” he quickly added, sounding uncertain.
“I’m not. Your body can absorb only a trickle at a time, so let me share some of my magic with you.” Sagarius spoke with quiet insistence, determined to repay the debt she owed him for saving her.
Sitting a little straighter, the man asked, “All right, then. Do I need to do anything?”
“No. Just sit as you were. Then I’ll begin channeling—”
Her eyes widened. The words died in her throat, and her body suddenly listed to one side.
“Oi!” Sensing the change, his free arm shot out and caught her by the shoulder before she collapsed to the ground. “What happened? Elf,” he called.
But there was no response. She had gone completely limp.
“Gods damn it. I finally met an elf, nearly froze to death, and now this happens.” He tightened his hold on her. “Oi, elf. Stay with me.” His voice had begun to ramble with alarm. “Ah, this better not be serious.”
Holding her as securely as he could with only one good arm, he lowered her carefully onto the canvas near the fire. Then he knelt beside her and watched for the rise and fall of her chest, doing what little he could to make certain she was still breathing and unharmed.
...
The crackling of the fire slowly drew Sagarius from her sleep. Something did not feel right. She felt utterly drained. She opened her eyes, only to wince as pain throbbed through her head. “Ouch...”
She quickly raised a hand to massage her temple as she sat up.
“You’re awake.” A man’s voice carried through the cave.
“I’ve heard that before,” she muttered, still light-headed and dizzy. “Several times, even. By my father’s name, what is wrong with me? Why have I fallen asleep again?”
“You were forcing yourself to heal me. That should wait. It would be better for you to recover first,” he explained gently as he came over and sat beside her.
Fragments of memory returned to her. Calmer now, she muttered, “I suppose I overexerted myself.”
“Yes. I wasn’t the only one injured. When I found you, you were buried beneath a tangle of fallen trees. At first, I thought you had hidden there on purpose. Even the beast had failed to find you.”
“Those trees were enormous,” she recalled while staring at the cave wall.
“Thank the Ancients you’re slender. The branches kept the trunks from crushing you.”
“It would be embarrassing," she muttered. "I would be the only elf to die from being struck by falling trees.”
He nearly snorted, but managed to restrain himself. “Considering the fell beast, I doubt anyone would describe it that way.”
She sighed deeply, then asked, “So what now? Just rest?”
“I have warm water, and we have...” He rose to bring her the food she had found in the saddlebag.
Sagarius took another oatcake, this time with a slice of cheese. They were not the best match, but together they were filling. She followed them with warm water from a wooden cup and felt some strength return as the heat settled into her stomach.
Watching her drink, he muttered, “I wish we had some wine.”
“Neither of us is that optimistic,” she quipped.
He chuckled. “I’m glad to see you awake again. I was deathly worried.”
Only then did she fully remember what had happened. “Let me examine you again—”
He gave her a faint smile but shook his head. “I know resting is boring, but you’re not strong enough yet.”
She let out a long, weary sigh but did not argue.
Time passed quietly. Through the cave entrance, now almost buried beneath the snow, she saw the darkness outside begin to pale as dawn arrived. The light gradually strengthened toward noon. Inside, Sagarius watched the man mix flour and water into dough before baking flatbread over the fire. He handled the work with practiced ease, perhaps from younger years spent as a soldier.
With both waterskins filled from melted snow, he used his helmet to simmer small pieces of dried meat, and bits of dough in water, making a thick, simple stew.
It was rather bland, but as they sat together in the shelter of the cave, Sagaria found it strangely satisfying.
He, too, seemed to enjoy the meal.
“You haven’t told me your name,” Sagaria said. “Or can you not remember that either?”
“No, I remember my name,” he replied. “Someone kept calling me by it, as if they didn’t want me to forget.” He turned toward her. “You can call me Lans.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Sagaria.”
“Saga-ria,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue.
“It comes from an old tongue,” she explained.
Lans nodded.
“Yours sounds foreign too. Where are you from?”
He shrugged. “I see flashes. Arvena. Midlandia. Lowlandia. It feels as though I’ve been everywhere.”
“I see...” she murmured, recalling what he had told her about his condition.
She watched as he fed more branches into the fire. The pile beside it had grown noticeably smaller.
