The following morning brought with it the same heat as ever. A dry, scorching presence that made the earth itself feel near the point of boiling while making the small sands on the winds sting whenever they got in one's eye. How Runt, sickly as he was, endured the heat and hot soil they laid upon was beyond Arimir. But the man made no moves to leave the strange traveler’s side. Some small part of Arimir, that core of bravery he still had, couldn’t bear to leave Runt to fend for himself.

  But at this moment, Arimir’s conviction seemed rather foolish. From where they sat, outside Invilgram, in the nearest low hill, there didn’t seem to be any important purpose to Runt’s actions. Since dawn arrived Runt had simply watched the town from afar, his ruined cloak wrapped over his arms to protect them from the sun. Only the broadest details could be made out from this distance. Arimir and Runt had watched as the townspeople began their day hesitantly, avoiding the bandits as they in turn awoke from their drunken stupors. And while those wicked men nursed hangovers, with some even heading into Aleyda’s healing house in the faint hope that she would cure their headaches, Arimir’s community went to work in the fields on the opposite side of town from where he and Runt observed.

  A quiet aura of fear hung across all of Invilgram. Arimir had little experience with magicks, beyond Aleyda’s power he’d only heard stories of dark wizards and other Sorceresses. Yet he imagined that this, the terrible sense of dread one felt when looking upon his put-upon home, was the same feeling that came alongside the use of dark magicks.

  And against such terror, Arimir still didn’t have a clue as to how Runt planned to save it.

  Runt had sat, mostly unmoving, for the entirety of the morning. And now, at almost midday, he still hadn’t asked questions or made any moves. Arimir wondered if the man had any sort of idea of how the bandits could be defeated, or if Runt was merely delaying the inevitable by holding off on directly confronting Braga which would almost certainly result in his death. But a keenness in Runt’s gaze, the steady manner with which he looked upon the world, the town, and especially the glare he offered when evidence of the bandits’ villainy was made clear, told Arimir that Runt was doing more than to simply observe.

  “How long do you plan on having us watch?” Arimir asked.

  “I’m not keeping you here.” Runt answered, voice hollow and hoarse as ever.

  “I understand that… But I’m more so asking if you might have a plan, or just a reason for staying out here for so long.”

  Runt glanced over at Arimir, cold blue eyes meeting fear-worn brown, before Runt turned to look out into the dusty land surrounding Invilgram. Arimir followed his gaze, noting the state of the earth, the plains, and how deeply the drought had forced life itself to go dormant. It had been months since the last rainfall, and if not for the bandits, Invilgram would still be in dire circumstances. Few things still grew beyond the rare desert brush, the sort of plants that found the Badlands to be hospitable, and they were anything but pretty or colorful.

  But an exception existed. Among the mostly barren plains, nearly hidden among the few other bits of dried-out brush that clung to the shade of boulders, was a small patch of flowers. They certainly weren’t vibrant with color, but hints of green could be seen in their otherwise dust colored stocks, and more than that, their petals were a dull red. Anywhere else in the world, in forests of far mountains that Arimir had only heard about, he knew these flowers would be considered dull and drab. But here, they captured the eye easily, striking evidence of life in a place where even simple beauties were rare.

  Arimir only looked away from the sight when Runt stood up to approach the flowers. With a furrowed brow, Arimir watched as his strange companion came to kneel before the flowers; his focus was set entirely towards them, his hand brushing their petals.

  “What sort of flower is this?” Runt asked.

  “I think it’s a Desert Blood…” Arimir stood and approached, then noted the thorns across the stem of each flower. “It has to be. It’s got the thorns and everything.”

  “What time of year do they grow, and when do they bloom?”

  “I think early spring is when they grow, then late summer through winter would be their blooming season.”

  “What is it known for?” Runt asked.

  Arimir was taken somewhat off-guard by the question, having never thought that Runt would take such an interest in plants. But Arimir decided to answer his question however he could, though he knew little of flowers. “It’s known for hardiness, like everything that grows in a drought… It’s thorny, of course…”

  “Is it known for any medicinal properties?”

