Glimpse the Unthinkable

Thom leads the way, guiding the donkey-pulled cart east. We follow, silent, eyes locked on the two wrapped bodies in the cart.

We don't get far before the sun starts to set. Camp is somberly set up. No one says anything.
The silence over the next couple of days is occasionally broken by Thom's cheerful comments. He barely gets a grunt of acknowledgement from anyone.
As I watch dawn break on... how many days has it been now? Three? Five? Does it matter? At least the clouds finally have the decency to show up today. I watch them stretch slowly in the distance. Too thin.
They thicken as we make our way further east, hour after hour of silent marching.
The clouds should be bigger, darker. They should be mourning.
I should be mourning. Why? What were they to you? Friends. A distraction. No.
crunch
What? I look down, lifting my boot to peek at what I just stepped on. It's just grass. So what made that noise? I lean down to get a closer look. The grass had shattered beneath my step. "The grass," I say. "It's... turned to glass." Ahead, the green and gently rippling grass is less vibrant, and far too still.
Grim, Thom takes several paces past the donkey. "I should make sure I'm at the front from here on out," he says with a small smile.
The color of the... grass continues to fade until it's clear, deep shadows making much of look black. Yet more striking are the glass figures dotting the landscape. A small grouping of them are close enough to the path Thom is walking that we can make out the intricate details.
My eyes widen in alarm. These aren't just statues. I recognize these figures.
They're some of the Circsom refugees.
No one says anything, but it's clear from our nervous looks to each other that we're all alarmed.
I keep a sharp lookout for Myuon or her wagon as we continue on. Thom's chipper attitude vanishes. And finally, the clouds comply with my wishes. Rain begins to flatten my hair and dampen my clothes. But as it hits the ground, it turns to glass, creating frozen fractals of splashing water. I inspect my arm. No glass. And judging by how focused Thom is, he must be doing something to protect us from the glass effect.

Dusk settles before Thom halts our walking. He gestures for us to stand back as he presses his palms together, then thrusts downward. A divot forms in the earth, and he continues with his thrusting motions until there's just enough space for everyone. Tent canvas is stretched over the opening to stop the rain from soaking us throughout the night. We sleep, cramped in the space, as Shen Po keeps watch from above.
I wake, surprised I was even able to sleep. I help pack up the canvas and haul myself out of the shallow hole. We get moving.
Stranger glass statues appear as we continue further east. They seem to be various kinds of demons, all in poses suggesting they were running to the path we currently walk. Glass horses catch me eye, and I freeze.
A wagon—not yet turned to glass—is there, just several strides out of reach.
"Thom," Shen Po asks. "Is there anyway to go out and check that wagon?"
Thom, still intensely focused on moving forward, turns to Shen Po. His expression is pained, like he'll weep at any point. He shakes his head.
"There has to be something," I plead. That wagon could be Myuon's. Please don't be Myuon's. Who else's would it be?
Mildred transforms into a raven and flies over to the wagon, keeping her distance from any of the glass. Is there anyone alive in the wagon? Tense moments pass. Where is she? Did she make it? Suddenly, the cloth over the top of the wagon splits open and a sphere of water rises up, followed by Mildred. My hearts thuds. There's a figure in the water. Mildred guides the sphere to the path where Luban and Shen Po then pull the person free.
But it's not Myuon. Though thinner than we last saw her, Sviotia still has the general's armor on. My lips purse. Where's Myuon? Shen Po and Luban gently set her into the cart with the remai— with Wander and Mordax.
Several more somber hours pass before Thom speaks up. "Prepare for a fight, just in case. We'll be there within the hour."
"What?" Luban asks. "Why's that?"
"The monastery is known by some of the aberrants as a place that is safe—and they don't appreciate that."
My brow furrows. "Well how do you get past them all then?"
"I left when there weren't any." Thom gives a casual shrug. "And when I return, who can say?"
As we ascend a wide hill, the spiking grass gives way to flat, curving glass, twisting with patterns created by the play of shadows and light. And then, we crest the hill. Before us is an enormous glass basin. But the lack of color is replaced with a dark green. At the center is a building—well, more of a fortress. There's tall walls surrounding the structure, and as I squint, I see a few other buildings filling up the meager space between the central building and the walls.
"Thom," Mildred asks, trembling slightly. "What is that?" I follow her finger, pointing to the opposite lip of the crater. A slender, yet massive, shadow reaches down, grabbing at something. My eyes widen. It lifts its hand and shovels something into its mouth.
"A Nightwalker," Thom replies. He unties the donkey from the cart and slaps its rear. The donkey takes off. Thom grabs the cart. "Run."
We fly.
My breath comes raggedly as I try to keep from stumbling down the slope. When was the last time I ran this fast?
Finally, I dash through the narrowly open dark green gate of the Bimonastery. I halt and gulp in breaths as guards surround us. I lean over with a groan.
And see grass. Actual grass. Actual dirt. I take in the courtyard, looking again at the green walls. They aren't glass. They're jade.
I hear someone speaking. The guards, talking and gesturing to each other. But, what are they saying? I straighten myself and try listening again. I frown. It's just gibberish. I very carefully reach for my hilt, giving it a slight touch. I focus. "Forstå," I whisper.
"Well, they came in with an acolyte," one says. "They don't seem to be afflicted."
Thom interjects, in the same language I can't place. "We need to get these three to the hospice."
Two of the guards take the cart from Thom and briskly walk down the street. Shen Po takes an aggresive step forward, but I place a hand on his shoulder. "They're taking them to the hospice." Shen Po gives me a confused look, but nods. Luban and Mildred follow the guards.
One of the remaining guards turns to me and Shen Po. "Welcome to the Bimonastery," he says in Eastern, with a gesture toward the large building.
"Did some of the Circsom refugees make it here?" I ask.
"Unfortunately, of the eighty or so I heard that came out this way, I believe we have only four in our care," he replies, remorse thick in his voice. Shen Po goes rigid.
"Where can we find them?" My voice comes out small and quiet.
"They are at the hospice."
I exhale. "Would there be anyone else... I mean someone we could talk to here..." I struggle to string a thought together.
Thom leans in and whispers to the guard. The guard's eyes flash with acknowledgement and his posture relaxes. "It may be in everyone's best interest for you all to speak with the Master," the guard replies. "I will see what I can do about arranging that."
I nod. "Thank you." I touch Shen Po's arm. "Let's go." His eyes snap to me and he gives me a small nod.