“Have you tried to go back? To wake up?” she asked.
“I’ve tried many times,” he said with a humorless chuckle. “I’ve been here so long that I stopped counting.”
That alerted her. “How long?”
Before answering, he turned toward the cave entrance once more. “Now that winter has come again, this is my fourth.”
Sagarius felt a pang of sympathy for him. Deep down, however, concern began to take root. What if the same thing happened to her? “I’ve never heard of anyone becoming trapped inside their own Corridor of Mind.”
“But what exactly is the Corridor of Mind?” he asked, gaze sharpening.
“I only know the theories. It is somewhere within the mind, a place or state of consciousness deeper than a dream.”
Lans crossed his arms. “If someone can enter it, then there should be a way to leave.”
“No one can enter it deliberately. At least, not ordinary mages. Perhaps someone like a dream walker could, but I have never met one. It's only conjecture.”
His brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
“I came here to face my fear, the fell beast, a manticore. I was trying to relive the battle in my mind, but somehow I ended up here. My consciousness must have slipped deeper than I intended...”
Lans said nothing, seemingly deep in thought.
She looked at him. “What about you? Why are you here?”
Shifting slightly where he sat, Lans began to explain. He told her that he had first awakened on a beach, likely marooned. When he ventured inland, all he found were undead, liches, and wraiths. Strangely, although they overwhelmed him time and again, he never died for long. Whenever he fell in battle, he would awaken on that same beach once more.
Sagarius recalled the salty scent still clinging to his clothes.
“Not always on the beach,” he added. “Sometimes I awaken in a clearing within an ancient forest. Other times, among ruins.”
“Must be exhausting..."
“Enough to drive me mad,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Worse, I can’t make anything last. I once built a hut, but after they found and killed me, I woke to find it gone. There wasn’t a trace of it left. It was as though everything had been reset.”
“Re-set?” she repeated, testing the unfamiliar word. From the way he used it, she assumed it meant starting everything anew.
Lans only nodded. He glanced toward the entrance and rose. “I should go out while the sun is still strong. We’ll need more branches before nightfall.”
Before leaving, he met her gaze and asked, “You said I was armored. Do you think the fell beast will have trouble finding me?”
“Oh.” She recalled their earlier conversation. “A barrier,” she began. “Skilled mages protect themselves from detection by other mages by concealing their magic. Some wear enchanted clothing, while others use dwarven artifacts that shield them from unwanted eyes. There are also methods of conditioning the body against magical probing, though such training must usually begin at an early age. Yours seems closer to the last.”
He looked down at his palm. “Is that even possible?”
“The barrier feels as though it is part of your skin,” she confirmed, then added, “If what you said about the manticore sensing magic is true, then you should be safe. No one can detect yours.”
As Lans tried to make sense of this new realization, Sagarius continued, “No wonder you managed to save me and escape the fell beast. It could not sense your presence.”
Lans was visibly relieved that he no longer needed to fear being sensed by the fell beast.
“You’re not an ordinary human, are you?” Her expression grew serious. “What are you, Lans? I’ve never known anyone like you.”
He smiled, though there was a trace of regret in it. “I’m not from this world. Someone once told me that I remain trapped here because the Ancients will not allow me to join their Eternal Hunt.”
She held her breath. “You mean... you’re dead?”
“Hard to tell,” he said as though it were nothing. Then, after a moment’s thought, he added, “Apart from the undead, I’ve also seen ghosts. I think I can even speak with them.”
At that, Sagarius felt uneasy.
Unaware of her concern, Lans left the cave, clearing away some of the snow as he passed through the entrance.
The horse was about to follow him, but he motioned for it to remain. “If I find any grass, I’ll bring you outside. For now, stay here.”
The horse snorted, then turned toward Sagarius.
She tilted her head slightly. Somehow, the animal seemed familiar.
“One of Sir Munius’?” she tried to remember. “It can’t be. That one is already dead.”
Then she recalled what Lans had said about ghosts. Her eyes slowly widened as she studied the horse, and a shudder ran through her.
"Have I gone mad?” Sagarius whispered to herself as she pulled the canvas tighter around her.
