[r.] I know you will follow me until kingdom come [18+]

Something was wrong.

Elespeth couldn’t understand or explain the unease that crept into her bones and settled permanently into her core, first just as a seed, but then growing incessantly and entirely out of control. It had been roughly a quarter of an hour since Haraldur had left to lead Captain Solveig into this trap, and neither she nor Sigrid had any inkling of just how long the feat should take; and they couldn’t plan for what they did not know. It was not as though an unreasonable amount of time had passed, since she and the Dawn warrior had taken up position in the defunct grain storage, shielded from view from the enchantment on Elespeth’s sword, and she had no reason to voice her concerns, but that feeling in the pit of her stomach grew and grew until it could not be ignored, anymore.

“...something is wrong.” She whispered to Sigrid, who clutched her shortsword, tainted with devil’s draught, in an offensive position. “I can’t explain… but something doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?” Came the Dawn warrior’s reply. But not even for a moment did Sigrid take her eyes off of the window, awaiting the eventual arrival of their comrade venturing down the path, their target in tow.

Before Elespeth had a chance to respond, the very people they were expecting appeared over a foothill--and no sooner did Sigrid spot the woman who was unmistakably Captain Solveig that she understood the nature of the former knight’s concern. The gigantic woman was not taking a leisurely stroll; nor was Haraldur leading. Rather, she was making a beeline for the abandoned grain storage, while Haraldur was in tow. Something was wrong; this was not the demeanor of someone being led into a trap…

“Don’t move. Don’t speak--don’t even breathe.” Elespeth warned, before Solveig was on them, kicking the crate from the doorway with ease. So she’d found them out… somehow, by some means, she must have caught wind of their scheme, and decided to turn the tables, catching them completely unawares. But… what of Haraldur? Why wasn’t he trying to stop this disaster? The Atvanian warrior spared a glance at her comrade, and the look in his eyes chilled her. Cold, detached… not the man she knew. And not the comrade who was supposed to have their backs.

Solveig goaded them, claiming knowledge of their magical trickery, but neither the Dawn warrior nor the former knight moved a muscle. That was, until Solveig’s fist made contact with Elespeth’s arm. The Atvanian warrior gasped, falling off balance, barely managing to keep a grip on her weapon as she broke her fall… along with the spell concealing herself and Sigrid from view. “Your blood doesn’t interest me.” She managed, every angle of her face sharpening into a hate-filled glare. “Your downfall does.”

Though she did not speak of it, Elespeth had run this scenario over in her head hundreds of times. Each time, she took Solveig down, in different ways, by different methods, delivering that final blow that would put her under their control. Each time, she was successful, full of hope and redeemed honour, retribution served… but not this time. Not when it counted. Now, things were playing out very differently, in ways that she hadn’t predicted. Before she could right herself, the Forbanne Captain grabbed a hold of her wrist and twisted, until a painful, sickening pop forced her to drop her weapon, rendering her completely unarmed, and in no way capable of fighting the giant of a woman before her. Turning her head, she prepared to call to Sigrid or Haraldur for help, but… neither of them were available, locked as they were in combat--against one another. In all the ways the three of them had brainstormed that this could go wrong… this was not one of the scenarios they’d anticipated.

In a desperate reflex, Elespeth lunged for her dropped weapon, but Solveig was faster, and kicked it to the other side of the building, entirely out of the former knight’s reach… and it didn’t end there. The Forbanne Captain was quick to seize her by the collar of her shirt, and lifted her feet from the ground, as though she weighed nothing. It was her instinct to struggle and claw at the enormous woman’s wrist, but she was no more effective than a mosquito bite. And in a show of power, Solveig rushed her into the wall. Pain exploded in her skull, her shoulders, her back, and her legs; she couldn’t draw air into her lungs as the Forbanne Captain slammed her so hard against the wood again and again that it splintered, and blood began to seep from her crown. And all she could do was watch, helpless and in pain, as the Dawn warrior and the Eyraillian prince were locked in a battle that neither of them seemed to be able to control.

Sigrid knew immediately on seeing her cousin that something was off--had known before, in fact, when Solveig barreled into the building, with Haraldur in tow, making no move to stop the Mollengardian Captain. “No… Haraldur!” At the first swing of his word, the Dawn warrior dodged out of the way. “It’s me, Haraldur! Gods, what did that bitch do to you?”

While she had faith that his blade would not penetrate her, thanks to Alster’s enchantment, Sigrid was more concerned with maintaining a defensive stance that prevented her from harming her ally. Alster had enchanted her sword not to do harm onto her friends, as well, but Gaolithe was still strapped to her back--and that sword did not care who was friend or foe. Only that fingers other than hers were touching it. “I won’t fight you!” She hissed, dodging and pivoting from his attacks on nimble legs. “Haraldur, stop! You have to remember yourself--don’t do this!” If something happened to her, or to Elespeth (whose safety had already been compromised and broken, she realized with a sickening lurch of her stomach), the Eyraillian prince would never forgive himself. It didn’t matter that his mind was somehow under the influence of Captain Solveig; if his hand dealt a harmful or fatal blow, she did not know that he would ever recover. Not even for Vega…

Wait… Vega. The Dawn warrior recalled that just the other day, she’d noted he was no longer wearing his wedding band, likely because it would be an obvious tell when he confronted Solveig. It was around that same time that she’d glimpsed at a chain around his neck, one that only occasionally poked out from the collar of his shirt, catching a half-second of sunlight. She could only guess as to what was on that chain, and could only assume that he was still wearing it, but… it was a risk she would have to take: because she would not fell her own cousin. Not only would Vega Sorde put a bounty on her head for it, but he Dawn warrior herself would never live it down.

So she took a page out of Hadwin’s book, and gambled--and lunged for her cousin, so fast and abrupt that he did not react in time to shove her away, before her free hand reached into the collar of his shirt, found the chain, and tugged hard. Sure enough, it came away, weighted by a familiar ring that fell into her hand. Sigrid managed to hurry a few paces away before he could retaliate, and then held up the chain, its precious charm dangling and flashing sparks of sunlight as it caught the polished metal. “Haraldur Sorde--your are Prince Haraldur Sorde. Husband of Princess Vega Sorde. Remember yourself, Haraldur--remember!” Panic rose in her throat as he advanced on her, her words seemingly passing through one ear and out the other without their meaning taking root, but she just continued to back away, and persisted. “Haraldur Sorde!” She shouted, her throat raw from the volume. “Remember who you are--and who you are living for! Tell me your name--tell me!”

And that was when she saw it. A spark of recognition in his green eyes, his heavy, intimidating movements faltering, and stopping altogether. At first, he seemed frozen, at odds with his own mind, and unsure as to how to react. But his hand slackened on the sword, and a familiar light returned to those green eyes… just in time for Hadwin to make an appearance. Only now that she wasn’t fending off her cousin’s attacks did Sigrid realize with horror that Elespeth had been left to the Forbanne Captain, who held her several feet off the ground as if she were a weightless rag, blood staining the dented walls where Solveig had thrown her, again and again. The worst of it was, she didn’t even have time to be concerned, or to come to her comrade’s aid: not when the shapeshifter obviously had a plan, and she had no idea what it was.

More soldiers came marching into the defunct building, on Hadwin’s command. And that was when it dawned on her: they were under the influence of devil’s draught, meaning they were no longer under Solveig’s control. Meaning that Hadwin could have them do whatever he wanted…

...and so, he had them take their lives.

Immediately, she understood that this was the distraction they’d needed. The gateway to opening up Captain Solveig to the fear that would consume her, and their sole opportunity to get the devil’s draught into her veins. The look that Hadwin flashed her was clear--and she was more than happy to make good on her promise.

She had only seconds to toss the ring and its chain back into Haraldur’s hands before Solveig reached Hadwin. The Dawn warrior, with trained swiftness and agile movements, was quick to shove Hadwin out of the way. And to place herself directly before an already enraged Solveig. But the Captain’s anger did not faze her; in fact, it fueled her, and she met it with her own. “You don’t know me,” she said, shortsword raised threateningly. “But I know you. I know what you’ve done. The lives you’ve corrupted… and your reign of terror ends here. And now.”

Of course, she didn’t have a chance at defeating the gigantic woman on her own; not with Elespeth out of commission, and Haraldur barely collecting himself after whatever spell he’d fallen under wore off. So Sigrid goaded Solveig to buy time; defended with her blade, pivoted and lept and slid out of the way before the Mollengardian Captain could make contact. It was exhausting and painstaking, and though her blade grazed her opponent now and then, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She had agility on her side, but with every effort she made to keep herself alive and just out of reach, she couldn’t seem to find the opportunity to embed the tip of her blade--where the poison was most concentrated--into Solveig’s flesh. Before long, she would burn out, and then…

And then… suddenly, Solveig stopped. Froze, in fact, her muscles slackening, as if she had just gone down before even hitting the ground. It wasn’t long before she noticed how, and why. Just behind her--barely standing, with one leg kneeling on the ground--was Elespeth. And the tip of her own poison-soaked blade looked to have driven more than an inch into the back of the Mollengardian Captain’s thigh, the only place the Atvanian warrior could reach from her kneeling position.

This was it. This was what they had set out to do, and all that was left was for Hadwin to take over, and work his fear on the giantess. Only when she was sure that the devil’s draught had taken the desired effect did Elespeth let her sword fall away, and her body with it, all the strength she had used to keep herself upright seeping away like the blood that streaked her face.

Now that the situation was in Hadwin’s domain, Sigrid rushed on the opportunity to come to Elespeth’s aid--although at this point, it was far too late. “Try not to move,” she advised, her voice too shaken to be gentle as she looked over the former knight’s crumpled form, hardly knowing where to begin. “What hurts?”

“About… everything.” Elespeth’s voice was barely a croak of a whisper, and by the pained look on her face, Sigrid feared it hurt her to breathe.

“Sorry in advance.” She said, before pressing her fingers along the bones of her comrade’s torso, noting every gasp and wince, and the gruesome bruising as she lifted the bottom of her tunic. It was as bad as it seemed: several broken ribs, a broken clavicle, a sprained wrist, and head trauma. They’d anticipated possible injuries; but this was beyond what they’d planned for. All of this was… and it was her fault. Putting so much stock into their formation didn’t mean a damned thing, in the end…

When Haraldur approached, looking lost and confused, but mercifully back to himself, Sigrid’s shoulders sank with shame. “She’s got a lot of broken bones. And there isn’t much we can do for her beyond wrappings and a sling… this is my fault. I didn’t anticipate the direction this mayhem took… I’m so sorry. To both of you.”

“Well… lucky for us, Alster ensured I wouldn’t die.” Somehow, Elespeth managed to smile through pain in her voice, and grabbed Sigrid’s arm as she painstakingly moved into a sitting position. She regretted it instantly; her head throbbed and the world spun… but they were not done yet. They needed to see this through. With her uninjured hand, the former knight grabbed her sword, held it skyward, and in remembering Alster’s instruction, released a striking blue beam from the tip, which penetrated the roof of the building and climbed skykward. An indicator to Chara that they had been successful… where it mattered, at least.

The man named Haraldur was gone. In his place stood a soldier, his dedication to Captain Solveig, unquestionable. His life hinged on her orders. Obey. A simple directive, impossible to betray. The alternative was death, and death, an endless plain populated by all those he murdered. To die was to claim an eternity among hundreds of restless, vengeful spirits, tearing him into messy fragments of flesh and bone. The only solution was to stay alive. Stay alive, and obey to kill.

When he opened his eyes, clear-headed for the first time in years, Captain Solveig awaited his compliance. He revealed to her the site of ambush, in which he played a part, explained their formation strategy, and Elespeth’s possession of a magic sword that rendered the user and her companions invisible and invulnerable to weapons. A swell of pride pumped in his chest as Captain Solveig praised him on his forthrightness, and implored he lend his sword against the impostors who had enslaved him for so long. “You are liberated, now,” she told him, patting his shoulder like he mattered as an individual. “You’ve returned home, soldier. Under my care, you won’t ever want for anything, again. This isn’t Central. There’s no reason for me to perpetuate the time-honored agenda of brutalizing soldiers for the sake of breaking them. You aren’t broken.” She cooed in his ear, whispering. “But it’s time to break the people who have tried. They’re in that building. Join me, soldier. The first day of your awakening.”

They entered the old grain stores, Captain Solveig dissolving the enemy’s illusion with a well-timed swerve and grapple. He recognized the woman now struggling under the Captain’s iron-grip. Elespeth Tameris. The name meant nothing. She meant nothing but a target. Death chose her, and his Captain, a reaper-by-proxy. He required no orders, no wasteful exchange of words. While she ended Elespeth, he would end Sigrid Sorenson.

Drawing both bastard sword and short sword, he whirled on the Dawn Warrior. No words. No necessity of emotion. The woman was rife with them, and lobbed them forward like an arsenal of useless weapons. Her attempts to stir him, to confuse him, were ineffectual. She refused to fight, and for that, she would die for her weak sentimentality. However much she dodged, or parried his attacks, her sword wavered and her movements slowed. The will to oppose him never existed and so, her fortitude would crumble. He, on the other hand, bounded with energy, his attacks made to disturb, disarm, and disrupt. He threw her off balance, stomped on her foot, swerved, feinted, approached with forceful interference and cold, unyielding precision. She faltered to her might, and yet, she persisted--not with retaliation, but with some maudlin speech about his true character. He wanted to snort. It was a character she created! Haraldur. What made-up nonsense! Nothing mattered outside his loyalty to Captain Solveig. Nothing…

In a split moment, the Dawn Warrior rushed him with a speed that took even him off guard, snatching at a chain around his neck he forgot he possessed. With a tug and a snap, the chain came undone, and pooled in her hands. Surging forward, he readied to deliver her a crippling blow, but she withdrew from his advance, preoccupying all her attention on the chain, and the gold band that swung from one end in a hypnotic pattern. He stared at the way it glittered, the elegant sway, the familiar tree, emblazoned on its surface, with bare, outstretched branches…

A composite appeared in his mind. A silver pendant on a chain. His lifelong companion. A reminder...If you’re lost, I’ll show you the way. His mother. No. The ring belonged to Sir Vega Sorde, of Eyraille, given to him in matrimony. He was Prince Haraldur Sorde. Not a dream. Not a creation. They were building a family, together. She waited for him, with a hand clutching her womb. Klara. Kynnet. Children. Come home, the voices insisted. Pabbi, come home…

He blinked. His barreling assault had slowed, then halted. The sword in his killing hand shivered, clattering with uncertainty. “...Haraldur Sorde,” he whispered. “That’s who I am. Sir Vega Sorde is my wife. She carries my children. Our children.” He blinked again. Moisture clung to his eyes. He gazed at the ring, then up at Sigrid with a weight so heavy, it dragged his lids until he could barely keep them open. Guilt and desperation flooded through the cracks, but he hadn’t any time to evaluate his awakening, when the wolf-man emerged at the door, followed by a parade of Forbanne officers who formed a semi-circle behind their ringleader. One minute, they were alive, the next, all had crumbled to the floor, bloody and dying from self-inflicted wounds to the throat. Before he could process the sudden influx of information, Haraldur caught the ring that Sigrid had thrown him, and watched as she placed herself in Captain Solveig’s line of fire. Confused, he stood aside, unsure of what to do, or who to defend. He was Prince Haraldur Sorde, he knew as much. His loyalty was to his wife, and to Eyraille. But wasn’t it also to Captain Solveig?

Solveig, though compromised of mind and all her better senses, was a maelstrom of activity. She pounded her way through Sigrid’s defenses en route to her true target, who loped around with the grace and agility of a wolf in human skin. He’d even lowered into a crouch, arms clawed at his sides, weight concentrated on the balls of his feet. But for all her skill and ferocity, Solveig could not counteract the collective attention of a Dawn Warrior, an Atvanian knight, and, well, a wild animal. An actual wild animal, and not a perceived one--no matter the skin he wore. No comparisons for him. He was not like anything but his identity: feral, sharp-toothed, and predatory. And when the captain’s frenetic swings and power attacks had ebbed, all thanks to a smart stab on the thigh by a concussed yet willful Elespeth Tameris, Hadwin leapt at the opportunity to finish the job. He was on her like a breeze, eyes aglow with their entrapping persuasion. She didn’t avert from him in time before he projected to her a host of fears, all of which had hatched into inception at the tolling of her officers, and their precious lives. She feared loss, of control, of her duty, of her identity, of confidence and pride, her dreams, and of love. They swarmed her prone, vulnerable body, poked her with sticks, lodged those sticks into her eyes, taunted her with cruel-edged knowledge, and plagued her with enough gruesome imagery to ripple a wounded scream from her lips. Hunched over from the assault, she dug fingernails into her eyelids, and scratched.

“Now, now--none of that, Solveig,” he said, in a kind, almost avuncular cadence. She stopped. “Lower your hands.” She obeyed. “Whatever hold you still have on this man,” he pointed to Haraldur, “drop it.” She dropped it. In the background, Haraldur gasped, and pressed his ring, chain and all, to his forehead.

