Many of you have probably heard of Suzanne Collins because she wrote the popular Hunger Games series, but before that, she wrote another series, Gregor the Overlander. This middle-grade series centers around an eleven-year-old boy who falls deep underground into another world called the Underland. The Underland is populated by pale-skinned, violet-eyed humans who live in the stone city of Regalia, and giant animals including bats (aka Flyers), rats (aka Gnawers), cockroaches (aka Crawlers), and others. Over the course of five books, Gregor, his little sister Boots, and their Underland friends, including the young queen Luxa, get caught up in adventures all centered around several prophesies concerning the Underland.

We have been listening to this series over the summer with Dad on road trips; we are about a third through the fifth and final book. It has been so much fun! As is with most debut series, the books get better as they go on. Gregor’s little sister, Boots, is two in the first book and three by the last. She is hilarious and makes the books delightful. The world-building is excellent (Suzanne Collins appears to have taken a lot of inspiration from Redwall). The giant animals are creative and bring a lot of excitement to the story, as well as the unique locations in the Underland.

As in the Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins is not one to shy away from death, betrayal, and tragedy. But as the characters fight to survive and save those they love, they learn a lot about friendship, trust, grief, overcoming prejudice, when to kill and when to lay down weapons (this in particular gives food for thought), and the consequences of actions.

Content Concerns:

There is not a lot of content concerns in this series.

There is a lot of fighting and death.

There is some mild potty humor (particularly in the third book), but not a lot.

In order to save his friends and family, Gregor (and his friends) disobey his parents and other authority figures.

In the last book (and a little bit at the end of the fourth), there is the beginning of an awkward romance between 12-year-olds. (We haven’t finished the last book, but so far it’s been handled pretty well.)

A long-dead man named Bartholomew of Sandwich, the founder of Regalia, had visions and carved many prophecies into the walls of Regalia. Nerissa, Luka’s cousin, has prophetic visions as well. No explanation is given of where the visions come from.

By Susanna Patrick

• It feels like too many thoughts crowd my mind to settle on any musings, but here goes... 

• I purchased clearance plants for $1. I have a girlfriend who always resurrects plants from the clearance section. Fingers crossed I can keep them alive!

• We spent time in Plainview with my family. It was perfect. Cooler temperatures. Beautiful wide, open skies. More stars than you can count. Cousins laughing so loudly we had to ask them to go outside. It is always a sweet time. We’ll be back soon!

• My nephew heard a guy at a conference say this time on earth is the only time where we will be able to trust Jesus and praise Him from a place of brokenness, heartache, unexpected loss and unfulfilled longs, from a place of deep hurt and sometimes deep doubt. Only here, in this dark before the dawn can we worship in this in way. Wow.

• I am a gatherer. It is one of those gifts that is not necessarily found in the Bible. At least not in those terms. But I notice people and want to draw them in. I want them to know they are seen, and known, and loved. Created in the very image of God. I’ve been praying about what that gathering of people looks like for the kingdom. How can I be intentional about not just bringing people in, but sharing with them the love of a Savior who died for their sins? I am praying for wisdom. And opportunity. And faithfulness in those things He puts before me. 

• Sis starts at Texas A&M in just a few short weeks. Josiah is applying for jobs. Nathaniel gets his learner’s permit this month. This growing up is happening faster than I’d like and yet what a joy it is to watch these kids walk in those things we have been preparing them to walk in. And talk about the deep things of God and the not so clear things of our world. And serve each other, and their dad and me, and a whole host of others. And enjoy this life God has given them. It is as it should be. Even if my heart is full, and I seem to cry more easily in this current season, I am so grateful.

• And Seth. Right now he is the maker of comics and snow cones. The grower of sprouts and the decorator of ceiling fans. He is the lover of the Bible on audio, books on audio, and music. And he has quit looking like a little boy and begun looking like a young man. But he can still fit on my lap, especially if it means he’ll get his back scratched. I am going to delight in every moment with him. 

By Monica Patrick

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles.” – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4. 

The Lord can help you; let Him. When we think of God helping us, we often overlook that it’s not just about sitting back and letting God do everything. We must do what God asks us to do, and then trust God will do the rest. Fixing our problems isn’t merely about asking God for help; it also involves working to do what we can while God gives us the strength to do it. God is a gracious God; just let Him help you.

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” – Isaiah 41:10

By Seth Patrick.

Augus sat upon the cold, hard bench, his back slightly bent to account for the slope of the tent wall behind him. The air was cold and crisp, but he was clothed in thick furs, and the tent walls blocked the biting easterly wind that had swept over the Ardogy Plains for the last several days.

