The wind always blew through the Storyteller's Square. A dry wind rising from the red earth of the Trammel Wastes, south of the Menhir Continent. It climbed the slope of the hill, passed through the stone-paved plaza at the village's center. In the morning light, that wind carried an odd warmth. Ashna Vilhelm sat on a stone step, a single book spread open across her lap. The characters on the cover were written in the human tongue: *Records of the Star God*. A book written by humans from the Vernica Continent, compiling the teachings of the star god Polaris. In a demon village, holding such a book was probably something only Ashna did. Black, short hair swayed faintly in the wind. Deep brown eyes traced slowly across the pages. She had long since grown accustomed to the faint reddish tint that colored part of those eyes. The small scar on her left cheek had been there for years now. A slender fourteen-year-old girl in a white linen shirt and black slacks, a light leather guard fastened at her waist. The elder Wenzel sat down beside her. "Human books again," The elder's voice was hoarse, but carried no reproach. "[serious]We'll do the memory-telling today, Ashna," Ashna closed the book and looked at the elder's face. "[gentle]...Yes," Memory-telling was a demon custom—speaking the names and lives of the dead aloud, passing them down through voice and breath rather than written word. There was meaning in the transmission through sound, it was said. It was the most sacred practice among demons, and Ashna had been learning it her entire life. "Why do you like human books so much?" the elder asked, his weathered face turned toward the dry wind. Ashna thought for a moment. "[gentle]...Because they contain things I don't know," "Hmm," "[gentle]Like what humans think. How they write about us," The elder fell silent for a time. Wind swept across the plaza. "Your eyes look far away," he said. "[gentle]That is not a bad thing," Ashna was surprised. The village adults made subtle faces when they saw her reading human books. But the elder was different. Looking down the slope, she could see fifteen stone-walled houses arranged in tiers. Two or three plumes of morning smoke rose into the sky. She could see her father Dolk returning from the lower fields, his arms full of vegetables. Her childhood friend Halta was shouting something across the plaza. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was probably calling for her. Forty-two people. That was Tuurya. Small and quiet, clinging to existence at the edge of the red earth wastes. The Holy Staff Clergy was a religious institution on the Vernica Continent that had designated demons as "the world's filth" and continued their subjugation. Ashna knew of this vast power through books. But here in Tuurya, such matters seemed like distant tales from another world. At least, until that morning. --- That same morning, a figure walked south of the hill. Five of them. All wore armor and carried swords. The man at the front was tall, with short-cropped golden hair and cold, pale blue eyes. He looked to be about twenty-four. His gait contained not a trace of hesitation. Each step forward seemed predetermined from the start. Orvan Sturm. Leader of the Seventh Generation Hero Party. In the inner pocket of his chest, he carried an extermination authorization issued by the Holy Staff Clergy. The target: forty-two demons in Tuurya. Authorization brought a bounty. That was the system. One of the subordinates walking behind him spoke. "[whispers]...It appears there are children among them," Orvan did not slow his pace. "[cold]Filth has no distinction between child and adult," That was all. The subordinate said nothing more. The stone walls of the hilltop village came into Orvan's view. Smoke rose. The smell of life. To him, it appeared only as an accumulation of things to be purified. Not madness. Simply what he had been taught, what he believed. The Holy Staff Clergy's doctrine said it was so, therefore it was justice. That conviction did not waver. He raised his hand quietly. His subordinates began to move. --- It was noon. The first thing she noticed was the smell. Burnt stone. Then, smoke. The moment Ashna looked up from the plaza, the sky was red. Screams rose. From somewhere. Then multiple voices. One of the stone-walled houses was engulfed in flames. "[scared]Run, Ashna!" The elder stood and pushed her back. The sound of people falling. The ring of swords. Ashna did not understand what was happening. Only that the elder's hand continued to push hard against her back, and her feet moved. "[sad]Teacher Wenzel!" As she tried to turn back, the elder moved in front of her. Flames drew near. Something struck the elder's back. But he did not fall. "[serious]Carry on the telling, Ashna. Speak our names," His voice was quiet. Too quiet. In the next moment, flames consumed the elder. Ashna ran. Behind her, her father's voice. Calling her name. But that voice cut off midway. She cried out Halta's name. She cried out, but there was no answer. Her feet would not stop. She could not make them stop. It was only after running for some time that she realized she