Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“They say the Warrior is wild,

Consumed by the blood of those they’ve slain.

They say the Scholar is unkind,

Preoccupied with the threads they tend to weave.”

Arkim flipped through the pages in his book idly as the cart bumped and jostled Kuala beside him. The pages were old, and the writing barely legible—to Arkim, it was a second-rate resource. Besides, he had a better copy of the information back—well, it was gone now, but he had quite a substantial library before Contraria was…taken. With a heavy sigh, Arkim closed the book and watched the horizon pass by.

It was a slow thing, the beasts of burden barely going faster than Arkim could walk. But there was no other option. Arkim couldn’t have carried Kuala any farther than down the mountain. In fact, he didn’t carry her entirely down the mountain. He’d found her, stabilized her with a few more potions he knew wouldn’t interact with her usual stash, and brought her to a cave he’d clocked about a third of the way up the climb.

He’d made sure it was empty, of course. He had no intention of stabilizing Kuala just for her to get mauled by a bear or some other egregious predator.

Then, he’d gone back down the mountain and paid some of the local laborers to help him get her the rest of the way down. Kuala had, annoyingly, remained unconscious throughout the whole endeavor. Which meant Arkim would have to explain to Kuala why the Monarch Tigress’s pelt was nowhere to be found—because the beast was too far up the mountain and too heavy for Arkim to carry.

He’d wound up paying a hunter to grab it, but there were no proper healers in such a small village. The best they could do was splint her arm and ‘wait for her to wake up.’ Thus, the traveling cart—and the rather unattractive man driving said cart.

Arkim grumbled to himself, trying to remember that beggars can’t be choosers, but he was having a hard time being appreciative when his clothes were ruined with Kuala’s blood.

She lived, he told himself. She lived, and so will everyone else. We’ll fix it. Kuala will wake up, and we will fix it.

That was the moment Kuala groaned, loudly and clearly in pain.

Arkim peered down at her and waited for her to lift her head or open her eyes or something. She just kept groaning.

“Come on,” he said harshly. “Aren’t you lot supposed to have ‘perfect physique’ or something equally as annoying?”

“Aren’t you supposed to have a perfect memory?” Kuala muttered, her eyes still shut and her mouth barely moving. “What are you doing annoying me about it?”

Huffing a laugh, he set his book aside. “There she is! Our Warrior is alive and well.”

Cracking a single sea-foam eye open, Kuala shot Arkim a narrowed gaze. “I’m alive at least.”

“For now. But, alas, there are to be ever more inane choices on the horizon.” Arkim sighed, his shoulders sagging as he remembered the reality of the situation.

“I feel I deserve a bit of grace—Contraria has fallen. Trapped. Can I not have this moment of weakness?” Kuala said gently, a picture of grace and elegance despite her injury.

Arkim saw it for what it was: a show. Kuala was neither graceful nor elegant on her best days at court. This was a shell, something to protect her. It was odd for him to see the protector search for such things.

“No, I don’t think you can. Our worlds have shifted for the worse. Look at me. I am still standing, still maintaining my dignity and wits.”

Kuala had both eyes fully open as she looked over Arkim and snorted. “No, you’re not.”

Arkim frowned. “I am fine.”

“Okay, if you’re so fine,” she gestured with her good hand to Arkim’s outfit, “then how come you’re all wrinkly? Not a firm crease to be found.”

Arkim gave a wry smile. “Yes, well, that happens when one cannot reset them to the time that they were originally pressed.”

“Only you would create a working just to have freshly ironed clothes to travel in.”

Pulling his shoulder-length hair out of its band, he let his golden locks fall around him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Appearances are important. Also, was it not your father who found a way to use his Well to sharpen his blade mid-battle?”

“That is not the same. That is practical,” Kuala defended, a cough forcing her to cut herself off.

“It is quite literally the same.” Arkim huffed. “Besides, it wasn’t even my working. It was Alkimika’s.”

Alkimika. Shen’s mother was known for her unique methods, from being the only Scholar not to serve at the will of the King to being the leader of a battle-ready squad of sorcerers. Such was the privilege of one who defeated the Doom. The thought brought down Arkim’s mood. Kuala just hummed in disagreement.

“You’re just upset because she was a genius, and you’re a fool.”