The tent flap on the far side from him was pulled aside as a young man dressed in very light armor covered by a grey cloak entered. Augus examined him carefully; he was certainly strong, but so were all his captors. However, this was the first one he’d seen who appeared to be under forty. Could he be the famed King of Alrinya? No, while the man was certainly young enough, he bore a slender white scar on the left side of his chin which carried upwards onto his cheek. The Colshmerians knew little of King Corin Alston, but one thing was consistent throughout all reports of those who’d seen him. His face was untouched by any blade.

“Vigilant Augus,” the young man hesitatingly said, “That is your name, correct?”

“That is the name I gave to the men who captured me, and as I told them, Colshmerian Vigilants don’t lie.” The boy nodded, but Augus could see doubt plainly painted on his face. Augus didn’t blame him.

“Very well, sir, I have been sent to inform you that a rider has been set off to inform the King of your capture. He should arrive as soon as possible to determine your fate.” Augus nodded, he could already tell by the great quantity of furniture in the tent that he was in the king’s room, the fact that King Corin wasn’t meant he must be on the field. So, their plan hadn’t worked, Colshmerian forces had launched a powerful assault three hours ago, and just like all those before it, they had been forced back. But immediately after, hoping to catch the Alrinyan forces off guard, they had sent two groups of soldiers along the far eastern and far western edges of the Ardogy Plains. Augus had been in the eastern group.

He hadn’t seen the king on the battlefield, so he must be leading the western defense. Augus sighed, the Colshmerians had been fighting for years to break through this line and thus flank the main Karldarian army from the side. If they could, they’d have enough leverage to push the vast force back north and into the sea, hopefully for good. But Augus had grown tired of this endless attack, of the whole war.

“What do you expect my fate to be?” Augus asked the man. He half hoped he’d be sent to the Karldarian army. Being held a prisoner was certainly less taxing on a man than being the head of logistics for a large force that was constantly losing.

“I don’t know, Sir. He may send you back as a prisoner; more likely he’ll let you wander back to your side. I guess that depends on whether he finds you useful; he may just kill you.”

“He wouldn’t dare kill a Vigilant!” Augus replied, his voice laced with poorly disguised fear. “We’re protected under the Ueldrean treaty of armies. It would be treason against law and honor itself. Surely you haven’t become so barbarous!”

The soldier’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam. “We’re not barbarous at all.” He replied curtly. “The king just gets a little overfocused on his goals at times. He’s a more honorable man than you Merns will ever be.” Merns was a shortened term for Colshmerians, although they never used it themselves. Only the Northern people of the once great Ueldrean Empire used the stand-in. Other Kingdoms had names for the Colshmerians, of course, but they were even less polite, and the Colshmerians were in no hurry to inform the Karldarians of yet another way to insult them.

Augus attempted to lean back on his bench only to almost fall due to the unstable fabric wall. He leaned forward instead, knitting his brows together in concentration. He had heard much of this King of the Alrinyans, a man who was feared on the battlefield almost as much as death itself. It was said he fought like a hundred men, casting his weapons from side to side, killing all in his path. Colshmerian generals discouraged such talk. Of course, it was Karldarian propaganda at its finest. But it was hard to stop rumors, especially with so many witnesses. Corin was certainly a fine soldier by even the most down-to-earth accounts. His father had been as well.

Augus had known King Corin’s father, the late King of Alrinyan; they had been friends once, before this bloody time, when the already fractured kingdoms of the once most feared Empire in the known world, fought and killed each other with no remorse. King Elmer had been a master fighter, but always the last into battle. He was the best of men, a man of peace whenever possible, but unhesitating in bringing the full force of his army to battle when necessary.

Augus wished Elmer had been able to train up his son, that the young boy would’ve been able to inherit not only his father’s proficiency with the blade, but also his noble heart. But Elmer wasn’t perfect; he, like all the Karldarian kingdoms, had stormed the Colshmerians here in the frozen lands and slaughtered thousands of their people all over a land dispute.

Elmer had never been a killer, not like his son; he fought, yes, but he never enjoyed it. There was always a deep mourning over the lives lost. King Corin was said to regret nothing; he had killed so many men that the more primitive Colshmerians kingdoms like the Organsheds didn’t have a number big enough to count the lives he had ended, the wives he had widowed, the children now fatherless. Oh yes, King Corin was a killer alright. There was a different name for him, a name Colshmerian leaders never used, it added to his legend too much. But Colshmerian soldiers as well as Karldarians used it. He knew they did. They called him the Reaper King.