was holding something to her chest. *Records of the Star God*. She had seized it without thinking. She looked back. Tuurya was burning. Only the stone walls remained; everything else was flame and smoke. The village of forty-two people was no longer there. Ashna kept running. Into the red earth wastes. Into the Trammel Wastes. --- She did not know how many days she walked. The red earth wastes were vast. No matter how far she walked, the same landscape continued. Here and there, weathered megaliths stood—Ashna knew from books that these were called menhirs, the source of the continent's name. But such things did not matter now. Water ran out. Food ran out. Still, she moved her feet. When night came, the cold was sharp. The wastes at night were stone-cold, and trembling with her knees drawn up, Ashna replayed voices in her mind. The elder's voice. Her father's voice. Halta's laughter. This is memory-telling, she thought. There is meaning in continuing through voice. When the voice fades, that person truly ceases to exist. So each night, Ashna spoke names aloud. Wenzel. Dolk. Halta. The names of all the others too. Forty-one names, in order. That was all she could do. She fell several times. Each time, she rose again. Why she could rise, she did not fully understand. Only that she could still walk, so she walked. That was all. Mountains appeared beyond the horizon—she could not say on which day. The Caldra Range. The mountain spine running east and west across the northern Menhir Continent. She had read of it in books. Before she could reach it, her feet stopped. Two figures emerged from behind a rocky outcrop. --- When her eyes opened, the ceiling was stone. She was in a cave. Light filtered in from somewhere, dim but not dark. Her body was wrapped in a blanket. She had a memory of being given water to drink. She thought she had eaten something as well. "[gentle]You're awake," A voice spoke. She turned her head. A woman stood there. Long hair was bound in a single braid, a reddish black that reached to her waist even when tied. Her eyes were silver, their color faintly luminous in the dim cave. She was tall—perhaps one hundred seventy-five centimeters. Her frame was lithe, yet her shoulders held strength. She appeared to be in her late thirties. The woman looked down at Ashna quietly. "[serious]What is your name?" "[whispers]...Ashna Vilhelm," Her voice was hoarse. She had barely spoken in days. The woman regarded Ashna for a time. Clothes filthy with dust. Feet covered in wounds. A single book still clutched to her chest. "[serious]From today onward, this is your place," That was all. Something caught in Ashna's throat. A place. It took a moment for her to fully understand the meaning of those words. The instant she did, strength drained from her knees. Her upper body collapsed forward. Tears came. Sound came. She wept with a voice that surprised even herself—loud and uncontrolled. Everything she had held back for days poured out at once. The flames of the village rose before her eyes. The elder's voice echoed. Her father's voice echoed. All of it came, all of it became tears. The woman said nothing. She simply stood there. Her presence became, for Ashna, a small anchor. --- After the tears stopped, the woman told her name. Zeerie Karlsvine. She gathered survivors of demons from various places and built a community, she said. "[serious]This is Elgenhurst Fortress. It lies within the Caldra Range, halfway up the mountainside. From outside, it appears only as a rock face," As she explained, Zeerie led Ashna deeper into the fortress. Natural caverns and artificial passages intertwined; the interior was larger than expected. The sound of forging echoed from one direction—a smithy, apparently. They passed a room that smelled of medicinal herbs. As they walked a passage near the entrance, Ashna noticed a figure standing against the wall. A man. Arms crossed, leaning against the stone. He looked to be about eighteen. Tall—perhaps one hundred eighty-five centimeters. Hair of silver reaching to his shoulders. His face was handsome, but his expression was nearly blank. His eyes were strange. They were different colors. One was a deep violet; the other, gold. Heterochromia. Rare even among demons. Yet his bearing was... somehow like a swordsman's. More like a human warrior's stance than a demon's. The man's gaze turned toward Ashna's chest. Toward *Records of the Star God*. In that moment, his eyes narrowed slightly. Not anger. Not disgust—something quieter. A distance. A rejection. Ashna understood. *(This person... they don't like me...)* Their eyes met. One second, or two. Neither spoke. Zeerie looked at the man. "[serious]Grimhart. A new companion," The man—Grimhart Stark—shifted his gaze from Ashna to Zeerie, then back again. "[cold]...I see," That was all. His gaze no longer rested on her. But the rejection did not fade. It lingered in the air of the passage like a weight. In the safety of Zeerie's presence, Ashna felt it for the first time. She had found a place. But here too, it seemed, nothing would be simple. The *Records of the Star God* in her hand felt, just slightly, heavier.