“That doesn’t even make sense —I am the Scholar. By definition, I cannot be a fool.”

“Knowledge does not make competence.” Kuala laughed, and her arm jostled at the movement, causing her to hiss in pain.

Arkim quietly found this to be retribution for Kuala’s insult. In the end, he couldn’t hold his tongue.

“That is an interesting take from the Warrior bested by a thing so weak as gravity.”

Kuala and Arkim fell into an easy rhythm, bickering, bantering, and ignoring the problem. Neither brought up the next steps, neither mentioned Mara nor Shen nor…They simply ignored it for the next three hours to Winroa. By then, Arkim had hopped out of the cart to stretch his legs and Kuala had gone back to sleep.

Kuala came in and out of consciousness, the pain in her arm spiking as the cart rattled, but mostly, the potion she had drunk had done its job. It had taken care of her organs, of her fractured bones, of the loss of blood. Even if the bones had not healed properly, she lived to tell the tale of it, so she decided it was worth it.

Finally, after several spikes of pain in her very much broken arm, they arrived at Winroa. The town was barely more than the village they had come from, but supposedly, Winroa was home to a healer. And that was what Kuala needed most. She held in her gasps of pain, she held in the upcoming bile that turned her stomach, she held in anything that could stall them, worry Arkim, or make the cart driver pause.

They went down the main road, and Arkim climbed back into the cart before they passed through the wall. Kuala snorted when she peered over the cart's edge, seeing several sections of the road covered in puddles.

“You’re such a princess,” Kuala shot at Arkim.

“Mara would stick you in a time loop of your worst memory if she heard you say that,” Arkim said offhandedly.

It was an agonizing time, the way the cart rocked on the poorly maintained roads. Kuala found herself thanking Krohnic when they came to a stop before a glorified hut.

“We’re here, you owe extra for the annoyance,” the cart driver said to Arkim—not even looking in Kuala’s direction. Kuala found it in her to bare her teeth at the man, with his nose too wide and his lips too small, and prepare something that would hurt. She wanted to say something cruel.

Arkim pressed his palm onto her shoulder, causing Kuala to hiss in pain, and held several square pieces of metal out to the man. “Of course, here, an extra piece for the trouble.”

“Can you get yourself up?” Arkim asked, and Kuala frowned.

Putting her weight onto her good arm, Kuala fought through the pain of movement to stand unsteadily on her feet. It took her a moment to get her bearings, but she shot Arkim a look when she did.

“Always.”

Looking between Kuala and the ground, Arkim flicked his eyes back to her, a malevolent smile on his face. “Can you get down on your own, too?”

Kuala met Arkim’s smile with a rude sneer of her own and vaulted off the cart, landing harshly on the balls of her feet, absorbing the force of the jump into her knees. That did not stop her from feeling the sharp jolt of pain, her vision going black, and her body stumbling in response.

Within a breath, Arkim was wrapping her good arm around her shoulder, forcing Kuala to lean into him.

“Damn Warrior.” She heard him say under his breath with a huff of amusement.

“Stupid Scholar,” she said, a wry smile on her face as Arkim helped her to the door.

“How did a Monarch Tigress do this to you?” Arkim asked, holding them back just out of reach from knocking on the door.

“My Well broke as I was jumping from a tree; the Monarch Tigress was an afterthought at that point. It was far from a pretty sight.” Kuala groaned as realization struck her. “Their pelts are worth a fortune. What a waste.”

Arkim rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about that. I handled it—assuming we ever make it back that way. And if the hunter actually holds it. If you really want it, we can go back to Prok first.”

Kuala sighed. “No, that damn hunter is going to have the windfall of his life. We have bigger frish to fly.”

“Frish to fly?” Arkim parroted, and Kuala looked at him.

“Yeah, of course. We have other things to do.”

“Do you mean…fish to fry?” he questioned incredulously.

Kuala scrunched her nose. “Of course not, I hate seafood.”

“I…yeah, all right, I’m going to knock,” Arkim said helplessly, raising his hand to knock on the shambling house before them.

The house was small, made up of pressed clay and brick, and the roof was thatched. It reminded Kuala of the huts of the desert people of Tayaran’s Dry River region, but slightly more polished. It still didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the town. Winroa was not the most prosperous town, but it wasn’t as destitute as this single house would imply. It unsettled Kuala that a healer’s house was so dilapidated.