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A few hours earlier:

Bennett Terrinduke watched as the sunrise lit up the eastern horizon. They were just about to set out into the Ardogy Plains, and Bennett feared they would not come back. “Father,” he said in his native Darklorer tongue, “haven’t you told the Organsheds not to attack during the day? It is foolishness. Are they trying to get you killed?” Bennett’s father, simply called Terrinduke, since all Darklorers abandoned their first name when they reached adulthood, replied in a tired voice.

“They will not listen; they say their plan depends on striking at the same time as another force. They say it will give them a better chance of breaking through.”

“But haven’t you explained to them that no man can oppose a DarkWalker at night? Not in the wilderness certainly. And what is so important about getting such a meager force through the pass anyway?” Bennet would not have called two hundred men meager before. Darklorers had never kept a standing military; the DarkWalkers had always been strong enough to protect them. Not anymore. The largest force he’d ever seen before crossing the Grondarian Sea was ten armed men. It had seemed like a lot then. But that had been nothing when compared with the massive armies of tens of thousands that smashed against each other in the frozen lands. That hadn’t taken the most to get used to, though, neither had the incredibly pale skin that the men possessed; it was like the insides of trees when newly cut. No, the hardest part to grow accustomed to had been the cold. He had never experienced any place like the Frozen Lands. The Darklorers were meant for the sun. For heat on their backs and cool water at their feet. These great mountains of stone unnerved him.

“They want to be able to crush the defenders between two forces.” Terrinduke said with a sigh. “And of course, I’ve informed them of when I can be most useful. They either won’t listen to me, or can’t understand my Ueldrean,” he said with a small smile.

“I fear it is the former,” Bennett replied. “Once we have killed this ‘Reaper King’ will we have completed our honor breach? Will our servitude be over?”

“Almost, we are very close. But I fear that instead I will die today and you will be left alone to finish the breach, as well as avenge my death.”

“Don’t say such things, Father! You are the most powerful DarkWalker in generations. Even in the day, you still have your night packets. No mere men should be able to touch you.”

“Don’t underestimate mortal man, Bennett. It has been the unmaking of our people for thousands of years. But now I must go. You will receive the sign tonight, whether I have been killed. I will miss you, Dark Son.”

“I will miss you, Dark Father.” Bennett said, returning the customary farewell. But as Terrinduke walked away, the hundreds of pale men hurrying around him, Bennett felt a sickening feeling form in the pit of his stomach. It’s a good thing Darklorers don’t believe in premonitions.

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Present:

Corin Alston, the oldest heir of his house, finest swordsmen east of the Grondarian sea, leader of the Reaper Commandos, and deadliest man to walk the Frozen Lands, lay a foot deep in the snow. His breathing was ragged but controlled. His body cried out for more oxygen, his powerful muscles begged to force himself free of this snowy prison. But he refused them, placating his body with only the meager amount of air available to him.

The snow was cold, of course, but he had little exposed skin, and that which did touch the frozen water felt on fire with pain. This pain kept him awake, kept him sharp. He was glad for it. The rest of his body was coated in a thick cloak, which, when covered by the deep snow, compressed his body under the many layers, causing him to sweat cold drops of liquid. His light armor was still cold; it hadn’t had much time to thaw, but his skin was protected from touching even the chainmail by thick wool clothing.

Corin lay flat in the snow, only his head cocked so his right ear was as near to the surface as possible. He had buried himself here forty minutes ago, along with the twenty men around him. He could imagine them now, a Reaper Commando lying just ten feet to his right, another to his left. The Reapers were a strange bunch, formed nearly five thousand years ago in the early days of the Alrinyan kingdom. They were an elite group of the kingdom’s finest soldiers, about sixty strong. They had long acted as a sort of special forces, taking orders directly from the current king.

King Corin himself was a Reaper, the first royal Reaper ever. It was a strange phenomenon that led him to this role, one steeped in tragedy. That’s how he’s earned his unofficial title, “Reaper King,” although recently it had taken on an entirely different, far darker meaning.