“Good. This is a productive dialogue. Sit down, calm down, and bandage your wound.” Under his influence, she did all that he asked of her, without question. “Before we continue, I’ve got a list of simple requests. I’m sure you can abide by them. One, we’re off limits. You, nor your Forbanne, will act in aggression towards me, or anyone still alive in this building. Moreover, this act of peace extends to all citizens of Stella D’Mare. You’re gonna help with the evacuation. You and your soldiers. And you'll protect us from Mollengard’s influence. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded.

“Swear to it.”

Solveig curled her hand into a fist, saluted, and spoke a solemn oath, loud and binding.  

“Now that that part’s done and over with,” he half-chuckled, half-sighed, “here’s something a mite more personal.” His entire bearing went from conversational and informal, to threatening and wrathful. His eyes narrowed into two glittering points, and his mouth twisted, exposing all four canines. Leaning forward, his proximity almost touched their noses together. “Where is Rowen?”

“Rowen?”

“My sister!” He growled. “You’ve strung me along for months, forcing a collar around my neck, and I was domestic, and obedient, and pissed where you told me to piss like a good dog. But nothing came of my loyalty, so I’m calling your bluff, right here!” He clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Where is she, you gargantuan fuck!?”

“By negligence and oversight, we never retained her for long,” Solveig said, in the unfazed reporting of a Forbanne soldier to her commanding officer. “It was true, at the time we recruited you, your sister was under our care. We thought she’d make use to us, but she didn’t cooperate. This is embarrassing for us to admit, but she escaped, on her own. Dislocated her joints, slipped through the bars, and bit the throats of her guards. We were in transit at the time, so we didn’t have the proper holding cell for someone of her...energy. She fled into the woods, and we gave thorough chase, but we haven’t found her.” The Forbanne Captain shrugged. “She’s gone.”

At first, Hadwin didn’t react. He crouched before Solveig, rendered into a gargoyle carved on the sides of a cathedral--petrified and gnarled. Then, he came to life. A laugh teared out of his throat, an unearthly roar, manic and raw and mournful as a howl. But there was no denying the mirth lines in his eyes, and the deranged smile that locked his jaw into place. “Oh Rowena, Rowena...fuck, why did I underestimate your brilliance!?” He wiped the tears of hilarity from his eyes. “You’ve never needed me to rescue you. What a fuckin’ riot; this was all for nothing. I knew it.” His attention snapped, refocused to Solveig. “I knew you were bluffing. Goddamn, Solveig. What a poetic end. If you had told me what happened to her, your darling lover wouldn’t be dead on the ground now, huh!?” She flinched, but said nothing. “And what of Atli’s daughter? Did she stab her way out of the Forbanne, too!?”

“No. ...She’s dead. Never survived training.”

“Well it’s a good thing Atli went ahead and died then, isn’t it?” Hadwin pounded his fist into the rock-hard ground, then swung with a momentum that made contact with Solveig’s cheek. Though she listed significantly to one side, she remained moored, and bobbed back to the surface. A smear of Hadwin’s blood marred the cheek, concealing any bruise his impassioned punch would have cost her. “All that struggle--what was it for? Him and me--we were both chumps, in the end. Vying for something that wasn’t even there!” He punched her again, and again. Each time he landed a blow, she bobbed into place, undaunted by his violence, and quietly accepted his will. Soon, he gave up the one-sided fight, clambered to his feet, and wiped the blood from his knuckles on his trousers. “Transfer your control of the Forbanne to Haraldur,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I’ve got nothing left to say to you.”

Haraldur, however, had redirected his attention from Solveig, to Elespeth, and to the state of her injuries. Afraid that he’d incur more damage, he kept to the outer ring, observing from a distance. He catalogued Elespeth’s broken condition, cheeks paling and eyes sagging. From the stilted way he held himself, he was using every bit of strength to stay upright and useful. If not useful, at least unobtrusive. Though his weapons wouldn’t inflict harm, he’d sheathed his swords. Both hands were occupied in the holding of his wedding band, which he reattached to its chain around his neck. “I,” he began, but looked away, too ashamed to converse with his fallen comrade and Sigrid. Didn’t want to see the aftermath of what he’d contributed to, lodged in their eyes. “I wasn’t strong enough,” he muttered, almost inaudibly. “It’s my fault...all of it.”

“Your fault or not,” Hadwin converged on the scene, thumbing over to the incapacitated Solveig, “it’s time to inherit your throne. In a manner of speaking. You’re already in line to one, technically.”

“You’re done punching her out?”

Hadwin flexed his hand, the skin stitching over the open, blood-filled sores. “For now. C’mon, Highness. You’ve lived through one of your most pants-shitting scenarios and guess what? It didn’t last, because something pulled harder.” He nodded towards the wedding band on the chain. “This next bit? Pshaw. Like skinning a deer.”

As Haraldur reluctantly followed the wolf-shifter to Solveig, Elespeth, after shooting her blue signal beacon through the roof, heard a familiar voice take full-bodied form in her head. “Elespeth? Stars, what happened? We saw your beacon, and we’re going to initiate the next phase of the plan, but...I felt it. In my head, in my bones. Where are you hurt?” After her long listing of injuries, Alster’s urgent voice continued. “All right, El. I’m going to channel healing energy through your sword. Have someone press the flat of the blade over your injuries, one at a time. Make sure to tell me the extent of and specifics of your injury before I activate my magic through the sword. I’ve never remote healed before, so I don’t know if this will be effective. If it doesn’t work...return to the estate immediately, and find me. I haven’t left yet.”  The implication, by his tone, was that he wouldn’t leave without ensuring that she was in stable condition.

Elespeth should have anticipated the voice that came through the fog of her pain-addled mind. With their bond freshly strengthened and renewed, there wasn’t a chance Alster wouldn’t have felt what she’d suffered, even from a great distance. But his voice, however welcome and reassuring it was, throbbed in her temples. It hurt just to be conscious, right now, let alone concentrate… I’m alive, Alster. We succeeded. She sent her thoughts back to him, controlling her breathing in a steady, even flow of inhaling or exhaling; but not too deep. The more her chest expanded, the more it hurt. But… it didn’t go as planned. Solveig got to me, and I didn’t have the chance to retaliate. She’d too fucking huge…

Of course, she expected the questions that flowed from his own source of panic: how was she injured? Where did it hurt? Was she stable? None of them were unreasonable, and were the tables flipped, she’d be asking the same of her fiance. But the truth was, there was little she knew, and little that anyone else could tell her, beyond what Sigrid had surmised, in briefly glancing at the state of her body. I don’t know… everything. Everything hurts. She wasn’t exaggerating. If there was an inch of her body that wasn’t in pain, then she’d have been aware of it, and desperately clinging to what little comfort she could find. Sadly, that was not the case. A lot of broken bones, I think… my ribs, my collarbone, Sigrid said something about my wrist… there is no way to know the full extent, Alster. We don’t have a healer here. Just warriors, a shapeshifter, a bunch of dead bodies, and Forbanne warriors who are now under Haraldur’s control.

What Alster suggested next seemed like a long shot. She’d seen him heal before; had seen what it took from him to be able to perform in such a way. Even if he’d been cured of Marianna’s illness, now backed by the unlimited stamina of the Serpent, his ministrations took time--and that was in an ideal scenario, with him present, not performing remotely. If she’d really suffered the extent of fractures that the Dawn warrior suggested… did they even have that much time? Any moment now, Teselin, upon seeing her signal, would summon the tidal wave. They were far from done, here--and the evacuation could not be delayed. But… she couldn’t move, not without succumbing to excruciating pain. One way or another, she needed to get back on her feet, and they needed to be on their way.

“Sigrid,” she rasped, snatching the Dawn warrior’s undivided attention. “Maybe Alster can help… grab my sword. It has a link to him by virtue of the fact he enchanted it… he may be able to heal me remotely. We need to try.”

Sigrid didn’t hesitate, and was back on her feet and returned with Elespeth’s sword in seconds. “My ribs… how bad are they?” The former knight asked, and was by no means mollified by the way the question made her comrade wince.

The Dawn warrior could only shake her head. “I am no expert opinion, Elespeth… based on the bruising the the indentations, three are fractured, at the very least. Maybe more. You need to be careful not to breathe too deep, in case you puncture a lung…”

“Press the sword against them. We’ll see what happens.” Elespeth related to Alster what Sigrid had told her, though she didn’t sound confident. This is all I can tell you… like I said, we don’t have a healer in our midst. I don’t know how helpful it will be… Nonetheless, it was worth a try, even if it was only enough to get her up and moving. The Atvanian warrior held her breath as Sigrid did as she was instructed, and pressed the shiny, cold steel against her bruised side. Sure enough, her blade began to grow warm and glow a dim, ethereal blue. Then she felt it; a sensation like fingers on her battered flesh, feeling around for abnormalities and abrasions. The trouble was, those fingers were themselves without feeling, and could not determine which ribs were injured, or where they injury resided, or the extent of the fracture. So what was supposed to take the edge off her miserable state on served to further aggravate her broken bones, until she was helpless but to cry out in pain.

“Stop!” She shouted, mentally to Alster, and aloud to Sigrid, who dropped the sword as if it were molten hot. “It isn’t working…” It isn’t working, Alster. You can’t work blind…

From their current location, the small party was at least a fifteen to twenty minute walk from the Rigas estates--and that was at a casual pace, not that of an injured person, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. At this point, it would be easier for them to leave the city altogether, and continue on their way, as they’d originally planned. There was no time to make it back to the estates… this evacuation had to happen now. Elespeth knew this, and deep down, she suspected Alster did, as well.

“Just stay where you are, Elespeth. We’re not out of options.” Sigrid suddenly declared, and turned toward Haradur and Hadwin. “Do we have an army of Forbanne within our grasp, now? Then we must also have access to some of Mollengard’s supplies.” The Dawn warrior looked from Hadwin to Haraldur, realizing that while the latter now controlled the forbanne, it was the wolf man who knew Mollengard’s camp, and all it contained. “We cannot delay much longer--but she isn’t safe to move in her condition without stabilizing her fractures. Send for one of these goons to retrieve as many bandages and medical supplies as they can. We’ll do what we can to get Elespeth on her feet, and hope that we can make it as far as Braighdath to request the aid of a night steed. That should cut a few days off of our trip. Elespeth… does that sound feasible, to you?”

Much though she appreciated that her Dawn warrior companion sought her input, Elespeth was well aware that she did not have the option to say no. The city was being evacuated: her choices were stay behind, or leave with the rest of them, regardless of how much pain she was in. So long as she had use of her legs (which, mercifully, didn’t quite suffer the sharp aches shooting through her torso), she needed to make this venture, as planned. “It’s the best plan we have,” she replied at last, before emanating a feeling of apology to Alster through their bond. There is no time, Alster. Teselin will summon the tidal wave, soon. You have hundreds of people depending on you to lead them to safety… do you understand what I am saying? We cannot delay; there is no time. Feeling the pain in his silence that followed, she added, Sigrid and Haraldur and looking out for me. I can still walk; it’s easier for me to bandage up and keep going, as we had planned. We will reach Braighdath, and send for a night steed, if I can’t make it any further at that point. You know I will be alright; you ensured I cannot die… I’ll see you again in Galeyn.

In moments, one of the soldiers under Haraldur’s command had returned with the items that Sigrid had requested. There were more than enough bandages to wrap her wrist, secure her arm to keep it from tugging her fractured clavicle in any given direction, but nothing could be done about her ribs, save for hoping they eventually fused back together in the right place, without risking the danger of puncturing a lung. “Unfortunately, Mollengard doesn’t seem to have much in the way of pain management. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But… they do have this.”

The Dawn warrior held up a small pouch, and pulled the drawstrings to reveal its contents. It was filled with what looked to be small leaves, the size of rose petals, dried and grey in a dehydrated state. Elespeth hazarded a strained smile. “Unless it has magical properties, I’m not sure tea is going to help me.”

“It isn’t tea. It’s a potent stimulant from a plant that evidently only grows in Mollengard--where the land is still fertile. Some soldiers carry it with them into battle, to see them through to safety if they are injured or exhausted. Might not take the pain away, but it will give you the endurance and stamina to see this journey through, I think.” Sigrid hesitated before placing the pouch into Elespeth’s hand. “You should note that it is extremely potent. It does the job almost too well, so use it sparingly; no more than three leaves, three times a day. Otherwise you put yourself at risk of pushing your body further and faster than it is capable of doing, without being given time to heal. And don’t take it in the evening, or it will disrupt your sleep, which is something you are going to need.”

“Noted,” the Atvanian warrior said--but did not hesitate to take one of the tiny, grey leaves and place it on her tongue. Whatever it took to see her to the other side, where she would meet up with Alster and the rest of Stella D’Mare. With any luck, the supposed healing properties of this garden in Galeyn that her fiance had briefly mentioned would take care of the rest.

Sigrid had been right, though: the  stimulant herb was potent, and took effect in mere moments. The former knight found herself able to sit up, to let her blonde comrade wrap her sprained wrist and secure her arm in a sling to stabilize her collarbone without flinching. She became aware of the blood in her veins again, of the urgency of this mission, and though she was far from forgetting the pain she was in, the energy building inside of her was enough to see past it. Like those sharp aches were no more than a nuisance, and her determination had resurged with a vengeance. She could do this; suddenly, the impossible seemed entirely possible.

“How do you feel?” Sigrid asked her, when they’d stabilized her injuries to the best of their ability.

Elespeth’s vigor, however, spoke for itself. She was on her feet, and moving gingerly, but steadily. “Not bad. Not exactly in a position where I should be fighting, so forgive me if I have to take a back seat for a while… but that bitch injured my dominant hand.” She leveled a glare at Solveig, whose hands had been bound behind her back, and who was now in the custody of three Forbanne soldiers. They would require no less to keep her contained, when the devil’s draught wore off.

“You sure as hell won’t be fighting. Alster would never forgive me if we let you. If you’re ready…” She nodded to the doorway, where Haraldur and Hadwin had begun to round up the remainder of Forbanne who had been under Solveig’s control, preparing to move on from this chapter in their plan. They’d succeeded: the Forbanne were theirs, and Solveig was subdued… for now. Elespeth wasn’t sure what Hadwin had planned for the Mollengardian Captain, but sadly, he seemed to see fit to keep her alive. She knew she wasn’t alone in feeling disappointed for not gutting the bitch while she’d had a chance.

But if all of this led to their successful arrival in Galeyn, then she would play along. And now… success did not seem so far off.

Teselin and Chara had been hovering at the water’s edge, awaiting a signal from Elespeth with bated breath. Red or blue… whatever colour lit up the sky would determine their next course of action. And lack of a signal… well, that spelled the worst. The young summoner’s body was rigid and tense, not at all relaxed and confident as Alster had encouraged her to be during their brief time training together. But it was impossible not to be nervous, on the day of reckoning, and when at last that blue streak of light cut through the overcast sky, there was no more time to ponder what could go wrong--because the moment was now.

“They did it…” Teselin sighed, a small smile curling her lips at the corners. The warriors had come through: and now it was her turn.

She went through the motions, just as she’d practiced with Alster, and it began with closing her eyes and feeling the magnetic ebb and flow of the ocean. For a moment, she let it take her, making no means to manipulate it, but simply to get a feel for its ferocity and complacency. The day presented with little wind, meaning it was up to her to create that wave, with just enough give and taken to form the size needed to devastate Mollengard’s fleet.

I don’t have time to think about what could go wrong… Over and over, the urgency of the situation reminded her that there was no room for hesitation. And for the first time since she’d begun her training with Alster, that very urgency did not exert too much pressure on her to the point that it paralyzed her. This time, it guided her; she did not struggle to grasp the energy of the ocean, but felt herself ease into it, as if it were inviting her to take the reins--and so she did.

“Stop!” Elespeth’s shout of agony penetrated more than the head trauma she’d suffered by Solveig’s hand. Alster flinched, and the white, celestial halo faded, then vanished around the sword’s edges. “I’m sorry,” Alster thought to his fiancee, voice mounting with the frantic need to do something, and quick. “I’ll be down there, myself, El. I know the streets here. If I run, I can make it to you in less than ten minutes.”

But he knew he couldn’t abandon his people, and Elespeth made his stance quite clear. He’d already promised to keep walking, no matter what happened to her. Keep walking. Keep walking...It was easy enough, if walking was all one could do! Alster Rigas was powerful, magically gifted, en route to godhood on earth. As it stood, he was a multi-disciplinary scholar of unending potential. A simple complication such as distance could not stymie him. Yet, distance, and duty to the needy, drove him in the direction opposing Elespeth. As the de facto Rigas Head, his mission was to save as many lives as possible. Abandoning his post for his fiancee reflected poorly on him, and on those who relied on him to lead. Even with unprecedented power, he could not save Elespeth. I’m still not enough, he thought, a self-contained musing separate from his linked conversation across the city. When will I be enough? Damn it! He cursed. I’m too limited. Too human. Too much of a failure...where it counts.

