Rescue attempts were made by the Kinkallians, of course, but they were repelled by the hardy Northmen, who were determined to see this torment through to the bitter end.

The bitter end came exactly one hundred days later, when, after watching her husband and three children die of infections, Queen Aline Echevaria declared, “At long last, the sins of our forebears have found their justice,” and then gave up the ghost.

Numerous scholars had speculated over the succeeding years as to what she’d meant by her final words, but the general consensus was that she’d been condemning the Echevarians who’d ruled six hundred years earlier, during the last Blood Tide. During that horrific period of history, the Coristans had ruled Finfalla, but had been forced to flee to Kinkalla.

They’d been murdered on arrival, the command given by King Echevaria himself. The lands that had once been the Coristan’s kingdom lay dormant for many years. No one wanted them, not when the next Blood Tide could come any year, any month, any day.

But then, eventually, Northmen explorers, Tomas’s own ancestors in fact, managed to traverse the Perilous Passage and make landfall near Northpoint. The rest, as they say, was history.

Now, Tomas swore he could see those poor captives begging for mercy, could hear their mournful, sorrowful cries, could smell the metallic tang of the blood painted on their skin. Queen Aline’s words seemed to echo in his mind. At long last, the sins of our forebears have found their justice.

But could future generations ever really offer justice to those who’d been harmed before? Tomas liked to think they could, but why did it have to be with their blood? Didn’t their acts count for anything?

He sighed and looked away from the images his imagination had conjured. Picked up another book, one that, he realized with raised eyebrows, actually had promise. A Brief and Violent History of the Wastelands.

“Sounds like a real breath of fresh air of a read,” he muttered to himself.

He paused briefly, remembering the promise he’d made to his father. To not forget his medicine. He knew he should make a habit of taking it when he first awoke, or before his first bite of breakfast, but for some reason he procrastinated it these days. Why delay doing something that his very existence depended on? He didn’t have an answer. It was illogical, which went against everything he believed in. Logic and order were the only things he could depend on in this crazy world, and yet…

That tiny vial of medicine seemed to weigh heavier in his pocket with each passing day.

Now, he slipped it free and held it up to the light, staring into its glowing depths. There were never any bubbles, or imperfections. No reflection or shadow. For the solution contained within the glass tube was nothing short of perfection. And yet…