The Reapers lay here in the snow, plotting to ambush the advancing Organshed army, which was currently further down the valley. Above them was the hilly ground of hard-packed snow. It rose and fell in thick drifts, making it hard to see far. Small shrubs and half-dead bushes filled the plain, and nearer the far sides, trees shot up, becoming thick woods in some places. On either side, to the east and west, great walls of hard grey stone rose like the hands of the AllMaker himself. The Ardogy Plains were more a canyon than they were actual plains, except instead of being dug into the earth like some great trench, they shot up into the air with huge mountains atop them. It created an almost tunnel-like effect, especially nearer the middle. At the far ends, the plains were roughly twelve miles wide; in fact, you could hardly see the far wall if you were next to one. But in the center, the pass narrowed until, at its thinnest, it was only thirty feet wide. Only eight war horses could pass through abreast of one another.

The Ardogy Plains were an incredibly easy pass to defend against an army. The flat ground made it simple to traverse, and the huge walls protected it from the fierce easterly and westerly winds that swept down from the Ardogy Mountains. Sure, it amplified the Northern winds, but those were so weak to begin with that they never reached the true wrath of a western gale. The Ardogy Plains had widely been considered the easiest and fastest pass through the mountains before the Red War. But now the Reapers held them.

An army would have to completely rearrange its marching pattern to fit through the narrow center; the two fields on either side of the choke point were incredibly exposed with no cover. And while it was difficult to climb the natural stone barriers, it could be done, and from that location a single determined archer could kill hundreds, all on his own, too high for returning fire and able to shoot any who tried to follow him. Finally, there were the woods. It was impossible to keep a large army organized when marching through such bramble. And there were no paths suitable for organized cavalry.

Suddenly, a trumpet blared through the air, deep and loud. If one had good hearing, he would be able to hear it echo of the stone walls many times before it finally escaped into the open sky. Such a trumpet blast in the narrowest part of the plains would be deafening.

At the sound, Corin leapt to his feet, his broad shoulders and powerful back shoving away the heavy snow with little effort. It must have been terrifying. A long line of Reaper Commandos rising out of the snow, evenly spaced ten feet apart. They must have looked like great undead hunters from fire-side stories, here to kill not only the soldiers’ bodies, but their souls as well.

The Organshed force was only two hundred men strong, twenty of whom were cavalry. They didn’t ride horses, though. Here in the Frozen Lands, hooves sank deep into the snow, making the poor beasts slow and useless. No, here they rode Sporlacks. Sporlacks were odd, rabbit-like creatures with six legs, two strong legs in the back, like normal, and another set in the front. And typical rabbit forelegs in the middle. Additionally, they have a long, flexible neck, which allows them to eat the grass dug up by their middle paws.

The Reaper scouts had been spot on with the riders’ positions; they always were. Now each Reaper Commando faced a sporlack directly in front of him. Twenty to twenty. Corin let his muscle memory take over; the Commandos practiced this multi-purpose attack often, and King Corin needed little cognitive thought to execute the motions. Crouch, draw blade, slash upward at the mount, right foot out to the side, slide left foot into position, thrust through the rider’s ribs, aim for the heart, sheath blade, repeat. Only this time, Corin didn’t repeat; it wasn’t training. Dark red blood fell on the white snow; it always looked odd there, out of place perhaps. Just a patch of red in a land where the most color you’d see was a dull green or possibly a tan. It was almost as if the AllMaker had intended it as a warning that he did not intend for blood to be spilt in the Frozen Lands. He probably didn’t want blood to be spilt anywhere, Corin thought with a thin smile. He and the AllMaker probably wouldn’t get along.

All the Reapers had moved in sync, and all twenty Sporaks and their mounts fell to the earth. The Organshed army was at first shocked, then outraged. They charged the Reapers as the grey sky looked down on their bloodshed from above. This was not going to be fun. Corin’s blade moved like an extension of his arm, swift and deadly. Men fell around him in piles as the shining silver cut its deadly figure eight arc through the air.

It might appear a random swinging of the blade from side to side, but each stroke was precise, deadly. Corin didn’t bother hacking at men, blowing through their defenses and cutting their hearts out. No, as long as he could kill a man without stopping his sword trajectory, he was happy. It was a game of angles. Speed, reflexes, and angles. Whenever a sword thrust came his way, Corin’s blade would move in a blur to intercept. The two would meet, and Corin’s blade would slide down, naturally seeking greater leverage. He wouldn’t block the blow; he would deflect it. Then the razor-sharp edge of his weapon would make a slash, shallow but deadly. He tried to slit the windpipes, which was fastest. But when it wasn’t an option, he’d settle for a quick, precise stab. Under the arm and into the heart, through the temple piercing the brain, past the neck, severing the spine. It was a work of art, this mass murder of his. Something he had spent his whole life training for, preparing for. Did he want this? To be known as the man who could kill? Did he wish his name to be the Reaper King? A man who couldn’t be slain? Corin didn’t know, and he didn’t have the luxury of wondering. This war was his life; it was his duty to hold this pass. To kill these men. And he would do it.

