“Would you like to try?” The Wanderer held up the vial.

  A single memory swirled within. The liquid was dark and murky, speckled with blue and white flecks that cast an eerie glow on his long fingers—like ghosts dancing on the bones of a forgotten battlefield. What secrets lay hidden in its depths?

  What sights had the aged soldier witnessed that she never could?

  Ruth licked her lips. “You’ve risked a lot coming for this memory. Would you truly give it away?”

  “Not this one. It’s too dark for a first taste.” He swirled the vial, watching the motes of light shift. “But everyone has bright moments in his past, even this scoundrel”—he patted the corpse—“and I could prepare you a sip. I’m sure you want to see more of the world. What will it be? Dustmere? The capital?”

  She should refuse. He’d told her enough to protect her family. Keeping him alive any longer was a risk. And yet… The vial twinkled, teasing her with its playful sparks. Would she ever get another chance like this? And it would extend his life just a little…

  Her nostrils flared at the heady scent of spiced flesh. Surely, a few minutes of pleasure for them both were not too much to ask for.

  “Show me the mountains.” All her life, their silhouettes, blurred and blued by distance, had tempted her: so close but always out of reach.

  He smiled wryly. “Then let us indulge together. It’s rare to find a companion willing to share my … peculiar tastes.”

  He set the vial with the dark memory aside and produced an empty one. With deft hands, he resumed the dissection, gently parting the folds of the brain as if peeling back the layers of a story. His tools glinted faintly in the dim light, delicate extensions of his own clever fingers.

  She approached carefully, worrying her lip until blood trickled down her chin. A small price to keep him under her geas.

  “How do you find a memory? Can you read a mind just by looking at its brain?” she asked softly. Even with her gift, she could only glean his emotions and strongest intentions, though Mother could do more.

  “Not the brain,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving the grayish tissue. “Only the magic that clings to it. Every mind leaves a trace—faint threads from a lifetime of thoughts and emotions. But for magic users, the traces run deeper. They weave into the flesh, sharpening the mind, enhancing the body. With practice and the right tools, I can recognize the strongest memories, and the emotions tied to them. See here?”

  She edged closer, squinting at the shimmer of magic among the gore. “This spot? And… here?” She glanced at him for confirmation.

  He nodded. “This one,” he said, gesturing at a faint glow, “is linked to anger. See how it connects to the basolateral complex of the amygdala? And here—lust. A similar connection, but… Well. Seeing the difference takes years to master.”

  She leaned in, straining her eyes. Both spots looked the same to her—nothing more than the muted luster of damp flesh and magic.

  He probed delicately at an almond-shaped structure, tracing the thin strands of magic linking it to another, smaller, elongated one with a gentle curve—amygdala and hippocampus, he’d called them.

  “A-ha.” From the gray mush, he extracted a string of crystalline fragments, holding them up like a jeweler inspecting a gem. “This one is recent and tied to multiple emotions. I’ll have to taste it first, but it has promise.”

  It took him no time at all to transform the fragments into the shimmering concoction. He took the tiniest sip, and his eyes glazed over—only for a moment.

  “I didn’t taste enough for the full experience, but this is about a raid on a caravan. The beginning should interest you.” He hesitated, his expression darkening. “But don’t linger too long. The ending… well, it’s best left unseen.”

  He held the vial out on his palm, watching her expectantly.

  His passion for his gruesome craft was contagious, but she forced herself to stay cautious.

  When her fingers brushed his, she seized the moment, commanding him with every sense she could summon: touch, sight, smell, and the steady cadence of her voice. “You will not harm me when I’m under.”

  “Of course not.” He sounded offended. Hurt even.

  She still needed more. “Tell me—are you human?”

  “I am.” He did not sound certain, but she could sense no lie in his answer.

  Still, she lingered, unwilling to trust him fully. “You first.”

  Without protest, he down the first vial—the one with the dark memory. The moment he swallowed, he froze entirely, his breaths shallow but steady, his face blank and slack.

  When nothing more happened, she steeled herself. This was the best moment to try—as long as she finished before him, she’d be safe.