“...Get out of there. As soon as you can,” he relayed to Elespeth, once he calmed himself enough to continue. “I’ll signal to Chara to delay the tidal wave a few moments longer. It shouldn’t reach you from your height, but in case something should go wrong, you’ll have more time. You won’t have to wait until Galeyn to heal, I promise you,” an eerie strain of determination clung to his voice. “I’ll figure something out. And I’ll stay in touch. Until the next time we speak...be safe, El.”

On the other end of the building, Haraldur stood before the imposing Captain Solveig, an officer reduced to her knees. Though she was unbound, she moved little, having adopted the Forbanne stillness, a gesture of obeisance. The story behind the position was to emulate a mountain, unassuming and rigid, until called upon to rumble into a landslide of destruction. She, though sedentary, was a landslide poised. Even with a pocked and bruised face, courtesy of Hadwin’s assault, she sat with serene a face, like a martyr welcoming the gallows. It unsettled him--and it also impressed him. Whether still recovering from the effects of the mind-link, his brief encounter as the enslaved had changed his perspective of Solveig. He felt as though...he knew her. The woman served a long, bloody history, as did he, as did all Forbanne, past, present, and future. She understood him...even as that understanding existed as a means to control.  

An iota of clarity shone past her devil’s draught-fogged eyes as she appraised him, carefully. “So you’re the one to inherit my mind-link,” she said. A statement, though hesitant. “I heard from your comrades that your name is Prince Haraldur Sorde, of Eyraille.”

“You heard correct.” He crossed his arms. It wasn’t a regal bearing, but it was strictly the autonomous choice of one Prince Haraldur Sorde, and so he executed it with pride.

“A Forbanne leading such a frivolous life. You really are confused.” She puckered her mouth, and held it with pity. “You’re concealing your true nature, soldier. Distancing yourself from the past that shaped you. And yet, you think you’re eligible to be my successor?”

“Only to those Forbanne who want a change, like me,” he told her. “Ones who yearn to escape, but can’t. I’ll provide them that avenue.”

She looked physically ill. “You’re dooming them, soldi--”

“--It’s Haraldur,” he interjected. “No more talking. Transfer leadership to me.”

Solveig flicked her gaze to Hadwin, who nodded. “That’s an order,” he said. Then, he added, “Always wanted to say that.”

“Come kneel beside me, Haraldur.” She patted the oat-dusted floor. Pain manifested into wrinkles at the center of her prominent forehead. When he was level with her, she pressed that forehead into his own, as before. Haraldur froze, expecting a repeat of his earlier compulsion. He was in control, he assured himself. It wouldn't happen again.

Together, they closed their eyes in unison. “This is a character evaluation,” she whispered. “Forbanne, as you know, are not mindless. They follow me in part because they respect me. They love me. I can’t give you full control because they’ll resist, and refuse. Only the more irascible sorts will find you appealing. Ones who aspire to be princes,” she bubbled a laugh, “to slum it outside my wonderful utopia. If that’s the case...you can have the outliers, Haraldur. They’re yours.”

Without warning, a flood of a thousand and more consciousnesses overtook him. Foreign invaders trammeled through the now oversaturated landscape, searching for sustainability. For strength. Leadership. Integrity. Ruthless ferocity. ...Hope. Why should we follow you, outsider? They demanded.

Because I’m like you. Because I was you. And I broke free, by finding what I lost. I’ll show you, he said. Captain Solveig has abandoned you because you don’t fit with her vision, but I want you for that exact reason. Follow me if you want to see the dawn. Follow me home.  

The flooding settled. The torrent of thoughts and questions mellowed, like the gentle lapping of water on the shoreline. A long stretch of silence. Then; What do we call you?

Prince Haraldur Sorde.

A free-flowing current settled inside himself like a freak electrical storm. Arcs of lightning scattered across a featureless sky, forming into a spider-webs of connectivity. He had received his answer, and it vibrated in his skull, reverberating through every bone like a clavichord pinging out notes. When he opened his eyes, wide, brown saucers stared back at him.

“Five-hundred and seventy-two,” Solveig said, “have pledged their loyalty to you, Haraldur. I felt them disconnect, fall like apples from my tree and roll into your dark gulley. Your mire. They’ll rot, there, Haraldur. And if they do…” she opened and closed her hands, snorting rather noisily, like an agitated bull. “...No. Take care of them. That’s my request to you.”

“I will,” he said, standing up and stepping away from the Captain. “I’ll show them something better than your singular world of compulsory service and inhumane subjugation.”

Even though Haraldur had called less than six hundred Forbanne to his service, the remaining four thousand, under the draughted Solveig’s order, were instructed to aid in the evacuation, protect against Mollengard, and lend whatever available resources they could--for as long as the poison in the Captain’s veins stayed effective. The able-bodied soldiers in vicinity of the old grain building hurried off, returning not ten minutes later with gauze, bandages, healing salve, cloth for slings, alcohol, clean water, and a strange, sharp-smelling herb that Haraldur recognized, and which Hadwin found curious.

“What’s that?” he tilted his head at the sachet that Sigrid accepted from a Forbanne and offered to the ailing Elespeth. At the explanation of its potency, he nodded, side-stepped from the makeshift healing station, and leaned towards Solveig, who was now bound with heavy manacles that another pair of soldiers had fetched. “Hey, soot-stain,” he addressed the proud Forbanne Captain, “get me some of that stuff.” He whistled, impressed by its efficacy, when Elespeth all but bounded on her feet, injuries and all, and announced her willingness to go on.

“Look at that. As sprightly as a jackrabbit in heat,” he effused, with a grin of approval. He stashed some of the herb in the lining of his jerkin. “And not a minute wasted, either. The lot of you need to get.” He jerked his head at Solveig. “And take this hulking mass of humanity with you. I’ve got an extra vial of draught for the job. No fear triggering necessary after the first use. She’s forever susceptible to it, now.”

Haraldur frowned. “And where are you going?”

He shrugged. “I did my part. Got what I needed. Far as I know, our alliance is over. So I bid my most courteous of farewells.” He bowed with a flourish, for good measure. “Keep soot-stain alive until Braighdath, at least. Or until you run out of draught. Whatever happens first. Unless distance mucks with her ability to control the Forbanne, as long as you’re the mouthpiece calling all the shots via the captain, the Forbanne in Stella D’Mare are as good as yours. They won’t be giving chase to the evacuees, and they’ll keep disorder among the rest of Mollengard’s camp. The perfect cover for traveling fairly uninterrupted.” Plucking two vials from his inside pocket, he handed them to Haraldur.

“So I lied to you all before. I had plenty of these vials. Helped Atli mass-produce them, before he kicked the bucket. But I didn’t think any of you would’ve had the gall to do what I did--no offense, but your honor’s so strong, it carries an odor--so only Chara knew of my secret stash. Anyway, those should last you a month, but who’s to say?” He rubbed at his knuckles; they were fully healed, “I’m out. Wish I could say it was a pleasure, but you’re all pretty insufferable.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Haraldur returned. “Say hello to Teselin for me.”

“Ha. Haha.” Hadwin spoke out his laughter, enunciating it like words and not as guffaws. “Look at me. I’ve become fucking predictable. But it’s Chara I’m bound to. The squirt’s just added incentive. Well,” he scuffed his boots across the floor as he made his exit, “stay dry--but don’t go thirsty, if you know what I mean.” With a wink, he was gone.

Chara and Teselin stood on the bluff overlooking the sea, the very spot where the latter and Alster trained tirelessly for the past week. All operations within the Rigas gates had gone according to plan. Under Alster’s perfectionistic leadership, evacuees headed through the tunnels in large, segmented groups, each led by a concealer caster, who enshrouded the people en masse. When they appeared on the other side, the plan was to creep by Mollengard’s patrols unnoticed--until they reached well beyond the boundaries of the city, in a designated safe zone.

For her part, Chara sealed the Rigas gates. No entering or escaping, by anyone. Even if Mollengard found the means to breach the unbreachable, they’d never obtain the power of the Rigas blood seal. Not under Alster’s thoroughly-laid trap. And so, with their strategy assured, followed by the confirmation of a reckless plan successfully executed (if Elespeth’s blue signal beacon was to be believed), Chara was feeling pretty confident in the totality of their operation.

The confidence only grew when Teselin, in a rare surge of competency, raised jagged, crushing waves out of mere laps in the water. Though it took a few revolutions to stir the sea into a frothing frenzy, it had transitioned seamlessly from placid and unassuming, to raging and hungry. It slammed into Mollengard’s fleet, tossing ships like toys. Tentacles of water snapped moorings, careening the elegant, dragon-headed vessels into cliffsides or buildings situated among the first two tiers of the terraced city.

“Yes!” Chara shouted with excitement. “Yes, Teselin! You’re doing it!” Too giddy to stand still, she paced along the overlook, eyes alight at the delicious destruction of their months’ long oppressors. It was telling, that this was the happiest she’d been in a long, long while.

Too happy to notice four shadowy figures approach from the pathway to the bluffs. Too preoccupied with the premature taste of victory to see that true victory rested in the wrong hands. Those hands reached out with blunt weapons, and sickening cracks resounded amid the gurgling rush of waves. Blackness pervaded. In Chara’s waning consciousness, she spotted Teselin curled on the ground, blood pooling from her temple. And as the blackness dominated, the waves ceased.

All was still.

It will be fine, Alster. She could sense the frantic disappointment through their bond--his disappointment, in his own inability to be more than human. To exceed the possible, and venture into the realm of the impossible. No one else would in their right mind feel guilt for something so far beyond their control… but Alster did. Now that he knew that he was capable of, the chance that he could reach godlike capabilities… nothing out of the ordinary would suffice. And that was what frightened her. I will be fine. Focus on your task; on the people depending on you. I'm strong, and I'm in good hands… I believe in you. Right now, I need you to believe in me.

As Sigrid bandaged Elespeth’s wrist and helped to arrange her arm comfortably in the sling, she couldn't help but overhear the conversation taking place between her cousin and the wretched Forbanne Captain. The woman’s complacency did not endear her to the Dawn warrior, and the more she heard, every word spilling from the Mollengardian’s lips, only agitated her ire more and more, stirring like a pit of roiling lava in her gut. At last, she couldn't hold her anger in any more, and confronted the downed woman, as Haraldur stepped away temporarily to collect all thoughts associated with his new inheritance: the loyalty of hundreds of Forbanne soldiers.

“For someone so cavalier about destroying lives and shaping and chiseling them to their own liking, you really put on a show about how you ‘care’ about those men and women you've corrupted.” The Dawn warrior’s blue eyes were like ice, sharp and cutting as she stared the giant woman down like she meant to sever her head from her shoulders with the intensity of her gaze. “You really care? Then you’d be doing them a service by leaving your post entirely. Severing them from whatever mind control they are under. Haraldur won't have them rot; he will save them. I know he will, because he had the strength to save himself. He remembered himself--his true self--just now, when you thought you had him. You don't know the true nature of any of these people; all you care about is what they have become, however unwillingly. You’re nothing but a monster and a disgrace.”

Just seeing that dead cold in her cousin’s eyes, living out his fear of reverting back to what he had struggled so desperately to escape, had unleashed a deluge of emotion that Sigrid hadn't even realized was weighing on her. Since discovering her familial link to Haraldur, the Dawn warrior hadn't taken more than a moment to consider the time they’d lost together, in favor of cherishing the time they had recently found. But now, with it all laid bare, with the all-encompassing reason that their childhoods had been so rudely interrupted now sitting, docile in front of her, there was no turning away from the sadness and resentment that this woman represented. Solveig might not have been the direct reason Haraldur had been taken, or that her family had been forced to flee, abandoning her as their only means to keep her safe. But she was about to receive the full extent of Sigrid’s hatred for what she represented.

“Your kin in Central Mollengard took Haraldur as a boy--my own cousin, by the way. He won't even go into detail about what he endured at the hands of monsters like you who stripped away his humanity, because it is too painful for him to relive it. I just happened to get lucky. My family fled in the middle of the night and left me alone in a strange place, for fear of what would happen to me if they were caught. I did not see them again--Haraldur did not see his family again.” She cursed the rawness of her voice, scraped with anguish she hadn’t let herself feel before. Now, there was no holding it back. “He was fortunate enough to find a new home and family in Eyraille; I was fortunate to have been taken in by Braighdath’s dawn warriors. We both survived. But we will never get those years back… that time is gone from us. All because of people like you, who don't think twice before tearing apart lives to mold to your own whims. And you have the audacity to put on an air that you care about any of them?”

Her hand twitching at the hilt of her blade, Sigrid couldn’t placate her roiling hatred any longer. The Dawn warrior drew her blade, still tainted with devil’s draught, and slammed it inches into the wooden floor. A half an inch closer, and it would have embedded in Solveig’s calf. The Dawn warrior’s restraint was beyond admirable, for all she wanted to end this woman, here and now. “The only reason I am not ending you, here and now, on behalf of all the pain your kind has caused, is because you are still of use to us. And because I don't think the honour of killing you should belong to me.” She shot a meaningful glance at Haraldur, and then at Hadwin; both who had been more directly affected by the cruelty of the Forbanne doctrine, and Solveig’s individual tyranny. But, if the time came that they did not care for that honour… “If and when the time comes that you are not of use to us… then I am sure you aren't fool enough to expect mercy.”

Stalking away from the Forbanne Captain, just in time for her to be shackled with heavy manacles, she made her way toward Haraldur and Hadwin, just in time for the shape-shifter to announce his departure. “So you’re taking your leave of us? I'm afraid I won’t be able to follow as your bodyguard. Whatever you face, you’ll face alone.” But Hadwin was aware, and was through with his end of the bargain. And that was just fine. He had done what he’d promised, a pivotal role toward the success of their plan. Nothing more could be expected of him; and nothing would be. Whatever business he had left was solely with Chara.

“I hope you find her.” Sigrid offered, her hardened expression softening ever so slightly. “Your sister. I'm glad she managed to escape. And I hope you are reunited.”

“As do I.” On her feet again, with the help of that potent stimulant, Elespeth gingerly nodded her farewell. “Mollengard no longer has a hold on you… I’d say enjoy your freedom, but it belongs to Chara. In which case… good luck. You’re going to need it.” A ghost of a smile crept into the former knight’s pale, pained face, before turning back to Sigrid and Haraldur. “He’s right. Teselin will be toying with the ocean at any moment, now. We can’t delay; let’s get out of here. And…”

She looked over her shoulder at Solveig who, while shackled and complacent, she imagined would not stay that way. “Keep a close eye on her.”

“My pleasure.” Sigrid’s eyes flashed a cold blue, and every line of her expression suggested she’d be more than happy to keep the Mollengardian in line. “Let’s go.”

She couldn't believe the ease at which the waves moved at the mere motion of her fingertips. Teselin wanted to laugh aloud, and share in Clara’s glee, only keeping her own contained for fear of breaking her concentration. Just weeks ago, when she had tended the citrus trees that were so desperately in need of a good rainfall, it had taken hours for her to coax water from the sky. Now, it moved at her will, as if it were an extension of herself; as if it had always been an extension of herself, but she hadn’t realized it. The calm waters of the sea began to rage and thrash, building toward a glorious crescendo that had Mollengard’s fleets rocking dangerously. They looked no sturdier than toy boats, the way the waters tore and snapped masts and disengaged sails. It wasn’t long before a few ships had capsized completely, succumbing to the abrupt onset of the waters’ rage.

And Teselin merely stood back, the puppeteer, taking it all in. Realizing with a nauseating burst of pride and fear and elation that this was all her; she was making this happen. She was single-handedly responsible for the wreckage that would wash up upon Stella D’Mare’s shores, the only remains of what was left of Mollengard’s naval militia. It was working; her brief, albeit fruitful training with Alster had paid off, and now not only were Elespeth and the others successful in their own dangerous endeavor, but luck was playing to her own benefit. “We can do this… I can do it.” The young summoner breathed, and simply saying it aloud made the impact all the more meaningful. Her cheeks grew warm with pride and relief as the water’s crescendo built, and built… “Just a little more…”

It hadn’t occurred to her that her concentration would become her own downfall. Nothing existed to Teselin but the sea, as she had become temporary kin to it, the waves moving at her will as if she herself was the current. Even Chara was an afterthought, someone she kept in her peripheral vision without really seeing her. And in her tunnel vision of concentration, she was not quick enough to register the shadow of a much taller figure encroach on her. A sudden pain blossomed in her temple, but it was quick, and short-lived, for the next thing the young summoner was aware of was that she was falling. And then everything just ceased to be.

That blunt pain returned, however, before Teselin even regained consciousness. She could feel it in her fragmented dreams, a dull ache that grew worse and worse, until at last she opened her eyes, dry and swollen, to more darkness. But this darkness was not all-encompassing; she could make out the texture of stone and steel, shadows cast from indirect light situated just far enough that everything around her looked blurry. Or perhaps the blurriness had something to do with that pain in her temple, no longer dull and annoying, but throbbing and bold. It made her stomach churn, and she didn’t dare climb to her feet, for fear of succumbing to vertigo. But something else… something was wrong. A lot was wrong, and she hardly knew where to begin.