  “Perhaps…” Arimir sighed. “Aleyda enjoys having them, so perhaps she might use them for sorcery.”

  Runt looked back at Arimir. “Do you see her gathering them often?”

  “Well no, but she tells me of her preference for them, and she always enjoys when I bring some for her.” Arimir explained, remembering all the times he would happen upon such flowers in the past and gift them to the Sorceress, always assuming they would help with her magicks.

  Runt, in turn, only stared at Arimir for a moment. Then, with a chuckle, the sickly man returned his attention to the flowers themselves. “Then I suppose these might be considered as flowers of passion…”

  Arimir cocked his head, failing to understand Runt’s meaning. But whatever Runt saw in the flowers, he took to harvesting them without reservation. Taking a small knife suited only for pruning plants, he began to cut the flowers near their bases and gather them together. Why, for any reason, Runt would have an interest in petals and thorns of all things, especially now, was a question Arimir couldn’t find answers for. Instead, with a sigh, Arimir watched as Runt simply gathered the flowers up before setting his sights elsewhere to gather other modest plants. Arimir was truly beginning to doubt the man and was nearly chastising himself for thinking that anyone so evidently weak could help his town to drive back the bandits who ruled them all.

  Only after a few minutes of work did Runt turn back towards Arimir. “You don’t have to stay.” He spoke. “I’ll be fine on my own… You must have work to get to anyhow.”

  “Are you certain?” Arimir asked.

  “Please, don’t let me keep you.” Runt spoke, sounding not only polite but almost content for the first time since Arimir had met him.

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  With a deeper sigh, Arimir decided to leave Runt alone. The man was correct to think that Arimir had business, though it wasn’t to work the fields. “I’ll be seeing you then.”

  Runt only grunted in response as he cut a hefty number of dried branches from a brush.

  With that unceremonious farewell, Arimir began the walk back into town. He passed by several other townsfolk, the few of his neighbors who needed to be in town at this point in the day rather than in their homes, where at least the illusion of safety could ease one’s worries. He avoided the saloon, going the long way home this time, not for his own safety but because he feared giving the bandits any indication of what he was hiding.

  Keeping well away from the bandits, their boisterous laughs which echoed throughout Invilgram as a constant reminder of their power over it, Arimir returned to his own humble home. Having not yet known a wife or children, Arimir still lived in the simple log home he’d grown up in. His parents were long dead, alongside his brother who had left this town years ago only to never return. There was always a chance that his brother yet survived, but everyone knew the fates of those who braved the Badlands alone, without weapons, without hope.

  Stepping into his house, Arimir was careful to knock on his own door twice, pause, then knock three more times. His eyes remained locked to his surroundings, watchful for onlookers, anyone who might notice his strange behavior. But with nobody else in sight, and with his little ritual performed, Arimir unlocked his door and stepped inside.

  The darkened space might have been disquieting for most, but he sighed with relief at having any amount of separation between him and the dangers of the outside world. And with purpose, Arimir glanced around the single room home he’d always known.

  It was cluttered, filled with mementos of years past as much as practical items one needed to live comfortably. Only a single bed remained in the corner, down from the four which had once filled the room. The fireplace, left neglected since his departure early in the morning, still glowed with deep embers, acting as the only illumination while the windows remained closed with shutters locked securely.

  Arimir quickly went about brightening his home, lighting candles until he could see properly. His gaze lingered on the heirloom above the fireplace, an old weapon beyond his or anyone else’s understanding. It was a relic of the world before the Deep Woe, a metal tube set within a wooden scaffolding which once, somehow, possessed the power to kill giants. Arimir often wished the weapon might work again.

  Moving past the heirloom, Arimir moved towards his bed. He buckled down low to push its frame, and with some effort slid the piece of furniture most of the way off the old carpet beneath, which was itself an old relic of the past age. With the bed suitably off the carpet, Arimir pulled the rug aside to reveal a hidden hatch in the floorboards, which he then opened to reveal the person within.