***
Sagarius
Before sunset, just as Sagarius was beginning to worry, Lans finally returned with the horse. He had come back earlier to tell her that he had found an open patch beside a stream where the grass had not yet frozen, then left again to bring the horse there.
With some hesitation, the horse entered the cave and soon settled down on the stone floor, forced to keep its head low beneath the shallow ceiling.
Lans had brought back a large load of branches, carrying some on his back while the rest were tied to the horse. They were all wet, but given enough time near the fire, they would dry well enough to burn.
As he brushed the snow from his clothes, Sagarius pushed several boulders across the entrance, sealing most of it while leaving a narrow gap for air.
“Where did you get those?” Lans asked, surprised.
“Well, I haven’t been idle,” she replied. “So, how was the journey? Did you spot anything?”
“Nothing, which is good. Usually, I have things chasing me, so seeing none of them is a relief.”
Sagarius felt some of the tension leave her.
With this many branches to burn, they could endure the cold for several days. Food was the greater concern, though the provisions they had found should last another four or five days.
Yet she noticed the worry on his face. “Why that look?”
“The weather,” he said. “It doesn’t look good. We’ll likely have a blizzard tonight.”
Without further explanation, Sagarius understood what that meant. They could be trapped in the cave for several days.
“It can’t be helped,” she said with a shrug, plainly in better spirits.
Unlike most elves, she did not mind being confined underground. It was little different from living in her subterranean palace, only far more modest and bare.
...
The next full day passed in near idleness while the blizzard raged outside. The horse grew weaker and increasingly restless, whether from hunger or some other ailment, and Lans did his best to comfort the animal. The night before, they had even discussed whether they should put it down if its condition worsened rather than let it suffer.
For now, however, the horse had shown no grave signs of illness, and neither of them was willing to make such a decision too soon.
With no sign of danger outside, Sagarius resumed healing Lans, though far more carefully than before. She dared not reach directly into the strange emptiness within him, which seemed to drain her whenever she tried to share her magic.
After hours of treatment, she began to understand that his deprivation was unlike anything she had encountered. If dwarven artifacts were fussy eaters, difficult to satisfy and particular about what they accepted, then the emptiness inside Lans was the complete opposite.
It drank in magic like a man dying of thirst.
However, now that she understood it better, she was more prepared. After they finished their evening meal, while the blizzard continued to heap snow against the cave entrance, she began channeling her magic into him once more. This time, she drew upon every source available to her.
More than the desire to heal him, curiosity drove her onward. Despite the limitations of the Corridor of Mind, she needed to understand what he was. The unknown excited her more than she was willing to admit.
Sagarius channeled her magic into him for half an hour before the effort became too exhausting.
“You’re doing too much. You should stop.” As always, he was more concerned for her than for his own recovery.
She quietly withdrew her magic, and they prepared to sleep. Lans rose and, as usual, chose a place near the entrance.
“There are boulders blocking it, you know,” she said.
“Oh, yes.” He shifted awkwardly, then hurriedly added, “Well, it cannot hurt to listen for movement outside.”
That made her suspicious. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to sleep. I hardly ever see you resting.”
“Sleeping is fine,” Lans explained as he settled into the shadows beyond the reach of the firelight. “Losing consciousness is the real danger. Whenever I pass out, I wake on the beach again.”
“I see,” she said, uncertain what else to say.
Night gave way to morning, but the blizzard, though it had weakened for several hours that night, gathered strength again before dawn.
The monotony continued. Lans stroked and massaged the horse, which had grown weaker after exhausting the last of its feed. It now survived on horse bread that Sagarius had baked from the rye flour in Lans' bag. They both knew the unfamiliar food might upset its stomach badly enough to kill it, but they had no other choice.
Since they were neither traveling nor exerting themselves much, the two agreed to ration the remaining provisions.
To pass the time, they talked about their lives. Sagarius was too guarded to reveal much about herself, so Lans did most of the talking, sharing fragments of an incomplete life that were nevertheless enjoyable to hear. He spoke of being a farmer, then a teacher, then a clerk, followed by a vast gap before he suddenly found himself riding horses and learning to fight in armor.
What fascinated her most was the way he recounted each memory as though he had truly lived it. The more she listened, the more she began to believe that the life he described truly belonged to him.
Perhaps they were not fragments of different lives, as Lans believed, but pieces of a single life.