The muddled silhouette of a blonde-haired figured lying on the floor next to her jogged her memory enough to realize the nature and the severity of all of that wrong. The tidal wave… had she been successful? She had witnessed Mollengard’s ships capsize under the threat of her power, remembered the sea grow from its placid calm to angry and unyielding… and yet, what surrounded the two of them was not success. Far from it: they were in danger.

“Chara.” Teselin crawled over to the form of the still unconscious Rigas head, and vigorously shook her shoulder. In what little light spilled in from a corridor beyond, she could make out dried blood caked along the woman’s hairline, and wondered if she’d find the same at her own temple, tender and blooming with pain that spread to her eyes and jaw. “Chara, wake up… you need to wake up. We are in danger.” She hissed, as if the urgency of her small voice could wake someone to trauma-induced unconsciousness. Finally, the Rigas head stirred, and Teselin hurried to help her into a sitting position. “I don’t know where we are… I don’t know what happened. Something is wrong. Something went horribly, horribly wrong…”

Beyond the pain shooting through her head, a familiar heaviness had settled into Teselin’s bones--one that she had felt a handful of times before, while spending time in the Rigas dungeons. She would know that feeling anywhere. “Wherever we are… our magic is suppressed. I can feel it, like a sickness… we cannot stay here. We need to find a way out… to contact Alster. Or anyone, anything...”

But how? They were surrounded by four stone walls, interrupted only by a foreboding steel door with tiny bars toward the top. It could have been night or day; they weren’t in a position to know what time it was, let alone where they were, but Teselin had a fairly good guess. Don’t get captured. Don’t let them take you. Haraldur and Hadwin had both told her the same thing--advice that she’d planned to heed, yet had also somehow undermined…

And now, suddenly everything was completely out of their hands...

Captain Solveig, sitting, shackled, facing nine dead corpses, one of which once belonged to her beloved, meditated an undisturbed calm throughout the Dawn Warrior’s one-sided diatribe. Whether from the devil’s draught, her Forbanne training, a sense of defeat, or a combination of the three, the overlarge woman stared, unflinching, even when the agitator buried a sword through the wood plank where she partially sat. “You’re obviously upset,” she said, her jaw rigid from withstanding the layers of upon layers of duress her situation invited. “I represent an establishment you detest. A figurehead whose existence means the loss of many. I know, and understand; I, too, started as Forbanne. No better treated than the men and women in Central. I underwent the same training, the same experimentation, the same diminishment of identity. Beaten, bruised, brutalized. ...Broken. That’s why I swore to raise ranks and speak for the Forbanne. To unite them under my leadership, and provide the best life--away from Mollengard. All I want is a place for us. My Forbanne don’t need fixing. Or rehabilitation. Don’t need to reintegrate according to a codified social etiquette.” Her jaw tightened. “We need each other, that is all. Forbanne understand other Forbanne. For years, we’ve been searching for a haven. Do you deny us?” She shot her question towards Haraldur, who had been holding his head in an attempt to relieve the wrenching migraine that rampaged behind his eyes.

“This is not your home,” he said, lowering a hand to his side. “Stella D’Mare belongs to its citizens. If you want to distance yourself from Mollengard, conquering another territory is not how you forge alliances, which you’ll need, because yes, Forbanne do need to integrate, by virtue of interacting with a world that fears and misrepresents us.” His mouth slackened at his use of “us,” but he recovered, and continued. “If you truly want what you proselytize, then move to an isolated island and cut all ties with the world. To operate as a self-sustaining society, free from all influences. But in the meantime, understanding comes from letting the Outside see Forbanne as people.”

“Is that what you plan on doing with your Forbanne, then?” Solveig shifted in her manacles, leaning as far forward as she could go without toppling. “Do you believe Eyraille will accept them without question? Are you that naive to believe we’ll be accepted anywhere without fundamentally compromising who we now are? Who Mollengard turned us into!?”

“We perpetuate Mollengard’s indoctrination by surrendering to it. That’s how they win over us.” His stony eyes cracked with heat. “We victimize ourselves and we can’t be more than our brutalized past.”

“Then why did you fall so easily into my persuasion?” Haraldur froze a moment, eyes cooling into their default mossy state. Solveig’s chapped lips cracked into a grin. “You wanted what I offered. A place of understanding. No one else can offer you what I did, Prince Haraldur. A haven, for those like you. These people here...they’ll never know what you suffered. Your cousin,” she wrinkled her nose at Sigrid, “your wife. None of them. I don’t force my will on others. Not like Mollengard does. My mind-link is consensual. You were so ready to shut away the pain. So ready for me to envelop you with a beautiful possibility. Don’t lie to yourself.”

“Goddammit, soot-stain. There can be only one mind-fucker in this room at one time, and you’ve revoked the right when Elespeth stabbed you,” Hadwin retorted, flinging himself into the conversation. “He was afraid he’d fall into your compulsion, so he did. You played on his vulnerabilities. And so, the self-fulfilling prophecy spun its loom, and turned straw into shit. Checkmate. Now shut up.” The draught controlled her muscles to nod, and the sinews in her mouth to remain unstretched. Though Haraldur appeared grateful for the intervention, a troubled line bent between his brow. Her words had succeeded in infiltrating his mind. Again.

When it came time for Hadwin to make his exit, he heel-turned to Sigrid and mock-saluted her, fist to chest. “Your skills have been adequate in sparing me from a fist-shaped hole in my chest, good soldier. Though I bow out, now, I may squeeze a little more juice out of our arrangement in the future, so don’t think you’re off the hook yet.” He placed a thumb beneath his chin, stroking its thin layer of stubble. “A free stay in Braighdath would be nice. Your best accommodations, of course. I could share a wall with your scimitar-wielder,” he brightened, and diverted his attention to Elespeth before his once-bodyguard minced him into butcher meat.

“I was born lucky, Elespeth Rigas. In fact, I think you could use some.” He spit a gob into his hand and wiped it, quick but gentle, on her sleeve. Jaunting over to the doorway before the ex-knight joined in on the hunt, Hadwin blew a kiss in goodbye. Once out of sight, his demeanor shifted, and his strident steps fell into a half-run. En route to the city bluffs, he dodged busy avenues and crept along the shadows of buildings in expert fashion, having navigated Mollengard-occupied streets for months, already. By the time he bounded over half-crumbling steps and ascended into Stella D’Mare’s highest tier, the ocean was in full revenge mode, hauling ships and wrestling them beneath restless waters. Keels foundered and large chunks splintered over the sides of sheer rock-faces like ocean-spray, as substituted by a forest. Loving your artistry, kid, he thought, as he gadded around ruins and leapt over piles of refuse. The humming sense of synchronicity didn’t last long, however. Seconds before it happened, a visceral pinch stood all his nerves on end. Then--it happened. The ocean stopped. Waves bubbled into uniformity. The flooding on the shoreline receded, little by little. An eerie silence pervaded across the city, like a funereal shroud.

Something was wrong.

He scampered the rest of the way to the bluffs, but his investigation yielded only two spots of blood soaking on the ground, still wet, but with no sign of their carriers--Chara and Teselin.

Shit.

He wound over the pathway from the bluffs, returned to the city proper, and desperately followed a trail he couldn’t smell. Too faint.

Shit.

Discarding his clothes and hiding them away, he shifted into a wolf, but no manner of heightened senses could track the blood. The assailants--gone. No trace. Little insight as to their whereabouts. Mollengard knew about the tidal wave. The sudden Forbanne insurrection provided one hell of a distraction, but the conquering nation never substituted one threat for another. Sure as their moniker implied, they came for the summoner and the Rigas Head.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Returning to the building where he disposed of his clothes, he shifted into his human skin, donned his jerkin and trousers, and punched the wall a few times, temporarily sated by the spilling of his own blood. Think. Calm down and think!

No. Don’t think. Do. There was nothing to plan. He’d broken people out of prison before, himself included. Everything he needed was in his hands. Devil’s draught. Cooperation of the Forbanne. Mollengard intelligence. Fear-projection.

And...he was lucky, after all.

Wake up. You need to wake up…

So far away. The words sounded muddied, as though underwater. Perhaps she had succumbed to Teselin’s waves. The summoner drowned all of Stella D’Mare, and Chara with it. How apt, to fall with her city. Didn’t she fear it would end with her? That her extreme actions would sweep Stella D’Mare off the map?

Let me drown, she relayed to the voice. I take responsibility. As long as my people escaped, I will die with little to regret. I leave the Rigas legacy in Alster’s capable hands. Lilica will understand why I closed my eyes, and sank.

No. ...She wouldn’t.

With a sputter and a cough, Chara fluttered awake. A fit soon followed her sudden wakefulness, as though she were ejecting seawater and slime. The exertion of movement pummeled at her head injury like a crown of ever-tightening shards of pottery. She breathed, but with difficulty. A sharp tightness in her throat blocked the intake of air. When at last she came to some semblance of stability, she sat on her heels, and touched the tender spot behind her head. Flinching, she released. Even in the almost darkness, she could make out the slick reflection of blood on her fingers.

“Danger? You don’t say,” she hissed. Good to know that in the doldrums of her lowest moment, her attitude never waned. As her eyes adjusted to the gradations of dimness, she detected the steel bars on the high end of a thick, impregnable door, and felt the chill of the dank, weeping stone walls. To prevent from spiraling into panic, she spoke the evil aloud, like a charm to dampen its power. “Mollengard,” she said, with a disconnected sigh. “I wasn’t careful. I was supposed to keep a look-out.” She deflated yet more air. “What a fine mess I’ve turned this into.”

At the young summoner’s mention of contact, Chara checked her pockets. “Before he left, Alster created another pair of resonance stones between him and me. Where--” she ran along the lining of her tunic, flopping around for the small and vital line of communication between the one person who could orchestrate their escape, in spite of the magic-suppressing properties of their cell.

A loud bang at the door startled them into stillness. A gravelly, grave voice penetrated through the cracks. “No use checking your pockets,” he growled, as though his eyes could penetrate, as well. “We confiscated it all. Stones included. Mollengard places a lot of stock in their mining operations. We know magic ore. In fact,” he chuckled without humor, “you’re experiencing the height of our crystal technology. This cell’s lined with enough null gems to subdue a whole army of casters. But that’s not the limit of our toys.”

The guard rattled his fists against the door, a continuous cacophony of noise that intensified the throbbing ache in her head. “Chara Rigas, and her Tidal Summoner. How foolhardy your plans. Thought you should know, that your collective efforts clipped five out of our forty-two ships. The death toll is laughably minimal.” He banged again at the door, this time, with a heavier implement. It sounded like the pommel of a sword. Probably the one that smashed the backs of their heads. “As you’ve gathered, we’re not very personable with our imprisonment service, especially not to people, such as yourselves, who’ve decided to try and mow us down. Us--your benefactors! Are you always this ungrateful to your allies?”

“To those who--”

A searing series of scraping, screeching, maddening scrapes scrambled Chara’s splitting head, and squeezed her words into useless gasps.

“This is a monologue. Not a conversation. Anyway,” he threw his body against the door; bang, bang, bang, “you’re going to die. Both of you. But it won’t be instantaneous, no. The siphoning gem must make short work of you, first. Once we bleed your magic dry--and the process is, I assure you, agonizing--that is when we’ll find some creative methods for your departure. Oh...and say goodbye to familiar company. All you’ll hear from each other...are your screams down the hallway. Well,” he gurgled a sadistic laugh, “shall we begin?” Another bang. “Don’t answer. That was a rhetorical question.”

She not only understood, but empathized with the Rigas head’s plight; her pain, her strong desire not to be roused, for Teselin had felt the same just moments before. Ultimately, her own pain was what had driven her from blissful unconsciousness, and while it was possible the same would have occurred with Chara in time, there was not time for her to gradually return to the waking world. So the young summoner shook her, more and more vigorously, until her shallow, even breaths turned into pained gasps, as if the effort of drawing air into her lungs was too difficult for the state of her body. Teselin drew away, at that point, offering her the space she needed to come to. It only occurred to her after she’d spoken that her words were redundant and obvious: there was no opportunity to feel anything but danger, in a dark, cold, and dank-smelling place like this… wherever they were.

“I didn’t hear them, either.” The young summoner offered, in response to Chara’s guilt-laden confession. “Not over the roar of the waves… I was concentrating too hard. Even if we had, I don’t think we’d have stood a chance. Don’t be seen, or else be… taken.” She’d known and understood the risks; so had Chara. And the reward, should they see it through, had been worth the risks. Perhaps it had been their own oversight, thinking they could do this alone, just the two of them… two women against an army of savages and barbarians. Even someone with her power was helpless to prevent an ambush the moment it was upon them.

Hearing the vigor and bite in Chara’s voice came as such a relief; though injured, as they both were, that the Rigas head still had it in her to spring a plan on thinking ahead. The sigh that rushed out of Teselin’s lungs left her feeling light-headed and tingly. “Bless your forward thinking, Chara.” She hazarded a pain smile. “Alster will help us… too much time couldn’t have passed, right? He can’t be far…”

Unfortunately, the resonance stone was nowhere to be found; at least, not on Chara’s person. And the ruckus on the other side of their cell door confirmed that searching for it would be a futile effort. Teselin felt herself physically flinch at the loud banging on the door, obviously an intentional effort to shock them into complacency. Whoever spoke on the other side obviously knew how badly they were injured; for all she knew, it was the same person who had taken them prisoner. And if what he said was true--that the cell was lined, floor to ceiling, with talismans designed to suppress magic--then it explained the heaviness she felt on her shoulders, the way it felt difficult to move and breathe, and for her heart to pump blood through her body. Chara might not have been experiencing quite the same sensation, but the blow to her head had her in such a rough shape that it didn’t matter who had it worse.

Both women were helpless to do any more than listen as the man on the other side of the door mocked their efforts. Only five ships out of forty-two had gone down… and yet, somehow, Teselin still felt proud. I did that, a small, hopeful voice reminded her, but it was quickly shut down and overshadowed by another voice, one that oddly took on the tone of Alster’s: You didn’t do enough. You failed. You failed yourself, you failed Chara… you have failed everyone. How disappointed would her mentor be, when he found out that her mishap had led to not only her end, but Chara’s?

Now wasn’t the time to feel sorry for herself, the young summoner was quick to realize. There was no time for that; not as soon as the savage on the other side of the door declared exactly what Mollengard planned to do with them. Oddly, Teselin failed to react with fear, or even surprise, but upon awakening in this hell, she’d known right away that the possibility of ever getting out alive was slim. And Hadwin had told her about the conquering nation’s means of extracting magic, so it went without saying that using the two of them as sources of magic to collect would be the only reason they’d bother to keep them alive for any amount of time.

Except… Mollengard might be very disappointed in plotting creative means for her death. If suppressing her magic rendered her in such a sickly state, she could only imagine that removing it entirely would be precisely what led to her demise.

Having predicted death at the hands of the conquering nation, it didn’t frighten her the way that it should. Nor did pain: in fact, this wasn’t the first time she’d been taken prisoner to be subjected to cruelty, due to the nature of what she was, and what she could do. Her small wrists still bore scars from tight manacles when she’d been imprisoned in the village she’d inhabited before seeking refuge in Stella D’Mare. It was when their captor announced that the two of them would be separated that cold fear cut through her, like being impaled on ice. Something about being in the presence of a comrade, even when the outlook was bleak, could offer enough hope to face whatever was coming your way. She’d had a comrade like that in the other village, who’d ultimately helped her to escape. But alone… and in Mollengard’s clutches, there was no hope.

Without realizing it, the young summoner clutched Chara to her, and the Rigas caster did the same. Two frightened prisoners, helpless in a dark situation that could very well mean this was the last they’d see of one another. And when the door to their cell opened, to tear the two casters away from one another, they at least had the dignity to put up a fight--futile though it might have been, injured and against men of twice their weight, height, and strength. “We’re going to get out of here alive.” Was the young summoner’s last promise to the Rigas head, a sharp whisper full of hope and conviction. But she knew that Chara did not believe a word of it… and she wasn’t so sure that she believed it, herself.

If Mollengard had any virtue (if you could even consider it a virtue), it was in their honesty. There was no deception, no pretense with their intentions, and they did exactly as they said they would. On the day they’d awoke, they’d taken Chara first, and it was some time before she saw the Rigas caster’s face, again. But, true to their word--she heard her. She heard her screams, her futile pleas for mercy, and more agonized cries when that mercy obviously wasn’t offered. Teselin didn’t know if they resulted from Mollengard’s unrivaled cruelty, or from their promise to siphon every ounce of magic from her body, but when at last they came for her, she realized it didn’t matter.

Like fire burning blood from your veins: that was the feeling of having magic siphoned away, something so essentially a part of you being torn like a limb. Teselin quickly understood the extent of Chara’s screams, and she soon rivaled the decibels that the Rigas caster’s voice had reached. Those stones were so small and unassuming, appearing no more dangerous than common quartz, but in truth they were more effective weapons than steel against casters. She could feel their magnetic pull, not coaxing, but tugging her magic forward, up and out of her skin, manifesting in a pain that she could not even describe in terms of the threshold she was familiar with.