  His sister, Seda, glared up at him from her hideaway, an expression he often witnessed these days from the fiery tempered woman.

  “What?” Arimir asked as he knelt down at the edge of the hatch.

  Seda had shown no surprise at his arrival, no hint of fear that he might’ve been anyone else, owing to Arimir’s knocks on the door to signal his safe return. And instead of a look of worry, she cast a glare of simple but powerful dissatisfaction. “You know what.”

  Arimir sighed. “We’ve spoken through this before, you know it’s not safe.”

  “And what? It is for you?”

  “No, but… I’m not in the same danger…” Arimir pushed aside the thought of what would happen if the bandits discovered Seda. “Staying in there is better than being up here.”

  “And for how long then?” Seda crossed her arms as she looked up at her brother, the anger doing well to hide her own lingering fear. “You think I want to live out my days in a hole in the ground?”

  The hideaway was more than a simple hole. Once a cellar, it was spacious, dry, and closed off to the elements. Wide and long enough to encompass the same square footage as the floor of the house above, and tall enough for one to stand comfortably. Seda’s hideaway was neither a prison nor uncomfortable. Arimir was careful to accommodate her needs and wishes however he could. She never went without food, nor warm blankets, or firelight which radiated down into the space through several cleverly cut holes in the floorboards; which also, quite helpfully, gave her clear sight of anything above, which could very well save her if the bandits ever searched the house.

  But still, Arimir didn’t blame Seda for hating her predicament. She’d not seen sunlight in weeks, not since the bandits’ arrival. She wanted to live, not merely survive, but nobody in Invilgram could ask for anything more than to simply endure.

  “Just wait a little longer, I swear to you that we’ll find a way through this…” With merely a look Arimir asked his sister to be cautious, to trust him, to not act foolishly. He allowed her to see his fears in the hope she’d know better than to be brave.

  Then, with softening eyes, Seda nodded, her arms uncrossing. “Fine…”

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “Not now…” She answered. “Has anything happened since yesterday, what about the stranger?”

  Arimir had told Seda about Runt, making clear how foolish it would be if they trusted him entirely. “He’s off picking flowers.”

  “Flowers?”

  “It would seem so…”

  Seda paused. “What kind of flowers?”

  “Desert Bloods.”

  “The same you get for that prissy Sorceress?”

  “Yes, but don’t call her that.”

  Seda chuckled. “When you told me about him, I was curious to know what his plan was. Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he’d plan on charmin’ the bandits, if he’s as weak as you made him out to be.”

  “You’re joking, but I don’t know what else they’d be used for.” Arimir scratched his chin. “Do you know anything special about Desert Bloods?”

  “Nothing.” Seda answered. “Maybe it has something to do with the Sorceress and her weird ways.”

  Arimir shrugged, supposing Seda might be correct. Many magicks had entered the world during the Deep Woe. Of those, most were evil and vile; but a rare few conjurors, exclusively women, were born with an innate ability to reshape the world and spite natural laws. Many things in the world, be they plants or animals or weather events, were said to carry certain magickal meanings or powers, but until the first Sorceresses such things were merely folk legend. Arimir could only assume that Runt knew about a magickal power hidden within the plants he harvested, with the intention of earning Aleyda’s cooperation. But Arimir doubted his chances of success. Aleyda was stern in her refusal to involve herself with the bandits, either for or against them. And with that realization, Arimir felt what little hope he placed in Runt dwindle into nearly nothing.

  “I should go see them, Runt and Aleyda… Maybe they’re working on something.”

  Seda nodded, now far calmer, but certainly not content. “I’ll be seeing you then.”

  Arimir offered only a nod in acknowledgement and goodbye before closing the hideaway hatch, after which it was covered by the rug. From there, Arimir pulled his bed back into place and did his best to hide the markings the bed made in the rug, although some small evidence remained.

  Then, with Seda safe once again, Arimir left his home on a path towards Aleyda’s house of healing.