  She could, of course, kill him now. It would be safest. And yet… her geas had taken hold so strongly, she could afford to wait. No harm in keeping him around, to learn a little more. And besides, she’d rather not be alone if something went wrong after she drank. Yes. That was the reason she delayed his execution. Nothing more.

  Ruth upended the vial into her mouth. The tonic burned faintly as it went down, sweet and herbal. It wasn’t the first time she had tasted a brain, but she’d never drank its juice, only chewed its tissues. In fluid form, it was too slimy for her pallet, but before she could gag or spit it out, all sensations faded.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ruth was no longer in the cold, wet cellar. Her lip no longer stung. Instead, a gentle wind caressed her face, carrying the scent of lush soil. An incredible vista opened before her, even the reds and yellows or autumn more vibrant and verdant than a summer in the wastelands. The world stretched beyond the foothills into hazy, sunlit infinity. She wanted to admire every unfamiliar plant, to catalogue every fallen leaf, but she had no control—her gaze wasn’t her own, drawn instead to a rocky road winding through a narrow ravine.

  And then—bloodlust.

  Sharp, vile, overwhelming. The foreign emotion crashed over her, drowning out her own. A small part of her screamed that it wasn’t hers, that it didn’t belong. She should end the memory now, as she’d been warned. But how could a starving girl put down a glass after the first sip, just because it was bitter? She clung to the vision, desperate to see more, to taste more, to drink in the strange land through borrowed lips.

  Hoofbeats echoed. A donkey caravan approached, its guards relaxed, inattentive. Weak. Her host’s contempt was sharp and cold, a blade honed by experience. Their carelessness offended him.

  He let the first guard pass. The middle one wasn’t so lucky. She felt the taut string of the bow, the brief resistance of release. The arrow struck true. The guard collapsed, skull pierced, brain matter spraying across the rocky road. Her host felt nothing. No triumph, no hesitation. Only disdain.

  Chaos erupted. Around her, his companions surged forward. Steel met flesh. Cries of panic split the air. Bodies crumpled onto blood-soaked earth. Her borrowed hands reached for another arrow—

  No. No.

  She tore herself free with a violent gasp. The world lurched. Bile rose in her throat, and she doubled over, heaving onto the floor. The acrid sting on her tongue was nothing compared to the aftertaste the memory left behind. The oily, clinging filth of her host’s soulless disdain.

  The memory still felt hers. As if she’d drawn the bow, loosed the arrow, reveled in that sickening superiority.

  But she wouldn’t have. She couldn’t.

  And yet... she had.

  Hadn’t she?

  A gentle whisper pulled her back. “You stayed too long.” He sounded concerned, and guilty.

  She blinked, looking up at him. He seemed sick, too—his pallor more pronounced, his shoulders weighed down by the memory.

  She’d been careless again, staying too long, but he hadn’t harmed her.

  “Why… why do I feel so awful?” she eked out.

  “When a memory opposes your nature, your conscience struggles to reconcile the gap,” he explained. “It’s dangerous if you do it often, but this one will pass. Soon it’ll either change to fit you or fade, discarded like a bad dream.”

  Her breaths came easier as he talked, and the nausea subsided. Bit by bit, she regained control, though only when she didn’t dwell on the memory. She could hear the regret in his tone as he continued.

  “I shouldn’t have shown you that one. I have little experience with novices. I thought I could guide you better.” He hesitated. “But now you see. You see how vile they are—the people I hunt.”

  She nodded, still too shaken for words.

  “Why don’t you rest, while I learn more from Khordad here?”

  She was grateful for the reprieve, for the chance to sit quietly and piece herself back together. Watching him work, she marveled at how much he endured. He moved methodically, extracting and drinking memories one by one, each one chipping away at him. She could see it in the tremor of his hands, the tightening of his jaw, the increasing pallor of his skin.

  “Is your work making you so unwell?” she finally asked. “The memories—drinking them. Is that why your hands always shake?”

  His lips curled into a tired smile. “The duty must be done,” he said simply. As if that explained everything.