And she was not brave, in the face of any of this. Teselin Kristeva was not a warrior; despite the trying experiences of her short life, she wasn’t even hardened, but still soft, still hopeful. Because of this, she, like Chara, begged and pleaded for mercy. And those brief times when she was left alone in her small cell, all she could do was shiver and weep, and hate herself for her decision. Why hadn’t she listened to Elespeth, who, in hindsight, had been so keen on looking out for her safety? Why hadn’t she just listened, and left for Galeyn with Alster? Because I thought I had something to prove. And look where it has gotten me…

The passage of time was agonizingly slow. She never saw the outside, and was awake more than asleep; the Mollengard guards made sure of that, to keep her weak and disoriented, and whenever she did find a rare moment to stop and think, she took that time to try and consider what was happening: what she knew, what she was learning, and whether there was a way out, or if she was being the naive child that everyone thought she was. The young summoner had learned a lot, she’d realized. She learned that she was not a strong person, not by any stretch of the word. She learned that she feared pain and feared death more than she’d realized. She learned how breakable she was, how pathetically fragile, and how useless, with her magic suppressed around the clock, save for when they took her time and again to extract her magic.

And something else she learned was that whatever outcome Mollegard expected, in siphoning the magic of a summoner… it was not going as planned. Well, as a method of torture, it was most certainly effective, but Teselin had gathered enough to realize that those cursed stones were not meant to shatter. The first time they’d subjected her to that particular cruelty, she’d been in too much pain, and too distraught to notice. But when it happened again, and again after that, the angry and disappointed looks registering on the faces of the Mollengardians told her all that she needed to know: they couldn’t siphon her magic, not even a little. Because the source of her magic wasn’t from within: it drew from everywhere, and found a home in her body. The siphoning stones simply filled too quickly, with too much magic--potent magic, at that--leaking out of her, and they weren’t equipped to contain such wild power. Mollengard thought her summoning abilities were limited to the tides; they had no idea who, or what, they were really dealing with.

Of course, this only led Mollengard to try and remedy the problem by subjecting her to further cruelties. When larger stones shattered just as quickly, they resorted to weakening her body, in any event that it would make a difference. Teselin was already weak from lack of food and sleep, but it didn’t stop them from rendering her bruised or bleeding. Not enough to kill her--she wouldn’t be of any use to them, then. Just enough that she could scarcely stand on her own, and could by no means retaliate. At least, that was what she let them think, for a time.

It was a hasty plan, not at all thought through, and with no guarantee of success. But it was all that Teselin had to cling to, the last shred of hope she could muster to get herself and Chara to safety before Mollengard tired of using them, and implemented their demise. The window of opportunity was also small; the only time her magic was not suppressed was when they sought to siphon it, again and again. On the contrary, those crystals drew her power to the surface, and should she choose to use it at that moment…

Maybe it was reckless. But it was worth a try.

Teselin seized the opportunity when the guards seized her again, rough hands dragging her weak, bruised body from her cell. It wasn’t much of an act; it hurt to move, and she was light-headed from lack of sleep and food, but she made sure to downplay what little strength she could muster. The young summoner dragged her feet, played up her feeble condition until she reached the doors of the room that housed those cursed crystals, felt the beginning of that burning in her veins…

And she released all hell.

No sooner did she step into that room that every single one of those crystals shattered at her will. With her power literally at her fingertips, desperate to find release due to the magnetism of the crystals, it took little to no effort to cause every other object in that room to go flying, to strike the guard, shards of crystal flying at their faces and embedding in their flesh. And she seized that moment of distracted to muster her strength and will, and fled into the corridor.

“Chara? Chara, where are you?” She called, finding herself out of breath almost as soon as she broke into a run. But adrenaline fueled her where lack of food and sleep failed her, and this chance was a good as any. “I’m going to get you out--to get us out!”

The Rigas caster eventually called back to her, her voice strained and exhausted as her own, and at last she came across the door to Chara’s cell. The cells themselves were lined with magic-suppressing materia, but the corridors were not quite so reinforced. With just a little concentration… maybe she could pull the door off of its hinges. Her magic was still raw and vying for release from being in the presence of those crystals, and ironically, putting it to use at her will had never been so easy.

“I taking the door down. Stand back.” She warned the Rigas caster, and true to her word and her skills, the heavy, steel door flew away from its hinges like it was made of paper. Crouched against the back of the cell was Chara, looking about as worse for the wear as she was, but just seeing her comrade, seeing her alive, was enough to make tears gather in her eyes. “I don’t know the way out; but they haven’t taken my magic,” she explained hurriedly. “I don’t think they can. The corridors don’t suppress magic like the cells… come on!” The young summoner extended her hand, as hot tears streaked her face. “I’m not leaving without you. We’re getting out of here alive--”

Once again, just on the precipice of victory, Teselin was rudely interrupted as a guard struck her in the back of the head with the pommel of a blade. And the last shreds of her hope faded to black, along with the rest of the world.

Chara Rigas was not a cooperative prisoner.

From the moment she learned of her imminent death, all restraint and self-preservation had oozed from her like pustules in an infected wound. Nobody outside of the cursed dungeon would ever know that she died fighting, but it would be the last ounce of satisfaction that she’d clutch and hold dear. They may succeed in stripping away every core component of her existence, but her spirit was indomitable.

When they came and peeled her arms from the summoner, she demonstrated exactly why they took the wrong person prisoner. She flailed. She twisted her limbs against their manacle-grip. She kicked at unidentified shins, rammed her bruised head into a guard’s chin, screamed frothing obscenities and bit down on fingers that tried to clamp her mouth shut. As they half-dragged her out of the cell and into the sconce-lit corridors, her curled hands extended, and sparks of etherea popped like light blisters into the eyes of her assailants. Their grip loosened. “I’m not going down,” she warned them all, with a deathly snarl. She squirmed out of one man’s arms and laid seering fingers against his flesh. Nothing happened.

“Forbanne!” She instead dug fingernails through the slats of the man’s armor and scratched with a swipe so vigorous, it snapped her nails off their beds and lodged into their intended target. The target, unamused, slapped her cheek with the back edge of his gauntleted fist and threw her into a choking headlock. The other guard, the chatty one, slapped her with manacles embedded with the cheerful rosy-pink facets of the null gem.

“You’re not in Stella D’Mare anymore, Rigas,” the chatty guard said, prodding her ruined face with the pommel of his sword. Chara spat a gob of blood and a chipped tooth at him. He laughed, and punched her bruised cheek with the pommel. An involuntary gasp filled her lungs, and the seizing arm around her throat tightened. “No one here knows you. No one who can rescue you. Sooner or later, your verve will crumble to nothing, too. Everyone crumbles, eventually. I look forward to it.”

They strapped her to a chair in a cell facing the corridor from whence they came. The chair--festooned with milky blue stones flecked with gold. They draped her arms over the stones, which burned to the touch. She sucked her lip through her teeth, but made no other sound. While she could not control her situation, she could control her reaction. They would not break her.

“Your celestial magic makes such a wonderful color,” the chatty guard remarked, referring to the milky-blue and gold-flecked stones. “But so weak. I’m disappointed, Chara Rigas. The leader of your people, magically inept?”

“That should worry you,” Chara bit. “A magically-weak Rigas Head did this much damage. And now you’ve trapped her underground. What other secrets is she hiding?”

“Secrets? More like delusions. Well,” the chatty guard said, civilly enough, “thank you for the warning.” He nodded to a Forbanne guard, who brought in another case and set it on the table beside Chara’s chair. The chatty guard, who presented as more of a warden, or an officer, flattened a hand upon the sealed case. “We reserve this bundle for the most stubborn and spirited of our Forbanne trainees. Count all the stars in heaven, Chara Rigas. You will get to experience this hospitality for yourself.” He unlatched the case. Corkscrews made of jagged, uneven steel rested beside barb-tipped needles and small, V-gouged shovels--all strange implements with terrifying backstories behind their dull-glinting glimmer.

“We’re going to pick out your magic, Chara Rigas--and not cleanly, oh no. The process is going to leave behind some nasty, lasting scars. From here on out,” the warden tied a handkerchief around his mouth and pulled on a pair of thick cloth gloves, “you’ll expect no more mercy.”

At first, Chara did not scream. Instead, she did as the warden had jokingly instructed earlier. She counted stars. Muttered the names of constellations and their alphas. The ones that shone brightest. Rigel. Adalfieri. Valente. Alster. Never Chara. It blinked too much. With every blink, it threatened to sleep--to erase itself from the congregation. Gone. Gone. Gone…

No! Don’t spiral, don’t spiral. She resumed counting. Started by hemisphere, by magnitude, by shape, size, and renown. Chara did not appear on any list.

Chara was nothing.

She screamed. “No!” She bellowed. “Please! You’re snuffing it! My star! I’m a Rigas. You can’t take it away! It’s who I am! Stop. Stop. Stop!”

It never stopped. The black hole tore into the cosmos, and swallowed the star.

Coherency and cognizance had long abandoned her. The only true constant in this new existence was pain, and the surety of death--soon. She communicated one word to her captor, her master, the chain-holder, whenever she saw him: “When?” And he would smirk, pat her on the shoulder, and resume his work. He never dignified her with an answer.

Rare moments occurred between sessions. Clarity pushed through the haze, manifesting as a spread of fire between her eyes. Injustice, and rage, and the promise of revenge rallied from her tired throat into a battle cry so wounded and profound, it contained enough power to raise soldiers from the dead. Die fighting. Die fighting. I’m not gone, yet.

But then her outburst would collapse, and the borrowed energy flopped her into a dreamless, pain-streaked sleep, head lolled against the iron-stained backrest. The rest of her life belonged to that chair. She slept in the chair, bled in the chair, urinated and defecated in the chair, and starved in the chair. Food was an illusion. Water, a cruel joke. No one spoke when they visited her in the cell. Words translated to sharp, prodding tools. Soon, her screams, her remaining communicative tool, lost potency, dwindling into unassuming yelps and moans.

Until…

A commotion stirred outside her cell. Hurried footsteps of guards. A raw, youthful voice. Female. She recognized it, recognized the name. Chara? Chara! Where are you?

“Teselin!” She cried, surprised at the ferocity that ripped through her lacerated voice. Hope reignited, and it burned on both ends in a rapid conflagration. “Back here!” The far corridor! Can you hear me!?”

Apparently, she had. Chara flinched when the over-large cell door snapped apart and spun across the cell, smacking into the stone floor with an amplified clatter.

“Teselin!” she repeated, moving to no avail in her bound and chained chair. “The warden has the keys to this contraption. Can you pop it off with your magic? I--” her words choked at the sight of an encroaching shadow. “Run! Run now! Forget about me; just run!” But it was too late. The warden approached, knocking the summoner unconscious with the pommel of his sword.

“What trouble you’ve become.” He spat on her fallen form, and called over a few Forbanne guards to handle the body. “A shame, too. I would have loved to wear your magic. Oh well. Take her to the execution cell.” With obliging nods, the Forbanne hauled her away with all the care of a sack of rubbish. “We’ll deal with her in the morning.”  

Chara, at bearing witness to the death of personified hope, let drop the final reserve she’d been carrying since her torture began. She surrendered the fight. Why did she care to die fighting? It didn’t matter, now. She’d still be dying alone. As a nobody. The star had closed its eye for good.

Chara stirred awake to the sound of a key turning, of locks clicking free and iron-laden chains rattling in serpentine patterns at her feet. Mobility coursed through her stiffened joints, so used to occupying the same position, that they creaked as they stretched outwards, and unclenched. The warden stood before her, expression unreadable, as always. Once he freed her of all bindings, he extended his hand for her to take. She stared at the callused palm, waiting for a mouth to appear within its creases and tear off her fingers.

“Come along,” he said, and his statement held no ulterior violence or punishment. It was factual, devoid of emotion. A marionette repeating the words of its puppeteer. With hesitation, she grabbed his hand and drew to her feet. It was like her bones had been filed into daggers, for how gutting the simplest of steps had rendered her. She flinched her way to the door (the guards had moved her to neighboring cell, since her old residence lost its barrier to the outside), and stepped through the threshold. The Forbanne guards in the corridor did not react to her emergence with the warden. Rather, they trailed behind in a procession, all weapons and threats sheathed. Hand in hand with her jailer, Chara walked, unencumbered by manacles or leg cuffs. Ambling down the corridor, they appeared as ludicrous as a couple about to attend a vernal soiree. What was happening?

The procession stopped before another closed cell. The warden lifted his key-ring, fumbled through the keys, and inserted a sharp-toothed one into the hole. Pushing aside the door revealed a slight girl curled into a ball at the corner. Chara’s recognition lit, as it did before. Teselin! But this time, she said nothing.

“Come along,” he said to the summoner, in the same tone and intention as relayed to Chara. Finally, she found her voice, and the desire to question the warden’s latest directive. Something was off. Strange.

“What is this all about?” she croaked, words almost failing from her severely dehydrated state.

“Orders from up above,” he said, undoing the chains of Teselin’s manacles.

“Whose orders?”

The warden turned an attentive face to Chara. “The Ace of Spades.”

“Who?” Then, it hit her, like a brass-knuckled fist to her side. Hadwin Kavanagh. She remembered his silly code-name whenever he went on his spy missions. Call me the Ace of Spades, he’d said, with an infuriating grin.

She shared a wide-eyed glance with Teselin, but said nothing more. With an obeisant nod, Chara followed the warden, the summoner joining them alongside. Whatever happened now, it was of no consequence. Good as dead either way, the spade would either bury her, or dig her out of the grave.

Together, they emerged above ground and outside the doors, which belonged to a small fort. The afternoon sunlight was oppressive and fulminating, but once she adjusted to the oversaturated world, she didn’t recognize their whereabouts. The warden meant what he said. They were not in Stella D’Mare. From the line of rolling mountains reaching for a far-off marine layer, she guessed it was inland Andalari. Occupied territory, as was the case with their neighbors in Tadasun.

A carriage awaited them before the fort’s gates. No. Not a carriage. Dressed in black and standing like a three-dimensional shadow, it was a hearse. Even the horses stood in stark contrast to the baking glow of white sunlight, themselves standing upon an erased landscape.

The warden opened the door to the carriage and led them inside. Wooden coffins and burlap sacks lined the roomy interior. A man, resting against a few of the bunched up sacks, perked up at the new arrivals and waved at the warden.

“Great timing, Grigori. We’ve just arrived.” He indicated himself and the coach, way up at the front of the hearse. The man pushed into the light at the open door, and his features revealed their familiarity. Sure enough, the Ace of Spades was Hadwin, infuriating grin and all. “Lady Chara.” He helped her into the carriage, then extended his guiding hand to Teselin, next. “Hey, scamp.” His glib tone lightened into a soft cadence. “Sorry for the delay. They took you out of the city and a ways over. It was a real task, finding out where they stashed you.”

“What else would you like me to do?” The warden who Hadwin called ‘Grigori’ called from outside the carriage.

“File your reports stating these two are dead, and the hearse came to dump them in the midden heap outside town. After others can corroborate your report, then,” he shrugged, “get yourself into an accident. A bad one. Make sure you don’t live at the end of it. Messier, the better. You’re dismissed.”

Grigori saluted and returned inside the fortress, followed by the Forbanne under his command. When they flickered out of sight, Hadwin blew out a noisy sigh. “Stage one, complete. But we still gotta the hell out of Mollengard-occupied territory. Luckily, this hearse will take you to the borderlands, where they ‘bury’ all the ‘untouchables.’ Not so lucky, the place is guarded by Mollengardians who need to check if the bodies are legitimately dead. Once we arrive, we’re making a run for it.” He pulled a few water skins out of a sack and handed them to the women. “It’s about an hour ride to the border, so drink up and regain some of your strength. Got some food in there, too. Nothing much but it’ll hold you over if you’re hungry. I also have a pick-me-up in here," he patted the inside pocket of his jerkin. "Some loose-leaf stimulant that Forbanne use. Damn is it effective. It'll get you up and going like a heartbeat." He unearthed a few empty sacks of varying lengths and sizes. "When we get closer, it’ll be time to cuddle up in your sack of choice and look as dead as possible. My coach up here will distract the checkpoint guards at our stop and that’s when we’ll hightail it to freedom. Any questions?”

Chara unscrewed the cap off the waterskin and lapped up a few grateful sips. “What then? Once we run...where, next?”

“Well,” Hadwin signaled the driver and closed the carriage door, returning them to darkness, “it’s been about a week since the evacuation. Six days, if you want a precise measure. It’ll be the three of us on our own. No recovery units coming to retrieve us--far as I know. This has been a one-man operation. And depending on how sloppy our escape is, we’ll have soldiers pursuing us nonstop. Now, we could try to catch up with Alster’s group, or go to one of the safe houses along the route. Either way, it’s still leaving us open and vulnerable to any assailants we can’t shake.”

“So what do you propose, instead?”

Hadwin’s tired eyes crinkled into amusement. “Ever hear of the Missing Links?”