---

The hospice is a small single-story building. Outside next to the cart is an old looking man talking with Mildred and Luban.
The man taps on Mordax's thigh. "Is this a devil?" he asks.
"He's contractually obligated to be here," Shen Po responds.
"He's surprisingly close to being alive." He reaches in, hoists Mordax out of the cart, and carries him inside—surprising, given the man's haggard appearance. Luban and Shen Po grab Wander and Sviotia, and we all hurry to follow the man inside.
The man lays Mordax on the desk in the small waiting room, made even smaller by the makeshift cots lining the walls. He grabs Mordax's naginata—still with him in his wrappings. He looks us over with his dark grey eyes. "You," he points to Shen Po and Luban. "End of the hallway to the right, there are a couple of cots. Place them there." They hurry down the hallway.
THUNK
The man plants Mordax's naginata into the ground as Shen Po and Luban return, his face still locked in a permanent frown. "I have bad news, and then good news, and then more bad news." I suck in a breath. "The firbolg," he begins, "is gone. And she cannot come back."
"Why not?" I demand.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "To make it short, her soul is trapped. And I can't get it out from where it's trapped."
"Do you know where or how it's trapped?"
"I've had it explained to me. I don't really understand myself. Essentially, there is another existence—"
"That wouldn't happen to be the Shadowfell, would it?" I interject.
"That... that sounds about right," he admits. "Shadowdark... realm... something." He waves a hand. "Basically, if you lose your soul it can get stuck there, unable to go to the afterlife and unable to come back to your body. The Master can explain it better but that's the gist." His head dances side to side. "Did you want the other bad news before the good?"
There's a collective affirmative sigh.
"The other woman is suffering form the same condition as almost everyone in this building. She's fallen asleep and she can't wake up." The man lifts a finger before we can respond. "But somehow, this man," his lifted finger turns down to point at Mordax, "escaped all that and I can bring him back."
"Get him up and around," Shen Po says. Then, almost inaudibly, "Please."
I cut in before the man can begin whatever he's about to do. "There's a particular person I'm looking for. She would've come in"—she's dead—"with the Circsom refugees. I know what she looks like, may I see if she's here?"
He cocks an eyebrow, and then nods.
I walk down the hallway filled with beds and cots, which in turn hold still forms, barely breathing. There, almost at the end, I see her. A shuddering breath of relief escapes me and I try not to run to her side. I grab her hand and reach out to her mind. "Myuon. It's Vae. We're trying. Is Arslan still there?"
No response.
Shen Po's raised voice pulls my attention. I let go of Myuon's hand and walk back to the main room.
I can't help the tiniest of smiles from flickering across my face as I see Mordax alive and standing. "What were you thinking? I said not to attack him!" Shen Po scolds him.
Before Mordax can reply, his contract in his shirt unfurls and wraps around him. It constricts fast, and before anyone has time to react, Mordax vanishes in a puff of flame and smoke.