  Guilt stabbed her. It would’ve been kinder to kill him earlier—no one should endure so much before death. He deserved better. At least one good memory before his end.

  “You should cleanse your palate,” she said softly. “Drink something joyful.”

  His eyes lit with quiet approval, a flicker of warmth cutting through his weariness. “Exactly. After a bad memory, it’s essential. You must reinforce yourself—absorb memories that reflect who you want to be. It’s the most important part.”

  He glanced at where she slumped on the wet ground. “You should, too.”

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He hadn’t hurt her, so she doubted he would now. Another glimpse at the world … she didn’t hate the idea.

  “Do you have…” He hesitated, weighing his words. “Some virtuous corpses?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ruth stood, brushing herself off. “This way. They’re from a company of adventurers—here to remove a lich from an old sarcophagus.”

  A flicker of unease crossed his face, despite her magic compelling him to trust her.

  “We didn’t kill them,” she snapped. Why couldn’t he think as highly of her as she did of him? “They fell to a curse. We only kill the ones who try to rob us. And bandits. The rest—” she gestured to a nearby corpse, its chest torn open— “fell to monsters. See? A claw made that slash.” She was rambling now, defensive. She took a steadying breath. “We only … consume them to replenish our magic. Clean sources are hard to come by in our wastelands. Most magic is corrupted—tainted by undead and night terrors and—”

  “Ruth,” he interrupted gently. “I trust you. Dead is dead.”

  Disarmed, she smiled back. “Dead is dead.” Why did his approval matter so much to her? Pushing the thought aside, she gestured to the shelves. “Here they are. An archer, a knight, a—”

  “Wait,” he interrupted, his tone serious. “Before we begin, you need to understand something. Memories shape who you are. It’s best to take only those that align with your goals, your nature.” He paused, his gaze meeting hers. “So, who do you want to be?”

  She opened her mouth, but no answer came.

  He didn’t push, instead answering for himself. “I try to hold on to my sense of duty. I failed once—when my father died. I can’t let that happen again, so I take memories of bravery, honor … anything to remind me of the person I need to be.”

  Ruth swallowed hard. His words hit closer than she cared to admit. Duty—her family relied on her to keep them safe. She didn’t want to think about it now.

  “Maybe…” she began, “maybe it wouldn’t hurt to feel confident. Or competent. Or… No.” She trailed off, searching for the right words. Then she had it. She looked up into his dark, kind eyes. “I want to feel what an explorer feels. The awe. The wonder. Show me the world.”

  ***

  They began with the corpse of a female adventurer. The Wanderer inspected it with reverence. “A sorceress,” he noted, his fingers brushing the magical earrings studding her ear. “And from far away, judging by her dark skin. Likely an adventurer in every sense to get this far.”

  He showed Ruth how to gently ply open her skull. “We’ll avoid the strongest memories. Those can be… overwhelming, especially for someone new—as you now know. But nothing too dull either.”

  They worked together, she—mostly watching, he—explaining every step of the way.

  “This one,” he said, offering her the finished vial, “is positive. Old, but deeply cherished.”

  With trepidation, she drank. This time, the slimy gunk went down more easily.

  The sharp tang of salt replaced the spicy sweetness on her tongue. A playful wind tugged at her black curls and oilskin coat. The sea stretched out before her, endless and alive, its waves shimmering under a sky so blue it seemed surreal.

  And she—both of her—loved it. Ruth marveled at the salty air, new and wondrous beneath the adventurer's old love: for the homely taste of the sea, for the freedom of the wind, for the boundless horizon.

  They were a girl again, accompanying their father on their first voyage, finally old enough to leave the safe harbor for the wild sea. Their first adventure.

  The joy was so vivid it nearly brought them both to tears. In perfect synchrony, Ruth and her host felt the ache of longing, the thrill of stepping into the unknown, the unshakable belief that the world was full of wonders waiting for her.

  When the memory ended, Ruth was left sitting still, the faint tang of salt lingering on her lips and the sense of something vast just out of reach.

  “Give me more.”