Still, it’s not as if they were here for a doctor. No, they needed a healer, a practitioner who specialized in using their Well for their practice. It was monumentally different than the doctors of the New World. This was old magic, magic that manipulated the way of the world. It altered the fabric of reality directly—specifically, it altered the reality within a person. There were a thousand ways to use pills and medicine to treat someone, but every healer used their Well differently as well. They could only hope this woman was the one they needed.

It was a long moment before they heard shuffling on the other side of the door. A woman with black locs and dirty pallid skin pulled the door open, her electric yellow eyes zoned in on Kuala immediately.

“Expensive,” was the only thing she said in broken Krien, the language of Kierre, before glancing at Arkim’s delicate outfit, draped loosely around him, even stained in blood. “Affordable.”

Standing aside, she waited for Arkim to drag Kuala through the doorway. Once they were inside, Kuala took in the remarkably clean hut. The walls curved inward and were lined with drying herbs hanging upside down. The ceiling was decorated with vines that dangled down and created a curtain to separate the single-room house into different areas. Kuala tried to focus on what was beyond the curtain, but her eyes were going blurry, and she couldn’t steady her gaze enough to make it out.

The woman strode past Kuala and Arkim, pulling the vines to the side to reveal a single dirty cot low to the ground.

“Down,” the woman said curtly, pointing to the cot. Kuala could just make out the dark brown stains marring it before Arkim pushed her down.

“You heard the woman, Lally,” Arkim grunted as he lowered her as slowly and carefully as Kuala figured he could. He must have been worried for Arkim to have used Kuala’s childhood nickname. It was rare between the two of them. That was mostly between Kuala and—a friend better left unnamed. Right before Kuala was to meet the mattress, Arkim lost his grip, and Kuala landed with a jolt, pain shooting through her arm.

“Shit! Sorry, Kuala,” Arkim hissed.

Arkim sighed as Kuala’s eyes fluttered closed. She probably didn’t hear his apology —not that she would even care. When she woke up, if she could, she was likely to punch him in the gut either way.

Honestly, it was a bit irritating to Arkim that the woman was speaking such rough Krien. How was he supposed to get information from the woman like that? And Arkim and Kuala needed information, there was no doubt about that. They needed to know where the nearest Well was—if not for Kuala, then for Arkim. Arkim, who didn’t have naturally enhanced muscles. Arkim, who didn’t have a natural battle sense. Arkim, whose memory and dissection were his strengths. He needed a supplement, or he’d be worse than dead when it came time to face the Doom.

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The problem with needing information was, of course, the same problem with needing anything in a foreign nation. Whoever had what you wanted would also want to gouge you for it. And Arkim was working on limited funds now that the Kingdom of Contraria’s treasury was frozen in time.

Arkim was dragged out of his thoughts as the healer woman’s eyes fluttered closed, and a sickly yellow light began oozing out from under her eyelids. It was as if her soul was slipping out with the glow, what with how she twitched and squirmed. Arkim could guess what Well it was that was so disgusting to witness. Aokes wasn’t known for his easy-to-manifest magic. A God of Decay was tangentially related to healing, Arkim supposed—or he could see how a working could be manipulated to make it so. It was similar to how Krohnic’s magic could be used for more than just pausing time.

If you had the mind for it, a Well would never limit you. If you had the will, a Well was merely a tool—no different from a chisel or a fork.

Arkim looked away from the woman as she laid her hands on Kuala.

“Bones,” the woman said, her voice overlaid with another, deeper tone. “Wrong.”

“Yes, she used a general regrowth potion rather than a specialized tonic for mending bones,” Arkim replied lazily, taking a half step backward. Nonchalance would be the name of the game if he didn’t want this woman to be insulted by his disgust.

“Fool.”

Silently, Arkim agreed. Sort of. Had it been Arkim, he likely would have done the same —downing any potion on hand in the hopes it staved off the darkness of death for even a moment. But Kuala wasn’t Arkim. She had never needed a regrowth potion, never crushed organs in a one-sided battle, never lost limbs. She was the Warrior. Battle was her Inheritance. But a bone-mending potion? He knew she’d needed that from her own attack’s landing, the force of them fracturing her bones a thousand times over.