Hope truly was like a candle; something that burned so bright was bound to be snuffed out, eventually. Such was precisely what happened in those few, precious moments that Teselin had found herself free of shackles and Mollengard’s magic-suppressing instruments. While she shouldn’t have been able to stand on her own two legs, let alone make a run for it, adrenaline had carried her all the way to Chara’s cell. It was such a powerful thing, hope; how despite her weak knees and shaking hands, the young summoner wrenched the hefty door from Chara’s cell with a mere motion of her fingers, without any strain or hesitation. Had she more time, she knew she would’ve succeeded in shattering the contraption that kept the Rigas caster bound. Just a moment more, and they’d both have been running, fleeing, her magic raw and roaring and angry…

There was also a toll for hoping too much, apparently. Hoping too hard… and in the end, the young summoner succumbed to unconsciousness. And that failure hurt more than the blow to her head. The way light had crept into Chara’s eyes, how for a moment, she had been her hope, her beacon of light, really made Teselin believe that this was possible. That Mollengard couldn’t hold them, and that there was a light at the end of this awful tunnel…

Well, there would be a light--at least, that was as much as she could hope, upon awakening in a different cell with a splitting migraine. It didn’t take long for her to realize she had failed; and that her time was up. Mollengard couldn’t harvest her magic, and she had just proven her ability to breach their security, if given a half-second of opportunity. The conquering nation no longer had any reason to keep her alive… She remembered the look of horror on Chara’s face. How she told her to run, to forget about her and save herself. Maybe if she had, she’d be safe, now… but she knew that she couldn’t. She couldn’t turn away from the person who had given her refuge in a desperate time, who had believed in her abilities. No, she would sooner die along with her than live knowing she had failed her. And for that, death was ultimately the only silver lining that she could cling to.

It’s not over. I’ll still find him. She promised herself, lying listless on the cold floor of her cell, her eyes bloodshot and dry. Teselin was out of tears; couldn’t cry because she was too dehydrated, and what little water her body maintained was reluctant to let it go. I’ll still find Vitali, even if only to say goodbye… I will find him, even in death. If not, then he can find me…

For the first time in her short life--which would end prematurely--the young summoner allowed herself to give up. To let go of that dead candle that was hope, as its flame had been doused, and there was no chance at this point that it would be lit, again. The materia that suppressed her power was too strong, her body too broken and beaten. She felt sick and sore, her heart beating with difficulty, air reluctantly passing through her lungs, but not often enough to keep her lucid. Teselin had always feared that it would be this easy, to finally lie down and accept a fate that she could not change; all her life, she’d feared that she would succumb to it, to the chaotic nature of her magic that could not be tamed. It had never occurred to her that this would come to pass as a result of not being able to access her magic. Life was so ironic and cruel… would death be any better?

The young summoner floated between consciousness and unconsciousness when the door to her cell finally opened. She didn’t bother to move or open her eyes. They wanted to kill her? Fine--they could drag her away, but she would not offer herself up to their cruelty. She expected rough hands to grasp at her frail form without care, but the grip of those cruel fingers never came. Instead, a familiar, albeit nonchalant voice: “Come along”.

At last, the young summoner opened her eyes, which ached from her migraine and struggled to focus. Even if their blurred and overdried state, there was no mistaking the familiarity of the two forms who stood before her: the sadistic warden of this prison. And next to him, unbound and alive… Chara Rigas.

“Come along,” he repeated when she did not move, after freeing her wrists of manacles. Had Mollengard decided that neither of them was worth their time, anymore? Were they to be killed together, to spare wasting any more unnecessary time on useless prisoners? She could see confusion written on Chara’s face, as well; if he intended to kill them, why not drag them out kicking and screaming? Why did it sound as though he were inviting them to… well, to be free?

Against her better judgment, Teselin pushed herself into a sitting position, and struggled to get to her feet. Pain shot through her body, cutting her short of a squat; something broken, something bruised… at the treatment she’d received since her capture, it could have been anything, but without adrenaline to fuel her, she had become the helpless thing they’d expected her to be. She couldn’t even stand on her own. Noting her struggle, the warden signaled for one of the Forbanne guards to pick her shrunken form up from the cold ground. Even once she was on her feet again, she was forced to rest most of her weight against the Forbanne soldier. A few steps, and she felt so light-headed she feared she wouldn’t make it out the door, but by will alone, she managed to stay on her feet.

At last, Chara asked for an explanation, and to Teselin’s surprise, the warden answered. The Ace of Spades… For some reason, she recognized the moniker, but its origins were fuzzy in her headache-addled mind. Chara seemed to recognize it, as well, by the wide-eyed look she gave her.

The early-afternoon sun was like a weapon to the summoner’s eyes. She flinched visibly and squeezed her eyelids shut, relying on the Forbanne guard to show her the way. She did not open her eyes again, until a familiar voice cut through her pain. “Hadwin…” She murmured his name under her breath. Sure enough, the shapeshifter was here, commanding a Mollengardian warden to… to let them go? But how…

Devil’s draught. Somehow, he had not only managed to find them in this unfamiliar place, but he’d orchestrated a plan to free them. She could have cried for gratitude and relief, but again, she was too dehydrated. Accepting a hand up into a vehicle that looked suspiciously like a hearse, the young summoner against the wooden planks, and fought the urge to sob uncontrollably. To think, she had given up, when hope had had her back all along…

After Hadwin exchanged questionable words with the warden, and then boarded the hearse along with the two of them, he began to explain where they were at, and what to expect. Teselin struggled to pay attention to his words, over the way every bump and jolt of the hearse sent shocks of agony through her body, and turned her stomach. She wasn’t sure she would be able to keep anything down, so to stay on the safe side, she kept to the water and chose not to touch the food just yet.

“The Missing Links?” She repeated, and the fragility of her voice startled her. Less a voice, and more of a whisper. “I recall a band of performers by that name… I’ve come across them in my travels. But… surely that can’t be what you mean, Hadwin?”

As it turned out, that was precisely who he meant. For the next hour, Teselin listened in silence as Hadwin explained his relation to the Missing Links troupe, as well as answered any questions that Chara had to fill in the gaps in her knowledge with regard to the evacuation. The only time the young summoner spoke up was to meekly request some of that stimulant the shapeshifter had mentioned. At first, he suggested she try eating, fearing the potency of the stimulant might be too much for her small body, but she was quick to explain her position. “As it stands… I can’t run. So if we’re to make a run for it, then I’m going to need to be able to use my legs.”

To her relief, he did not argue with her, and instead promptly handed her one of the tiny leaves from within his pouch. Teselin placed the bitter herb on her tongue, wrinkling her nose at the taste, and fought the urge to dry heave as she chewed. It only took about a moment for her to become more aware of her heart rate, which had picked up, and her breathing, which had also accelerated. Her migraine remained, but she was able to push it out of focus, along with the fatigue in her limbs. Hadwin had been right; it was potent. But right now, it was exactly what she needed.

When at last the hearse came to a stop, Hadwin urged the two of them to climb into the sacks he’d provided, and to remain as still as possible. Much though she wanted to believe in this plan, and that they could get away safely, so much of it still hinged on dumb luck, and the off chance that the driver would be able to distract the Mollengardian sentries long enough for a shapeshifter and two worse-for-the-wear women to run away. As it turned out, that feeling was not so unfounded, in the end.

“How many you got in there?” Teselin heard a gruff voice ask. Footsteps approached the back hearse, and her heart beat so fast and so hard, she feared it would give them away.

“Just two. Not a pretty sight,” the driver at the front said; concern had crept into his voice. “You don’t have to go back there. Even I don’t have the stomach for it, to be honest…”

It was too late. As soon as they heard the back of the hearse open, their ruse was over. “Hey--you got a stowaway!” One of the sentries growled, eyeing Hadwin. “You there! What do you think you’re doing? You wanna join that pile of corpses so bad, all you had to do was ask!”

“And what of these, then? These two even dead?” Another sentry, blade drawn, prodded Teselin’s sack with the tip of his sword. “If not… I’ll make sure they fit right in before joining their friends in the pit.”

The young summoner did not wait for the inevitable. She did not scramble out of the way, or cry or beg for mercy, as she had back at the prison. There was no place for helplessness when lives were in danger--and she was not about to accept defeat again, so easily.

In hopes of  startling the sentry, Teselin kicked out, feeling her feet connect with his gut as she shed the sack that covered her and leapt out of the hearse, heedless of the pain in her head and her body, having faded to the back of her mind. Out in the daylight again, she realized it was worse than she thought. Not only were they faced with two guards, but a handful of others, hearing the commotion, moved into her space. Six in all, and only three of them. No… it doesn’t end like this. She thought about Chara’s face, just the other day, when she’d been so sure they would be free. How the Rigas caster had believed in her, and she… she had let her down. I’m sorry, Chara. It won’t happen again. Not now.

“Stand down!” One of the guard commanded her, sword drawn. “Unless you came here looking for death. If that was what you wanted, you didn’t need to come this far.”

Teselin felt hot, but not in the way one did on a summer’s afternoon. It was a cloying heat, one that raged in her heart, and began to spread throughout her limbs. Somehow, the world… it felt different. She was aware of everything, all energies, near and far. And not just the energies that flowed through nature: the wind, the water, the earth, the sun and the stars… She was aware of her breath, her heartbeat--and those of everyone else. Particularly the Mollengardian sentries who faced her, ready to arrest her for a second time. It wouldn’t happen.

For the briefest of moments, the world was silent and still--and then, chaos erupted. The sentry provoking her suddenly dropped his sword, eyes going wide. Blood began to spill from his nose, his ears, his mouth and eyes, in some horrific still-life. It streamed and gushed, until he fell fell to his knees, and his face connected to the ground. He was dead.

The remainder of the sentries took a startled step back. “They’re casters!” One of them gasped, hands fumbling for the hilt of his own blade. “Grab the sto--”

His words were cut short as the air suddenly rushed from his body, both lungs deflating before collapsing altogether. His comrades shared a similar fate, clawing at their throats as they fell to the ground, struggling for air, surrounded by it, without the means of taking it into their bodies. Their deaths might have been less gruesome, but ultimately, far more painful and agonizing. When six corpses lay at her feet, several moments later, Teselin Kristeva finally dropped her hand, and released the energies that had rushed into her control at lifting an arm. The flow of their blood and the air in the lungs returned--or, it would have, if they weren’t already dead.

The young summoner’s face didn’t betray a hint of emotion. “Let’s get out of here,” was all she said to Hadwin and Chara, and she turned on her heel, before she had a chance to stop and think about what she had just done.

“Glad you still recognize me, kid,” Hadwin said as he scooped the young summoner inside the carriage and set her in a comfortable corner cushioned with sacks. “They didn’t hit your head too hard. Told you I’d have your back, though.” He brushed his knuckles against her collarbone, a fusion between a gentle pat and the kneading of a cat’s paws.

Chara watched the exchange, mute, but contemplative--a far cry from that morning, when she closed off all thought and anything associated with it. Now, inklings of life Before the Chair cast light motes against her bleak vision, and it took some effort adjusting to the jarring scene to which she belonged. A scene that not only contained her but involved her: Chara Rigas, not just the body of Chara Rigas. But she did not know if such a woman was present, either. Her star was gone. Eaten by the hunger of the universe.

Enough of her existed to present an old facsimile of the old Chara, though. So she did, however stilted, shaky, and disingenuous. Pretending was easy. It felt safe. A controlled fabrication. It didn’t matter; she commanded it. She owned it. No one else.

“Without our blood oath, would you have come for me at all, mongrel?” She clutched the sides of her waterskin. “Or would I still be locked in that chair, waiting for death?”

“Now that’s not fair,” Hadwin said, frowning. “What’s the point of dwelling on hypotheticals, especially for things that have already happened? You’re here, and you’re alive, aren’t you? Did you want me to leave you behind, Lady Chara?”

She didn’t answer, and sipped her waterskin, despite the bone-chattering jostle of the carriage that left her in a mess of pain.

Conversation went on to more pressing matters, though if they sounded pressing, Chara wasn’t sure. “Wait--why are we talking about a bloody circus troupe?”

“Well, they owe me a favor, for one. Helped them out in a pinch some months ago and they didn’t have enough to pay me for the job.” After passing along a leaf  for each passenger, he rested one on his tongue and shivered from its pleasant shock of energy. The pungent stimulant tingled down his throat, jolting him into an upright position. “But no problem, they said. I could come and find them whenever. They set me up with their schedule and approximated the times of the year for when and where they’d be performing. And--to my understanding--they’ll be arriving in the town of Hospiria, a few days’ north of here. To confirm, I went to a tavern and asked around. We got four days to scramble up there in time for the performance. It’s only a one night gig, so they’ll be back on the road in the morning. And--rest assured, my kind, sweet, beautiful Lady, it is here where I get to my point.”

“At last,” Chara muttered.

“Their next stop is Braighdath.”

Chara chewed the inside of her cheek, scooping out the last bit of leaf that wedged between the cracks. “So you’re suggesting--”

“We hitch a ride with a circus troupe? Exactly,” Hadwin concluded with the satisfied bob of his head. “Better than fending for ourselves, or chasing after Alster’s group or Haraldur’s group when they’re so far ahead of us and we have no method of communicating. I mean, if you do want the experience of life on the run, you’re with the right man, but if you want a more comfortable and safer conveyance to your destination, hitching with The Missing Links is the way to do it.”

“And what we travel all the way to Hospiria and they tell us ‘no’?” Chara asked.

“I mean, that’s always a possibility. But they’re an agreeable lot. May not like you,” he wrinkled his nose at Chara, “but no worries. I’ll just work my charms. You can’t say you doubt me now, after all the trouble I went through to get you out of Mollengardian custody.”

“It’s not over yet,” Chara flinched as they passed through a rather bracing divot in the road.

“No,” Hadwin said, nodding in agreement. “It’s never over. Not until you’re dead. Doesn’t mean you stop trying, though.”

The rest of the hour elapsed in relative silence, with Chara finishing off her waterskin and Hadwin sliding on a pair of brass knuckles with spiked tips. “It’s likely we’ll have to fight through this mess,” he said, by way of explaining his chosen weapon. “I’ll keep that fight to them and me, if I can help it. Just get out of here. If we’re separated, we know to head for Hospiria in four days, got it?” At Chara and Teselin’s twin nods of understanding, he instructed them to climb into the sacks and keep still. “They’ll open the carriage and see me first, not you. When their eyes are on me, you run.”

When the carriage rolled to a stop, Hadwin listened to the exchange between their speech-faltering driver and the unconvinced sentries. As expected, a guileless driver could not transform into a master of persuasion--even when draughted to do so. Gripping the brass-knuckles in his fists, Hadwin crouched in the corner, awaiting the open swing of the hearse doors and for the sentries to show their punch-worthy faces.

They did not disappoint. The doors clanged apart, and two pairs of eyes met his. Good. Not Forbanne. “All right, I’ll bite,” he said, his attention never leaving their faces. Yes, let me wrench some of those fears free. Let me have them. “Thing is, I’m not looking to die alone. Care to join me?” He tilted his head, then, and yellow eyes glowed. Like a whisper of smoke, the fears blew towards the sentries, catching them in a pall of tailor-made horrors. As promised, Hadwin bit. Taken aback by the inundation of composite images attacking their eyesight, the two sentries drew away from the carriage, at which point Teselin squirm-kicked out of the sack and slid to projected freedom. Chara sprang out like a lioness on the prowl and followed the young summoner to the tree-line designating the border. The sentries shook free their fright long enough to give chase and shout orders to others in the area. “Not so fast!” Hadwin grit his teeth and bounded off the lip of the carriage, using his temporary airborne status to pivot his brass-coated fist into a sentry’s face. Both the assailant and the target lost their balance and rolled to the sodden earth. Having landed in a sprawl atop the guard, Hadwin sat up and pummeled the man. A crush of the windpipe, a crack to the skull, and he stilled. Lifting his head, he caught sight of the second sentry, tailed by five others, surrounding Teselin and Chara.

Springing out of the prone sentry’s death-space, Hadwin sprinted to meet the other men, readying a tackle for the sword-wielder who so closely threatened Chara and Teselin’s escape.

But the sentry seized up. Dropped his sword. Blood cascaded from every orifice: ears, nostrils, mouth, eye sockets, in a fascinating display of internal carnage. When Hadwin caught up to the two women, the sentry was already face-down in a puddle of his own liquids. The rest of their welcoming party were also dying to meet them. One by one, the sentries fell, eyes bulging and faces coloring to a sickly blue. Puncture marks peppered throats desperate for an airway that arrived too late.

Barring a few hundred fever dreams, a good thousand or more fear-addled minds with a flair for the dramatic, and some particularly vile tavern brawls, what Hadwin saw was quite gruesome. Not so much the content; he’d been desensitized to violence since he was old enough to throw a good left hook. It was...the execution. Instantaneous. Remote. Efficient. He knew that there was no limit to impossible feats, but to witness it firsthand, and under the control of a teenage girl, was gruesome in a way that...inspired awe.

“Well,” he said, after grabbing the food and waterskins from the back of the hearse and saluting his farewell to their driver, who somehow survived, “now I know they weren’t able to extract any magic from you. Good show, back there! You saved our fucking hides.”