A man attacked him, axe swinging downward in a powerful stroke. The idea had probably been to make the blow impossible to block. Corin didn’t intend to block. Handle up and blade point down, Corin lifted his weapon into the air, catching the edges of their weapons together. As he slid his pummel towards the man’s head, the massive axe was deflected six inches to the left. It slammed down hard in the snow, undoubtedly sending vibrations up the man’s arms. Crack! The blow of Corin’s sword pommel against the man’s head resounded throughout the battlefield. Corin continued his sideways motion, carefully rotating his blade so that the arm guards did not interfere. His sword slashed across the soldier’s exposed neck in a blur. Another man attacked him, bringing a wide, sideways cut with a sword. The form was terrible. Corin’s blade flashed forward in a simple fencing stab. It slid up under the man’s chin, through his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and into his brain.

Corin took a step back, surveying the battlefield. The Reapers were making quick work of their opponents. There had been two Quorlacks. Huge monsters with long claws and spikes along their back. Perhaps two Quorlacks could be a match for a weaker Commando. They were certainly huge. But the beasts were too dumb to work as a team, and now they both lay dead in the cold snow, their blue blood looking out of place in the now fully red sludge that had been the snow.

He heard a cry shoot through the air and turned just in time to see a strange man attacking him from behind. How had he gotten there? Corin was sure no one had flanked him. The man was tall, not particularly muscular, but not weak either. The lean arms wielded a curved blade that was formed of a strange black metal, dark as pitch. The man’s skin was dark too, not impossibly dark, he supposed, but far darker than any shade of brown he’d seen. Certainly, darker than the Organshed soldiers around them.

The man attacked with a swift downward slash, one hand behind his back. Corin lunged back easily, avoiding the blade but readying a defensive stance nonetheless. This man was skilled. Dangerously so. He was likely no match for Corin even on a bad day; few men were, but the man was not Organshed. He clearly was not a political leader, or he would not be attacking. That left only one obvious reason for him being here: he was a Hogmacarty of some sort. Hogmacarty was a blanket term for any human who could wield magic. There were hundreds of kinds. Simeon, Corin’s second in command, could wield Alasca magic. But somehow Corin doubted they’d send a simple Alasca wielder into battle. No, this man was something else.

He attacked with great speed and moderate skill. Additionally, he seemed to fight desperately, like a man trying to end a duel as quickly as possible. It made him easy to kill, but difficult to survive. Corin danced back and forth as his feet subconsciously shifted, balancing his weight, keeping him just out of reach. He parried blow after blow, occasionally returning strikes which almost always hit. But the man never exposed himself for a killing strike. Was it talent? Luck? Perhaps a mix of both.

Finally, he charged, coming very close. The two swords smashed together, silver on black. Out of the corner of his eye, Corin saw the man shift his foot; he was preparing to kick his leg out and disrupt Corin’s balance. Corin stepped forward, slamming his foot down on the man’s ankle. They were close now. Very close. Suddenly, his opponent's hand left his handle in a blur, shooting for his pocket. Expecting a knife, Corin’s forearm began to twist into a defensive position, his muscles moving quickly while his mind struggled to keep up. Blam!

A blast of dark matter slammed into him, flinging him backward, into the snow. It was a stream of darkness that seemed to swallow all light around it. The stuff felt cold, clammy, and deadly. It was all over in a second, and Corin saw the strange man toss a small leather bag to the ground before leaping at him. Corin rolled, his leg kicking it out and tripping the man. They both fell, then stood at the same time and attacked once again. But it was different this time. Corin was on the offensive. His blade moved in an intricate blur, slicing and slashing. The dark-skinned man backed away fast, fighting viciously to protect his body from Corin’s stinging blade. Finally, with one intricate maneuver, Corin stopped, briefly stepping back to glare at the man.

The fighter quickly shoved his hand back in his pocket only to realize, there was no pocket. The fabric pouch that had once been part of his jacket was now impaled on the tip of Corin’s sword. He threw the contents out, four small bags, all full of something. Without hesitating, Corin slashed his sword across all the pouches, and each one exploded, releasing the same burst of dark shadow. Without the man to wield it however, the substance dissipated quickly, changing nothing on the battlefield.