Arkim heard a loud snap and forced his gaze back to the woman. Between her hands was Kuala’s arm at an angle that shouldn’t have been possible. Her forearm was at a sharp turn, and her biceps were no better.

Fighting a gag, Arkim swallowed the bile in his throat.

A long second passed before Kuala’s eyes popped open and she screamed. It wasn’t as usual. No battle madness had taken her over; she wasn’t growling. She was simply in pain—pure, unadulterated agony. Arkim let out a breath, trying to calm his rolling stomach, but he did not look away again. He couldn’t, not while Kuala was the one suffering. Not while Kuala was the one breaking—again.

You’ll make it through this, Arkim told himself. You always have before, and you will again. Kuala isn’t Olea. She won’t need you to dress her wounds. She wouldn’t ask that of you.

Arkim’s eyes dulled at the thought of Olea, of the last time he saw her, of the betrayal on her face before she’d fled. Kuala had said it wasn’t his fault; he couldn’t have known what would happen. Kuala didn’t understand. Arkim had known. He’d just thought he was wrong.

Kuala’s screaming grew until the walls were shaking with the force of it. Arkim covered his ears, wishing he could go back to reading his book from earlier, even if it were a horrifically awful reference. That was out of the question now, though. Kuala’s pain was too visceral as it filled the air. It hit the part of him he kept hidden, the part of him that was soft and gooey. The part of him that worried.

Arkim took another breath, this time through his nose.

That was a mistake, he decided almost immediately, as the stench of decay hit him. Arkim closed his eyes before popping them open to get his sights back on Kuala, back on what the woman was doing. She was running her fingers over the broken remnants of Kuala’s arm. Everywhere she grazed went from the deep brown of Kuala’s skin to a purpling black sore. After creating a line of decay across Kuala’s arm, the woman pressed into the top of Kuala’s bicep, her fingertips sinking into the blackness. She curled her hand and swiped, popping open the line of decay and revealing muscle, sinew, and bone.

Arkim pressed his hand to his mouth before quickly realizing that wasn’t going to work. Instead, he hastily pulled his hair back and scanned his surroundings. Conveniently, there was a bucket beside him by the wall of vines. He fell to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach.

He heard his mother’s words in his head then, as if he was back to being ten.

Oh, Ark, you don’t have to be strong. It’s not who you are. It’s okay for the Scholar to be soft, to feel for the world—so long as it doesn’t eat you alive.

Sierre D’Argent had been many things to Arkim, and his personal Hero had always been one of them. Hearing her call him soft had been the nail in the coffin of his gentle exterior. No. Arkim was the Scholar, but he was a Scholar of cool indifference. Of casual relations. Of apathy. Until he wasn’t. Until his insides tore from how the pain of his friend hurt him as well.

The acrid taste of bile filled his mouth, and he spit a final time before leaning back and resting his thighs on his heels.

“Well,” he mused, his voice rough, “this outfit is ruined, anyway.”

He turned his rose-pink eyes back toward Kuala, whose screaming had dulled into groans, grunts, and heavy breathing, and watched.

It took until the sun set on the horizon before the two of them left the hut, Kuala’s arm in a sling and Arkim’s purse significantly lighter.

Kuala’s face was drawn, and her usually fierce gaze was dull.

“Three days?” Arkim said lightly. “That’s fine. It’s not like we’ll come across anything more dangerous than a one-handed you on the road out of Kierre.”

Kuala huffed in amusement, but soon after, her shoulders sagged. Arkim could see precisely what she was thinking.

She was thinking of home. So was he.

Kuala kicked a stone in the road, sending it flying off into the distance. It clattered against a wall, cracking the stone and brick.

Usually, Kuala would have picked up her pace, hustling along so as not to draw attention to the destruction and its cause. But she couldn’t find it in her to care. So, she continued their slow walk back to the center of town.

The silence between them was suffocating, and she knew it had to be driving Arkim insane. The man couldn’t go a second without hearing the sound of his own voice. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to care about that either.

She knew if she let it, this grief would fester. It would eat her alive. And that wasn’t something she could afford. So, she turned to Arkim and forced out her thoughts.

“It was the day of her award,” Kuala said, her voice still rough from the pain.