“Lucky her,” Chara said, voice oozing with bitterness. “Magic saves the day.”

After fleeing the border, they ran into little resistance on the route towards Hospiria, in which they veered in a meandering, albeit parallel path. With his superior senses, Hadwin led the way, on occasion shifting into a wolf and scouting ahead to check for danger. In Chara and Teselin’s weakened states, they were unable to travel fast, far, or for long, so by the time the western sun crested the low horizon, he found a well-hidden hollow of a tree amidst a bramble patch, and made camp. Having packed a few of the burlap sacks, Hadwin stuffed them with wood-brush and leaves, and rested them within the nook that the hollow formed. “As plush as a Rigas bed,” Hadwin remarked, admiring his handiwork. “I’ll catch you kittens some dinner. Rabbits abound in this area. Don’t be lighting any fires when I’m gone here, either. The whole place will catch like a fireworks display gone wrong. Relax, though; I’ll cook and dress and gut your dinner all good and proper. No raw chunks and offal--unless by request.”

Chara, who hadn’t spoken a word since they fled the Andalarian border, flicked an interested gaze on Teselin, once the wolf-shifter departed on his evening hunt. It wasn’t until an hour later that she opened her mouth and revealed what she’d been wanting to say since their rescue.

“Never forget this, Teselin. If you alone were taken prisoner, he still would have saved you. If I was the sole prisoner, and if I hadn’t forged a blood oath with him--no one would have saved me. Not him, not Alster...not Lilica. And not you.” Because you couldn’t, was the implication she dared not say.

Before the young summoner could voice a defense, Chara retreated into the hollow of the tree, and didn’t emerge until Hadwin returned with two skinned and cooked rabbits. He set them on across a bundle of sticks and lowered his weary, overworked body to the ground. “Eat what you can, you two. If we want to make it to Hospiria in time, we’ll need an early start tomorrow.”

At the conclusion of supper, Hadwin shed his clothes and shrugged into his wolf-skin. Sliding into the gaps between where Teselin and Chara chose to set their makeshift beds, he hunkered into a sleeping position, his heaving body providing a source of warmth in lieu of fire. With his head partially sticking out of the hollow’s mouth, he doubled as first line of defense against intruders and an alarm system. But nothing crept up on them that evening, man or animal. He made certain of the latter by urinating around their campsite.

The following days began and ended in similar fashion. They ate a light breakfast of dried fruit and jerky in the sack he provided, traveled at a steady pace helped along by the stimulant, scouted for Mollengardian soldiers or other aggressive brigands, set up camp in the evening, hunted and cooked (it was usually rabbit), bundled together for warmth, and repeated the process anew. Fortunately, the spring melt was starting its migration into the lower elevations, spurting forth an excess of fresh mountain water and attracting a number of small animals to the stream and river-sides. As they were still snaking up the coastline, a favorable breeze kept them cool during the unseasonably hot days, and its retreat preserved body retention during the brisker evenings. The trek to Hospiria wasn’t grueling in its entirety, either; for his part, Hadwin tried to engage the women in games of cards or light-hearted conversation, but never insisted if they lacked interest. But if they wanted to talk--about anything--he listened. Cracked jokes, too; some habits never died.

They reached the outskirts of Hospiria by noon on the fourth day. It was a mid-sized city, a crossroads destination famous for its inns and services. Straddling the main road, it received a fair amount of traffic from travelers passing north, south, or west. Locating an inn (with a sizeable bar-area), Hadwin paid for the night (with coin he swindled from some Mollengardians). One room--but it was safest they all stay within reach of each other.

“Two beds, but no trouble; by now, you know I can sleep anywhere, no matter the form,” he said with a wink, opening their shared room with a flourished turn of the brass key. “Make yourselves comfortable. Hells, splurge while you’re at it.” He dug through his money pouch and clicked a few silver coins on the clothes chest at the foot of one bed. “You’re still wearing those shit and piss-stained rags. This place has a communal bath and a tailor’s shop next door. Go all out. In the meantime,” he stretched his arms overhead and arched his back, “I’m gonna meet with The Missing Links. Find out where they are and if they’ll accommodate the two of you. And hey, they perform tonight, so...we’ll make a night of it, huh? Dinner and a show.” With a playful punch on Teselin’s shoulder, Hadwin closed the door, and took his leave.

Hadwin’s awe and Chara’s bitterness in the shadow of her feat hardly registered with Teselin as they walked away from the heap of dead bodies they’d left in their wake. You did that. You did that… you killed them. All of them. You did that. But it had been necessary… hadn’t it? They’d been outnumbered, hadn’t stood a chance; not with Chara weakened, and Hadwin’s fearsight could not manage a grip on that many at once… she’d needed to do it, to facilitate and guarantee their escape. She had failed to free herself and Chara from Mollengard’s prison, before--and she would not fail again.

Was it necessary that they suffered? A voice challenged at the back of her mind, and physically made her flinch and falter in step. The others would likely think it due to the injuries she’d sustained. Was it necessary that they bled, suffocated? You had ultimate control. You could have stopped their hearts in a second… but you didn’t. Even as the blessed numbness of the stimulant began to wear off, it wasn’t the pain in her body that slowed her pace and made each subsequent footstep heavier and heavier. It was the guilt on her shoulders, the realization that dawned upon her that threatened to swallow her whole. You always knew you were chaos. You cannot ever be anything but.

As evening approached, Hadwin finally deemed it time to make camp for the evening. After declaring he’d go and find them something to eat, Teselin had nodded numbly, knowing well that she could eat, but the thought of food still made her empty stomach roil sickeningly. Shivering against the chill at evening’s approach, the young summoner huddled close to the makeshift bed the shapeshifter had made, hoping to trap whatever heat her frail body could make within the confines of her skin. Chara, who sat nearby, seemed to have the same idea. Neither the summoner nor the Rigas head had exchanged words since their fortunate escape from Mollengard’s prison, but Teselin hadn’t thought much of the silence; in fact, she welcomed it. They were hurt, both of them; in some ways, irreparably. But they had survived, and she took great solace in that. As long as they were still standing, still breathing… then they had not lost.

It hadn’t occurred to her that Chara did not see it that way.

Teselin turned her head as Chara addressed her. The Rigas head looked exhausted, defeated; not so different from herself, she imagined. But something else coloured her expression… and it was not the warm colour of camaraderie that Teselin so needed, then and there. No one would have saved me, she said, and the young summoner did not miss the implication that went unsaid: she had failed her. Chara had invested in the possibility that Teselin would be successful, and the fact that she hadn’t might have landed both of them captured, but only one of them was devoid of any hope of escape. Struck by her words, Teselin opened her mouth to say something--anything--but no words would come. And even if they had, Chara did not care to hear them, and stood, leaving the young summoner alone until Hadwin arrived with food for the evening.

The best the young summoner could do was make a show of trying to eat, but ultimately, she declared she was too tired, and instead settled down to sleep.

Sleep didn’t come, that night; not restful sleep, at least. Nor did she find it during the days that followed. Just as Teselin would begin to feel the weight of sleep descend upon her, her breathing slowing and easing into what should have been a restful state, dreams throttled any chance of rest and recovery. It wasn’t always the same dream: sometimes, they involved the faces of the men she’d killed, blood pouring from their orifices and faces purple and pale, desperate for oxygen. Other times, the vision that Hadwin had shown her with his fearsight resurfaced. She would stand among flames, a bloody field, a razed city, with blood on her hands and not a care on her face, and upon awakening with a gasp each time, she couldn’t decide what was worse: that she now knew she was willing and capable to use her magic to end lives, or that she didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, justifying her homicides was the same thing.

Teselin ate enough to allay any concerns Hadwin might have for her lack of appetite, but at times, when she excused herself to take a leave and empty her body of waste, she found she wasn’t able to keep it down, and ultimately vomited any contents her shrunken stomach might have. If either of the others noticed at all, they didn’t say anything. Maybe it didn’t occur to them to be concerned; maybe they thought she deserved it, thinking her as horrible as she knew herself to be. She didn’t blame them, and didn’t see the point in changing their minds, if that was the case.

Hospiria was not a city familiar to Teselin, in her travels, though it seemed to be one that made a living off of travelers, such as themselves--or, rather, more well-kept than themselves, considering her and Chara’s sorry states. When Hadwin selected a non-descript inn for them to spend the night, the young summoner actively avoided curious and disgusted gazes that fell upon her. While her hygiene was beyond her control, no one else knew her story, knew what she and Chara had endured. They could let their minds wander; there was too much she felt the need to apologize for, right now, and her cleanliness wasn’t one of them.

Fortunately for them, Hadwin had them covered. Someone as resourceful as the wolfman never left a stone unturned or issues of survival unaddressed. The room at the inn, however small, offered her the familiar comfort of her days spent traveling, when hope had always been within reach with every possibility of tomorrow. Now, she couldn’t help but wonder where that hope had gone. She’d thought it resided in her brother, the fact that he stood as an example that she could thrive and survive, but… for the first time in her life, Teselin just felt empty. As if what she had been reaching for all this time had only been an illusion, and now she no longer knew what she was working towards.

Besides… even if she did find him, what could Vitali do for her now? I’ve already become the person I feared.

Picking up one of the silver coins on the bed, she flashed a tired, albeit grateful smile Hadwin’s way. “I’ll pretend you’re just being generous, and that this has nothing to do with how bad we smell.” She said, as he slipped out the door to stir up discussion with the Missing Links. A bath and new clothes would do her well; at least it would give the illusion she belonged to the rest of society.

Alone with the Rigas Head, Teselin spared a glance at Chara for the first time since they’d last spoken. Time and again, she’d considered speaking up, but the words had always eluded her. Not now; perhaps it was due to the time she’d had to think, to consider where they’d come from, and where they were, but she knew exactly what she wanted to say.

“I don’t take what you’ve done for me for granted, Chara.” She stared at the coin in her hand, for fear that if she met the Rigas Head’s eyes, she would lose her nerve. “You gave me refuge in a time of need. You were kind to me, and then, you even saw fit to believe in me. I felt like I had a purpose, a reason for the chaos that’s followed me my entire life. For that, you have my loyalty. But that isn’t enough.” Swallowing a lump in her throat, she closed her fingers over the coin. “Maybe you’re right. Were it not for me, and my desire to help, this wouldn’t have happened. We wouldn’t have been captured, you wouldn’t have lost your magic… maybe, were you alone captured, I wouldn’t have been able to save you. Maybe I’d have died trying, and you along with me. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have tried. Because I’d never turn my back on you, Chara…”

Though her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, Teselin didn’t cry; not because she did not want to, but because she’d spent what remained of her tears weeping in Mollengard’s cells for what had been lost. She had already cried for Chara, and cried for herself. And now… now, there was nothing left in her. Just another hole that Chara’s words had created. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t care about my loyalty or where it stems, anymore; maybe you never really did, so long as I agreed to cooperate and play into the plan. I didn’t want to see it then, but I know now that I was no more significant to you than a tool of war. A tool that failed… so that means I’m nothing, right? It doesn’t matter what I would have done for you, if you were in danger. It doesn’t matter that I tried, or that I’d rather risk my own life than to see you face peril alone. I failed, and now, I’m nothing.” I’m worse than nothing… I’m dangerous.

Teselin moved to the door, and clutched the knob with her free hand. She hesitated to leave. “I wanted to be wrong. I still want to be wrong; I want to believe that there was more to me than putting my magic to use for your benefit, or for Stella D’Mare’s. I want to believe that my worth isn’t weighed by what I can or cannot do with my magic. But I don’t think I can convince myself otherwise, anymore.” A pause, and then she concluded, in barely over a whisper, “Thank you for helping me realize that… and I’m sorry I could not be enough.”

Heavy in heart and spirit, the young summoner left the Rigas Head alone and made for the communal bath Hadwin had promised this place provided. Sure enough, she located the communal bath, which was mercifully filled with warm water, and didn’t hesitate to strip out of her filthy clothes. Struggling not to focus on the discoloration of most of her skin, which had taken to mottled splotches of varying shades of blues, purples, greens, and some yellows for the more superficial bruises that had begun to heal more quickly than the rest, the young summoner scrubbed her filthy body from head to toe, hard and efficiently, heedless of how much it hurt to apply pressure. Heedless of how she scrubbed some areas raw, as if in an attempt to scrub off all of the bruising. And when her skin was clean, she dragged her torn and tattered rags into the water, and scrubbed those, as well. When her body and outfit were as clean as they could possibly get, under the circumstances, she didn’t hesitate to don the soaked clothing. It was uncomfortable, and she felt chilled the moment she exited the building, but it was all she had until she found something else to wear at the tailor’s shop--and something told her the shopkeeper wouldn’t permit her entry, were she entirely unclothed.

Sure enough, as Hadwin had claimed, a small tailor’s shop was located next door to the inn, so the young summoner was not forced to go far in her soaked clothing. Understandably, the tailor, who was a middle-aged woman, looked up from a pair of pants she was hemming, shooting Teselin a startled look. She glanced out the open doorway, wondering if rainfall had drenched this small girl’s clothes, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. “Can I help you, dear?” She asked kindly, as Teselin slid the coin onto the counter.

“I hope so. Is this enough to pay for a few outfits?” The young summoner asked. “Nothing fancy. Just something that will fit; and suitable for travel.”

Putting down the trousers she was altering, the seamstress nodded and shuffled to one of the racks where at least a hundred different outfits hung. After some careful searching, she found a couple pairs of plain, khaki trousers, and two simple tunics; one red, the other a muted shade of green, the color of damp sea rocks like she’d seen back in Stella D’Mare. “I don’t have anything quite so… small.” She took in the girl’s slight form with concern. “These trousers might yet be too big… allow me to take them in at the waist, at least.”

“It’s fine; I’m used to clothes not fitting quite right.” Teselin smiled, hoping it passed as nonchalant. “A belt will do just fine.”

She paid for the outfits right away, and with the shopkeeper’s permission, took to a corner at the back of the room, curtained by fabrics of various colours and textures, and changed into the red tunic and one pair of trousers. A belt was most definitely necessary, but it did the trick, and the young summoner felt infinitely more comfortable.

After bidding the kindly seamstress goodbye, Teselin took her leave of the shop, and contemplated whether it was worth spending her remaining coins on something to eat if she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep it down, for long. But her contemplation and indecision was promptly interrupted, when a hand shot out of nowhere, and dragged the young summoner into the darkness of a nearby alley.

“It still isn’t stable enough, Big Guy. The tightrope and silks won’t hold if the posts bend.” Amidst the town central, smack in the middle of the majority of merchants and shops where foot traffic was at its heaviest, Briery Frealy and her troupe had begun to set up for their show that evening. With Cwenha and Rycen tasked with raising their tent, Lautim was the best suited to stabilize the poles upon which she and her smaller, blonde counterpart would flip and fly later that evening. Unfortunately, it was more difficult than it looked, as Hospiria’s uneven ground did not make for an entirely safe and stable place to perform. But this was their fourth year returning to this city, and damn it all, they’d made it work every other time before; this time shouldn’t be any different, no matter how uncooperative the ground was.

“More to the left,” she called to the giant, as he forcibly shoved the pole into the soft earth; one of the few places that was not laid with cobblestone. “Is it possible to move it back a few inches, maybe? Shades, this is giving me a headache…”

The ringleader was inclined to ignore the abrupt tap on her shoulder. What was it about spectators that couldn’t seem to wait for a more convenient opportunity to engage with the performers. “You’ll have to excuse me, we are still setting up.” She said, hoping to sound as kind as possible, without allowing frustration to bleed through. Her mood then shifted entirely, as she turned to see just who it was who wanted her attention.

“Hadwin Kavanaugh. What an unexpected surprise.” By the genuine smile that stretched her lips, however, it was not an unpleasant one. “I certainly did not expect to see you here. What brings you to Hospiria? I’ve a feeling it doesn’t have anything to do with our show, this evening.”

As the door clicked shut behind them, Chara flinched. Though the sound was as muffled as a boisterous wolf-man with a liberal fist could manage, it sparked in her memories of the warden’s endless clanging against their prison cell. Her legs shivered, but she refused to collapse on the bed, or even to the floor. More than aware of how she appeared in brown-stained trousers and a blood-spotted tunic, touching the laundered sheets with her filth made her more than a little ill. Since Stella D’Mare, she dared not glimpse herself in a mirror or in any reflective surface, terrified of seeing on the outside what she had become on the inside: ugly, torn, mangled, and vanished. Though she sported no visible wounds (the warden kept a healer on duty), the pain in her limbs never waned in their intense rending of flesh and bone. So destabilized from the removal of her magic, it was as though nothing was holding her together inside. Gravity scattered, leaving her afloat in a void. No stars above, nothing to catch her underneath.

Resting a steady hand against the clothes chest, she took a few heavy breaths, thick and syncopated--a reminder of control. She tapped each individual nail-shorn finger on the chest. Thrum. Thrum. Tap. Movement belonged to her. Body and brain showed their willingness to cooperate. Not lost. She was not entirely lost.