“You must have led a very interesting life,” Sagarius commented as Lans finished an animated account of a war south of Midlandia.
“It seems so,” he replied after taking a drink of warm water, freshly boiled from melted snow. “I remember feeling happy and fulfilled, though the war also left me with many bitter memories.”
Not dwelling on it, she watched him draw shapes upon the cave floor with a stick as he launched into another spirited account of a battle.
“So where did this battle take place?” Sagarius asked.
He stopped and stroked his chin. “Remembering names is always difficult. It was something like... Canada,” he said, then quickly corrected himself. “No, not Canada. Kanadia? No, that isn’t it either. What was it? Lima? No, that’s in Peru.”
Unfortunately, Lans could not answer many of her questions. He also continued to name places she had never heard of.
Still, they had at least confirmed that they came from roughly the same period, based on what he remembered of the fall of the Imperium’s capital in Tiberia, though he could not say how long ago it had happened. At other times, he drew detailed plans of a city upon the cave floor, explaining where everything was and what he intended to build next.
But whenever she asked him where the city was, he faced the same problem.
"It had pasta, so perhaps it was somewhere near Italy? But I don’t remember living in Europe,” he muttered, crossing his arms as he fell into deep thought.
Sagarius quietly smiled as she watched him. Even she had to admit that listening to his stories was enjoyable.
Though he was not the most talented or charming man she had met, he was far more interesting than most humans.
As he gazed into the fire, he suddenly said, “I wish we had a skewer.”
“And some ale,” Sagarius added cheerfully.
He was amused. “My lady, you prefer ale to wine?”
“With skewered meat, a cool ale is best.”
“Ah, a true connoisseur of good food.”
At that, she let her guard down and giggled, prompting him to chuckle as well.
But their amusement did not last. As daylight faded and the cave grew colder again, they returned to discussing this strange world and how they might return to their lives. Yet no matter how they approached the problem, they always arrived at the same likely answer. They would have to kill the manticore.
“This is your Corridor of Mind. Killing the fell beast makes the most sense,” he said while tending the fire.
Sagarius remained unconvinced. “The last time I defeated one, another appeared.”
Lans drew a heavy breath. “Like a nightmare repeating itself. Even so, I still think that is our best chance.”
“There’s one more problem,” she said. “I failed to kill the first one.”
He met her gaze. “You mean...”
“Even if we kill the second, we may still have to face the first. And by now, it has probably recovered," Sagarius explained.
“Just my luck.” Lans exhaled noisily.
He then returned to his exercises, which were unlike any training Sagarius knew. Now that his broken arm had recovered, he lowered himself toward the ground and repeatedly pushed his body up with both hands. Afterward, he lay on his back and raised himself toward his knees again and again.
That made her think. Despite taking in a great amount of magic, Lans showed no change. She had tried to train him as she once had Marc, yet he displayed no talent for magic at all.
Where did all that magic go?
She had no answer. Even her probing could sense nothing more within him.
As Lans trained near the fire, Sagarius walked toward the boulders sealing the cave entrance. She passed the resting horse and peered through the narrow gap.
Her breath misted as the freezing wind slipped inside. Even with her night sight, she could see only the nearest trees before the thick snowfall obscured everything beyond them.
...
Amid the raging blizzard, the manticore prowled across the vast plains below the mountain, moving between open stretches of snow and the dark line of snow-laden trees. Its massive limbs carried it effortlessly through the deep drifts, heedless of the cold and the howling wind.
Its prey, the magic-user, had eluded it for days. Yet it remembered the scent.
Even through the storm, the massive creature continued the hunt without haste.
Sooner or later, the storm would pass. And its prey would grow careless, lulled by a false sense of safety, and reveal itself again.
And when that happened, the beast would be ready.
Its prey could not hide forever.
***
PS: This is as much as I can cram into a chapter. It's almost 5,200.😅
So, I'm not seeing romantic tension here, so anyone hoping for that will need to pray harder.🤭
If Audrey saw them like this, as shown in the picture, I wonder how she would react.🤔
Lastly, for new members, please don't forget to check the pinned post for schedule and other information: https://www.patreon.com/HanneLee/posts/horizon-of-war-115844289
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