After a moment, Arkim sighed. “I know.”

“She was finally getting her Sigil.” Kuala stopped walking and looked at Arkim, some of her fierceness returning in the hitch of her voice.

“I know that, too,” was all Arkim said as he stood next to her.

“She was becoming the heir. The crown princess.” Kuala brought up her good arm, shoving Arkim violently. He stumbled back, but his face didn’t change. There was no outrage, no irritation, just a flat-lined mouth and a furrowed brow.

“I know. It just means that when we bring them back, there will be double the celebrations.” Arkim, the man who made it his personal mission to seem unflappable even if Kuala knew he was a disaster of a man on the inside, had an edge to his voice that gave Kuala pause.

The determination, the confidence, the sure knowledge that they would bring them back —it made a malicious grin spread across Kuala’s face.

“And double the work.”

“What do you care about work? That is going to be all me and Shen.”

Arkim’s amusement wouldn’t have been apparent to an onlooker, but Kuala could see the way he twisted his frown and the glint in his eyes. It was the same expression he made when Kuala used to make him hide her after she pulled a trick on Mara, Shen, or…

With a huff, Kuala fought back the stinging in her eyes. “I miss Mara. I wanted to be there for her award ceremony.”

“Me too. Of course, me too. But you and I both know why we couldn’t.” Arkim leaned his head back, looking at the star-filled sky. “It wasn’t an option.”

Kuala nodded. She knew, objectively, that her Inheritance made it difficult to be in civilization for too long. She needed to move, to fight, or she got into trouble, and there was only so much she could do in Contraria without going into the Wilds. At that point, it was better to harass the continent rather than clear all the game in the ghastly forest that surrounded the capital of her homeland.

“Besides, it’s not like I could have gone back either. It works two ways,” Arkim continued, his gaze never leaving the dark, all-consuming sky. “Our Inheritance. We have our natures, our strengths, you know, what we’re named—Witcher, Warrior, Scholar, Spy. But we also have our instincts.”

Kuala nodded, understanding where he was going. “The Exile.”

“Exactly. There’s a reason we’ve historically been called the Four Heroes of Exile,” Arkim agreed. “When the Doom starts manifesting, we are called away. Sometimes, decades in advance.”

Arkim’s voice got quiet at the end, and Kuala knew what he was thinking of—who he was thinking of. The ache in her chest deepened.

“Mom made a point to say it was in our fates to stray. It’s why we all felt called to the continent,” Arkim said slowly as if parsing his words out in advance. “She never said that it wouldn’t feel like fate at all. That it would feel like it was a choice.”

“Sierre is a smart woman.” Kuala nodded.

“She was.” Arkim gave a wry smile as he finally locked his gaze with Kuala’s—pink eyes meeting seafoam.

Kuala came back to herself with a start, and the ache in her chest was no more. No, it became a fire.

“All we have to do is rebuild Illustra,” Kuala said with vicious confidence pouring out of her. “We know the how, we know the what, we even know the where. All it takes is finding Shen and getting there.”

Arkim looked away, his eyes scanning the empty street. “At least we know where he is.”

Kuala straightened, her sling tugging with the sudden tension in her body. “Don’t.”

“We need her, Kuala, she’s more than just our friend.” Arkim sighed, looking at Kuala with a gaze sharp as a razor. “She’s the Witcher. We cannot do this without her.”

“We don’t. We never have, and we never will.” Kuala met Arkim’s eyes with her usual fierceness. This was not a battle she was willing to lose. “She’s a deserter. A traitor. A disgrace to her Inheritance.”

“You can say a lot of things about Olea, but a disgrace to her Inheritance?” Arkim barked a laugh. “She’s got more power in her Well than anyone I’ve ever known—including my mother, her predecessor.”

“Yeah, well, her Well is broken. Just like ours. She’s probably already dead somewhere; it’s been over a decade since she fled Contraria.” Kuala’s fist was clenched, and the muscles in her arms were rippling. Under her skin, her veins were glowing red with her bloodlust.

“Speaking of, I need a new one.” Arkim crossed his arms, not conceding his point but changing the subject, anyway. “Without our Well, I’m practically defenseless. My Inheritance is all mental—most of Shen’s is, too.”