Corin spun his blade slowly. He approached with care, his eyes locked on the man’s. This time, he showed no mercy. Cut after precise cut, drew blood, each one closer to his heart. He easily blocked a desperate stab and hooked his arm guard around the other man’s handle. With a quick twist, he left his opponent completely disarmed. Raising his sword, Corin brought it down with speed and energy, intending to slice the man clean in two, from top to bottom. At the last moment, the dark-skinned assailant crouched down low. No, not crouched, shrunk. He became a living shadow, a moving, twisting form of darkness flat on the ground. The form (which really did look just like a shadow) moved, sweeping across the ground. It was fast, but not impossibly so. So that’s how he got behind me, Corin thought. He hoped the strange Hogmacarty had no more tricks; this one was bad enough.

The form twisted upward, forming again into the shape of a man. He was about to turn and run, most likely to get another weapon, but Corin’s knife was too fast. The precise projectile bit deep into his calf; a back hit wouldn’t have killed him, not at this range. But now he was completely immobile. Corin charged him at full speed, his right arm wielding his sword, ready to end another life. His left hand reached into his cloak, seizing a dagger, not the light-throwing kind, a far deadlier weapon, designed for hand-to-hand combat. He drew the knife out of its sheath but didn’t reveal it. Turning, the dark man produced his own knife, which was very similar to Corin’s, except it was made of the same black metal as his sword.

The figure held the knife in a ready position, eyes determined, features set. They were within two feet now, Corin’s blade swinging, inches from the man’s neck. At the last possible moment, the warrior vanished, returning into his shadow form and flashing under Corin in a burst of lightning speed. He rematerialized behind the Reaper King, knife held high, poised to strike. Thunk. Corin’s blade passed through his cloak and into the man’s abdomen. The Hogmacarty coughed, blood splattering his dark lips. He looked at Corin for a moment, then collapsed. Corin looked at him for a moment. It had been a good fight; such deaths used to affect him, used to stir his soul. Not anymore.

The battle was over in a few more minutes. Corin had killed ten more Organsheds, but most had died while he was preoccupied. Only two Reapers were wounded. A man named Hulkler, who had been lightly slashed in the arm by a spear (it didn’t even bleed really). And Zarine, who had been cut slightly by a Quorlack. After bandaging the wounds, they began the return to camp. They had all rested after the battle, catching their breath and sipping water. Now the sun was beginning to set below the tall peaks to the west. That was another disadvantage to the Ardogy Plains, the sun rose late and set early. It would grow cold soon, dangerously so. They could survive such temperatures easily of course; they had built their bodies up to survive almost anything. But soon the armor they had worn to battle would freeze, making it hard to move. Best to get back as soon as possible.

They set out in a brisk jog, slow by Reaper standards (they were very tired after all) but fast for a normal man. The crunch of their boots on the snow was satisfying, and the cold breeze biting King Corin’s face and filling his lungs made him feel alive. He loved to run, all Reapers were incredibly fast, but most preferred riding mounts. It was more efficient of course, faster and all. But for Corin, nothing could beat the thrill of wind on his face and hard ground beneath his feet. Additionally, he enjoyed the challenge of it. Running was and always would be a battle of mind versus body, the body crying out to stop, the mind forcing it onward. No matter how hard you trained, how fast you got, it was always hard. Few things were hard for Corin now, and running made him feel human, like he could be stopped. He liked that.

They reached camp in just under two hours. It was just outside of the Plains, where the western winds could still hit them, but it was worth it for the extra four hours of daylight provided when not surrounded by the mountains. Before they were even within six hundred feet, Corin felt a tingle in the back of his brain. A thought from Simeon. Simeon was a fierce Reaper; he had led the Commandos before Corin took over command. Additionally, Simeon could wield Alasca Magic, an incredibly difficult form to learn but one of a very few that could be wielded by all humans regardless of their genetics. Alasca Magic could change the state of objects, make them hot or cold, heavy or light, or even alter their color. But learning such skills was incredibly time-consuming and required access to a Hogmacarty master. Simeon was the only man Corin knew who could wield the power, although he only ever used it to receive or send messages over distance. An incredibly useful ability in a field commander. Simeon could send a request to which one would simply answer mentally, and he’d hear the intended response. What was harder was sending thoughts. Simeon could send at most three words, though that was incredibly difficult for the man. He usually stuck to one or two.

Right now, the older soldier would want a report. Corin cleared his mind, mentally cleared his throat (this always seemed to help him begin the strange messages), and sent: “All good. No casualties, plan was as expected, enemy neutralized.” Corin waited a moment before receiving a reply.

“Prisoner.”