In a world where magic is powered by emotions, psychologists and counsellors are regarded as highly dangerous.

In a world where magic is powered by emotions, psychologists and counsellors are regarded as highly dangerous.

The sword wept sorrow.

That was the first thing that went through Roger’s head as he stared at the figure in the distance. Riding over the hillside, long banners trailing behind them, the world rotted and decayed.

A knight of winter, who bore the truths of depression.

Not meant to be here, in the world of the polar, where the great engines under the earth siphoned off the excess foibles and emotions of the populace.

He swallowed, and took a step forward, slipping out of the shelter of the great building swelling off of the hill, embossed with his name and the name of his practice.

Removing excess emotions was an important task in the Polar states, to keep the power running.

But the sword wept sorrow as Roger stared straight ahead. His steed bore the telltale signs of famine and death, barely moving forward as the knight of yellow rode forward. Faster than the horse. Faster than the horse could possibly move, but still moving as if the horse were full of energy.

Depression crashed in mightily and fast.

It was a terrifying sight.

But he had dealt with worse.

“HALT! IN THE NAME OF THE KING!” Roger yelled, standing his ground.

The knight didn’t hesitate and kept right on riding straight.

“I said, Halt in the name of the good mage King Freud!”

And at that, the knight slowed to a halt, a slow steady canter, and then halted in front of Roger.

“The Mad king Freud is dead. Take me to your leader immediately, or I will add you to the list to be mourned.”

The sword of sorrows flicked forward, and Roger stared at the blade. He could hear the screams, and the dismay, and the cries from the enchanted blade.

Heathen magics, from the dark corners of illnesses. Dark things that had never meant to be purified in such a manner. Grass wilted. Flowers died. The spring became winter.

And the best man he had ever known, who had tamed the languid waves of the east, who had made trade possible, was dead.

Roger’s fingers curled into fists as he stared at the knight. “By whose power do you come this way?”

The knight’s finger’s tangled up across the yellow helmet and removed it, revealing a feminine face. “Mine. Mary. And what a strange situation we’ve found ourselves in.”