Arkim knew it was fruitless to fight about Olea with Kuala. Every time the subject was brought up, admittedly by him, the words on his tongue got swallowed. They were usually some variation of, ‘That’s not fair,’ or, ‘You know why she had to leave.’ But saying those words never got him anywhere—Shen had always been better at managing Kuala’s rage.

Kuala sighed as Arkim worked his jaw.

“He’s so far away.”

“He’s probably already on his way to us,” Arkim said wryly. “You know him, always in motion.”

“He couldn’t be,” Kuala said, agitation still clear in her voice. “I haven’t been able to send out a letter since we passed through Bayquest—and there is no way that has gotten to Vrayer yet.”

“Where were you before we met up in Aryq?” Arkim asked, rubbing the side of his face with his palm, exhaustion setting in as he retraced Kuala’s path in his mind. “Tayaran? Did you send him a letter from the Wistra Plains?”

Kuala thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe? If not, then I don’t know the last time, though.”

“Then we need to make our way back to Tayaran, Shen’ll be headed there.” Arkim clapped his hands together. “We’ve got a plan. We’ll hit a Well along the way—the nearest one is further south than I would like, nearly back to Aryq, but it’s better than heading to one along the border.”

“Oh?” Kuala leaned in curiously. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Arkim twitched his nose, processing through everything he’d seen and heard since leaving Bayquest the first time.

“Kierre and Yuhaul are fighting over a Well that Kierre has historically controlled. The Well of Priq. It’s for a true God of Ore, I think. So, it would be worth the war that is surely on the verge of starting.”

Kuala perked up. “Ah, right, you said something about that.”

“Honestly, Kierre and Bayquest are too close of allies for me to think that it’s safe to cross the northern border into Tayaran. Too close to Yuhaul. We’d likely come across skirmishes.”

“You’re gonna make us go south to go north?” Kuala asked skeptically.

Arkim plastered on a smile that caused the edge of his eyes to crinkle. “Exactly. That way, if Shen isn’t on the way to us, we’ll be able to safely cross into Yuhaul and head to him.”

“You’re about as safe as you’re going to get—traveling with me.” Kuala’s confidence was casual, but Arkim’s gaze rested on her arm, still wrapped in its sling—where it would be for the next three days unless she wanted the bones to revert to their previous misshapen form.

“Maybe.” Arkim casually agreed before saying, “If your arm was not absolutely wrecked for a week and you didn’t have a broken Well.”

Kuala’s satisfied grin turned down sharply before grumbling, “You know, I think we should find a merchant to take us sooner rather than later. Get a new Well, learn to use it, and go about our way.”

Arkim rolled his eyes, and the two of them started back down the street, walking side by side.

“Finally, some sense. Where has that been all your life?” Arkim snarked, straightening his hair as he walked.

“Likely with wherever your dignity has gone.”

As Arkim and Kuala made their way back to the center of town, where there was likely to be some kind of caravan or merchant, they made their plans. Arkim debated the merits of going further south, all the way to Aryq, Bayquest’s capital city, to make sure the Well they chose was well-documented and functional. Still, ultimately, they decided the extra three days it would take wasn’t worth it.

Unfortunately, when they arrived at the square, that wasn’t up to them.

“We head straight to Aryq, we do not stray, and you will pull your weight,” the middle-aged woman said as she idly counted bags of what looked to Arkim to be potatoes. As she wrote down a number on a piece of parchment, she peered over at the two of them. “And you pay.”

Arkim scanned the area again, even though it was clear that every other caravan was unpacked and planning to stay. Even the other merchants were not planning to leave for several more days. Arkim would know—he’d checked. They’d all turned him away or weren’t leaving for a week. Or, in one case, they were headed west—which wouldn’t work for a multitude of reasons.

“Deal. How much?” Arkim said quickly before Kuala could muck it up.

The grin the woman gave was near predatory, but when she named her price, Arkim simply handed it over. He knew Kuala wasn’t happy, but Arkim had no intention of being stranded in Winroa for even a single hour. It was worth it to him to get on the road before the night ended.

It was as they were helping load the bags up, Arkim dragging them one by one and Kuala flinging them one-handed, that they spotted something in the distance. It was a faint blue glow, and it was headed right for them.

Arkim was grinning before Kuala could understand what was happening.