Then, a voice penetrated her brief moment of meditative restoration. She fluttered her bleary eyes open, and looked across to Teselin--who hadn’t yet wandered off in search of clothes and cleanliness. When the young summoner opened her mouth to speak, conversation was inevitable. Words. Something she spurned. The warden removed her voice in the room with the Chair, reduced her to nothing but screams and pleads for her life. Its effect never stilled. At night, she screamed, often rousing her bed companions--Hadwin, who always startled to his feet in wolf form, growling and ready to tackle their hypothetical threat. In waking hours, she learned to communicate with nods or the shake of her head--too worried that if she formed words, they’d shiver and lose shape. Collapse and bubble into unearthly rumbles from the angriest and most fearful parts of herself. Emotion tied her tongue. Only her uvula was active.

Yet, she tried. The young summoner poured out her everything, while all Chara could do was grab hold of the clothes chest like flotsam at sea, waiting for when the waves would inevitably pull her under the surface.

“I...was never kind,” she began, also keeping her eyes lowered. “Not in the way you believe I was kind. Please dampen any delusion you have of me. Everyone knew I was manipulating you as a means to an end. Just because I felt guilty for it later and tried to dissuade you from acting doesn’t dampen the truth. We weren’t friends, Teselin. I was desperate to save my city, so I used every element available to make that happen. But make no mistake; once Alster returned from Eyraille, I wanted him to take your place. It was your own foolhardiness that placed you as a tool of war in the end, Teselin. Not me. And I,” her shivering fingers scraped the splintered wood of the chest. “So I…” she swallowed. “If you would not let him take your place, then he would take mine. As Rigas Head. I was so quick to shed my title. So quick to evade this heavy weight. It’s my own fault. I should have been there with my city, not with you. Alster should have been at your side. He wouldn’t have let this happen to you. I’m effectively useless. With magic or without, as a Rigas or as nothing...this is my truth now. Stripped bare!” The rumbling tore through her throat, pinching her words into glass-shaking tremors. “I am paying the price for my sins. You were the unfortunate victim of my folly, Teselin. You weren’t supposed to be in this hell with me!” She clamped a hand to her mouth, before she devolved into incoherent screams. Once she calmed, she lowered the hand to her side. Her teeth chattered from an internal chill.

“I am the one who is nothing. Not you. Not worth saving. Not worth risk. I have nothing left to give. I’m not a Rigas anymore…” She wasn’t even aware that the summoner had left the room when she slid to the floor with her knees curled to her chest and chanted, “not a Rigas, not a Rigas,” until the screams erupted from her like violent streams of bile. She clamped knuckles to her mouth, muffling the sound, and invited the warm rivulets of blood to streak down her skin-gnawed hand.

Rowen Kavanagh was naked, penniless, and desperate to remedy these two very annoying conditions. Traveling as a wolf, while beneficial on multi-leveled accounts, was unbeneficial when necessary to blend and interact with society. A wolf, even when perceived as a dog, failed to communicate her needs in the specific way a human being with a commonly spoken parlance could. And yes, she had needs that went beyond basic survival. But for now, it was best to focus on the immediate requirements for money, clothes, and shelter. Even clothes would suffice. The rest--she’d piece together.

As a girl of twenty, she appeared no older than twelve to some, due to her diminutive size and wide, red-fawn eyes. Her dark strands of wavy hair hung in layered curtains down to her nape, framing, but not quite shielding, the roundness of her moon-shaped face. This unremarkable human form of hers had its advantages and disadvantages. Advantages: she elicited pity. People often underestimated her abilities. She excelled in slipping away undetected, or hiding, or becoming scarce. Disadvantages: she was forever targeted by the less upstanding of society’s underbelly. Crooks, blackguards, murderers, slavers, traffickers, men looking for a good time. That was fine by her, really. She vowed to eliminate the slags of the earth, and if they so easily flooded to her side, unprovoked...more the better.

One concern at a time, she reminded herself. Clothes, first.

She trained her red-brown eyes on the store-front across the street. What was her best angle of approach? Induce wounds all over her body and stumble through the door, whispering for a kind soul to help? The method depended on the disposition of the proprietor (or proprietress). And as far as she could see, everyone carted dirt beneath their fingernails. Some more than others, but the dirt tracked, all the same.

Before she acted on any solid plan, a young girl wandered out the front doors. Diminutive, dark-haired, moon-faced, wide-eyed--why, it was like looking through a skewed mirror! And...what was this? Interest flooded her Sight. The girl had killed. By the red and black splotches painted on her victims’ armor and their unmistakable stature, she recognized the subject of the images right-away. Mollengardian soldiers. The methods she employed to dispatch them...fascinating. Creative. An indicator to stay at a distance--before she ended up with her lungs crushed and blood leaking out of her orifices. But somehow...she felt able to trust this girl. Marginally. A familiar scent wafted through her nose. Vague in odor; she could not yet place it--but it set her at ease.

So when the girl neared the mouth of the alleyway, Rowen took the risk--and absconded her into the darkness.

“I’m sorry!” she said, manufacturing a hurried, manic tone. “I’m sorry! I don’t mean to startle you or anything. I...you see,” an on-cue shiver overtook her naked body, “I’ve...they took everything from me. My clothes, my money...my innocence,” tears sprung from beneath her averted eyes. Always averted. She rarely made eye-contact. It hurt less. “I...all I want is a fresh set of clothes. I can’t even leave this alley to beg. It would be indecent. They’d...I can’t risk it!” She pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose in an attempt to ‘hold’ back tears. And that was when she caught the familiar scent in the young girl’s damp hair. Proximity intensified it, clarified its long-ago origins. She knew it. Whether doused with water and soap, she could pick up its nuance anywhere!

“I’m,” she amended, “also looking for my brother. Maybe you’ve seen him? He’s pretty tall. Built like a pugilist. Messy head of red-brown hair. Gold eyes. His name is Hadwin.”

By the time the youngest of Clan Kavanagh mentioned his name, Hadwin was clear across town, following the directions the innkeeper gave him, in locating the stage for the Missing Links show. And while he never would admit it to the two currently under his care (a thought that still amused him), he welcomed this moment of aloneness, however brief. For over a week, his service was to none other than Lady Chara and Teselin. Everything he did was for them. Every sleepless night, every cheerful aside, every strategy, chore, supper arrangement, scouting trip, and all else in between. He harbored no resentment to them, not when their death was the alternative. No--he only marveled that he had accepted the role as sole responsible party without fuss or argument. Let alone the fact that they had no choice but to trust him. But this was Hadwin--who couldn’t stay out of trouble for a week, let alone provide for a Rigas leader and a powerful summoner, especially when their fears calcified on their skin, visible for all to see, and doubly obvious to someone with the innate ability. And why did they think that hiding their fears from him was a viable option? Lack of appetite was a common sign of fear. Hadwin could taste the dread on Teselin’s tongue, whenever she recalled the violent memories of flattening the lungs of the sentries. Chara’s screams could stir a deaf man from his sleep. Her fears of failure and identity loss screamed about as loud. As a result, Hadwin nursed a constant headache, biting down on the leaf stimulant to curb its vising pressure. Now that they were out of the woods, so to speak, perhaps it was time for him to address their individual terrors--before he died of a migraine. Unless…

I let them go. No reason for me to stay aboard.

When he arrived at the town square, the venue of choice for the Missing Links, he waltzed past the barriers barring spectators from trespassing (he wasn’t a spectator, after all!) and prodded the ringleader’s shoulder with a few, strong taps.

“The great and powerful Briery Frealy,” he responded in turn, grinning his canines at her. “And a pole is kicking your ass? No...that won’t do. I need you as attentive to my needs as possible,” he said, with a wink. “I can’t be upstaged by another performer--even if its inanimate.” After contributing to the pole dilemma (to which they solved, collectively), Hadwin pulled the ringleader aside and detailed his “needs.”

“Nah, I’ll attend your show, of course. You know I love all the death-defying spectacle and show-stopping razzle-dazzle. Can’t say it’s the main reason I’m here, though. Gonna need to take you up on that favor.” Making sure no one would overhear, he leaned into her ear and whispered, “I’ve got a Rigas and a summoner on the run from Mollengard. They need safe passage to Braighdath. Thought you could help. They’re...a little worse for wear.”

Being hauled into an alley before she had time to react was not exactly outside of the realm of possibility for someone like Teselin, especially given what had happened to her over the course of the past week. It was her own fault for being taken unawares, too; she’d let her guard down the moment Hadwin had checked them into an inn. But wasn’t that always the case, the overarching pattern of her life? That the universe exploited her penchant for openness, and that she inevitably found herself hurt, every single time?

Maybe; but the universe had never thrown in a desperate-looking, naked young woman to take her unawares. It took the young summoner a moment to adjust to the situation in which she found herself, and another moment to realize that however bizarre it was, she wasn’t the one in danger, for once. The young woman hurriedly explained herself, although given her unclothed state, it was fairly obvious that she didn’t mean her harm, but was herself in need of help. And of course Teselin bought into it, wholeheartedly.

“Calm down… it’s okay,” she tried to soothe, easily moved by her tears and the desperate breaking of the woman’s voice. How easily could this be me? She wondered, and suppressed a shiver at the thought. She only was where she was now--a little worse for the wear, but relatively safe, and clothed--because of the kindness of others. Because Hadwin had sensed their peril and orchestrated a way to save her life. Because Alster Rigas had taken the time to help her become a stronger and more capable magic wielder, and to better understand her abilities. Because Chara had offered her refuge in a time when she desperately needed it, despite the Rigas woman’s claim that she had not been kind to her. This woman, before her, obviously had no such luck.

“Hold on--here, I think these might fit you better than me.” Unwrapping the bundle in her arms, Teselin held out the faded green tunic and plain khaki trousers. She could go without a change of clothes, and deep down, felt she hadn’t really needed it. Perhaps it was some sort of divine intervention that she’d seen fit to buy the extras, after all. “Are you hurt? I mean…” Of course she is hurt, a critical inner voice chimed. You didn’t hide, naked, between two buildings and out of sight of the general public unless something was terribly wrong. Although Teselin wasn’t sure it was the kind of ‘hurt’ that a healer could remedy; after all, the woman’s skin was surprisingly unmarred. No bruises, nothing. “I don’t know this city well. I just arrived, myself, but maybe we can find you some help…”

And that was when she dropped the name. The description of a man she was in search of. That was the moment everything made sense. Teselin took in the woman’s face, her eyes, the shade of her hair, the shape of her mouth… she had looked familiar from the beginning, but she was helpless to put a name to the stranger. Now, her name was brighter and clearer and, astonishingly, it gave her hope. Not unfounded hope, either; not if it was Rowen Kavanagh standing before her.

“Gods… its you.” The young summoner breathed, dark eyes growing wider. “You’re Rowen Kavanagh, aren’t you? I know your brother--I know where he is! He just helped a friend and I out of an immensely difficult situation.” We were not friends. Chara’s voice echoed in her mind, but she ignored it. Maybe the Rigas woman had not considered her a friend; but… frankly, Teselin tended to have low expectations where it came to friends, anyway. And no matter how she tried to rationalize it, what Chara had done for her in merely allowing her a place to stay and connecting her with Alster, giving her the opportunity to meet Hadwin… somehow, she could not bring herself to merely refer to her as a comrade. “I mean, I don’t know exactly where he is, right now, but I’ll help you find him. He’s been so concerned about you. I think he feared you had died… he’ll be elated to find you alive and well. Come on.”

When Rowen had finished dressing (and as Teselin had expected, the clothes did fit her better than herself), the young summoner stepped out into the sunlight with her. “He said he was going to try and touch base with some acquaintances, so he could really be anywhere, right now… but we can find him, together.” There was nothing practiced or ingenuine about her smile. This was the best news in a long time; she had found Rowen! And for that, Hadwin would be reunited with his sister, and could rest easy knowing she was safe--no more needless fighting or searching. And yet, there was no mistaking the heaviness that weighed on her heart. Teselin was not naive so much as she tended to ignore what was plainly in front of her. She knew that Hadwin had primarily taken to her because she reminded him of his sister--and she could see why. Rowen’s eyes, her face, her stature… everything about her was so similar to herself, down to that haunted look in her eyes. The only glaring difference was in the shade of her hair, which tinted closer to an auburn than a dark brown, and even that small detail was negligible.

She didn’t blame him, though; not one bit. After all, wasn’t he a stand-in for her own brother? Maybe, she couldn’t help but confess to herself, but even if Vitali had been on my life on meeting Hadwin… I think I’d still have taken to him. He has kindness--real kindness--in his heart. But even kindness could only stretch so far, and with Rowen back in his life… well, what was the point of staying? What was even the point of joining them on their trek to Braighdath? Before this… before Mollengard, and what they had done to her, maybe there had been a chance that Vitali could still help her--could still save her from herself. But the image of those bleeding, breathless bodies on the ground had branded her brain, and she feared that it was not too late.

“What… what happened to you, exactly?” She knew it was a sensitive question, and the answers were glaringly obvious. A young girl, naked and abandoned in an alleyway… she had already alluded to the details. And Teselin realized too late that she might not be in the mood for spelling them out. “I’m sorry--you don’t have to tell me. It must have been awful.” She amended quickly. For all she had endured at the hands of Mollengard, and others before them, the young summoner was not one to forget that there were others who also had it bad--maybe even worse than she did. How could she feel sorry for herself? At least she’d still had clothes to cover up the discoloration of her bruised body, upon leaving Mollengard’s prison. That much couldn’t be said for Rowen.

When the shape shifter’s sister had finally dressed, and was not risking indecency by stepping out of the alleyway, Teselin saw fit to offer, “When did you last eat? If you’re hungry, we can get you some food first. I know Hadwin would insist on a full stomach, anyway.”

It had been some time since the Missing Links had encountered the wiley and resourceful shapeshifter, Hadwin Kavanagh; though their encounters throughout the past handful of years had not been entirely infrequent. The first time Briery made his acquaintance had been following one of her shows. She’d impressed him, he’d come on to her, and she had turned him away--time and again, in fact. But that did not stop a friendship and a sort of trust between those of like-minded moral ambiguity, and she had welcomed his presence time and again, whenever their paths had crossed. Each and every time, it would end with them on the cusp of something that could be more than camaraderie… but both were mature enough to realize that nothing could come of it, for various reasons. A nomadic life was not ideal for fostering romantic relationships, and given the ringleader’s chronic condition… well, her body was not able to allow her to fully commit, either.

They’d remained close allies nonetheless, and regardless of the time that elapsed between their encounters (and the fact that only 3 quarters of the Missing Links trusted him), it hadn’t prevented Hadwin from helping them in a time of dire need, almost a year ago. Briery had been bedridden for almost a month, due to excruciating pelvic pain, which had resulted in an entire month that she and her troupe had been unable to perform. Bless the others, who had busked their own talents to try and scrape up what little coin they had, but it was a hard time for her family of misfits, who were going hungry from lack of food. It spurred them into taking desperate action--but they could not do it alone. Just their luck, Hadwin had crossed their paths again, and had just what it took to make it possible to swindle a good deal of money from a particularly wealthy resident of a nearby town where they usually conducted business. Needless to say, they hadn’t returned to that town since--but with the shapeshifter’s help, it had gotten them through a difficult autumn until the ringleader was on her feet again. And Briery promised that she would repay him, when the time was right.

It seemed that that time had finally come; and she, now able-bodied and not crippled with pain, could not turn him down.

After finding a solution to secure the pole for their show that night, she stepped aside and heard out the wolf man as he briefly explained his situation. “A couple of people in a tight situation, I take it… and on the run? And did you say… one of them is a Rigas?” Briery’s hazel eyes widened with interest and familiarity, the gold glitter on her eyelids catching flecks of sunlight. “It just so happens that I met a Rigas not long ago--an Alster Rigas. During the festival of Spring Equinox in Eyraille. He and some healers who happened to be friends of his actually managed to treat my condition.” She rested a hand on her lower abdomen, ever aware of the pain she’d suffered. Though she hadn’t experienced a flare up since Alster had worked his magic and Elias’s tonic had begun to take effect in her body, it was difficult to forget a pain that had plagued her for most of her life. “I also learned that it is incurable, barring risky surgery, but he managed to help find a way for me to keep it in check. I owe him my livelihood; and I will most certainly do whatever I can for his brethren and friends.”

“Briery? What is he doing here?” The one-quarter of the Missing Links who did not hold Hadwin Kavanagh in high regard had found the two of them on exiting the tent. Cwenha’s heart-shaped mouth was drawn into a deep frown, as she leveled suspicious blue eyes on the shape-shifter. “Whatever you want, leave us alone until after our show. We prefer to earn our keep by honest means, whenever possible.”

“Relax, Cwenha. Hadwin isn’t here to stir up trouble.” Briery tried to reassure her younger, smaller counterpart. “We are going to assist him in assisting others, in fact. One who happens to be a Rigas.”

“A Rigas? Related to the man who helped you?” Cwenha’s disposition did not change notably, but her expression softened. It went without saying that the Missing Links as a whole harbored a good deal of respect for the man who had healed Briery’s distraught organ, along with the healers who had found a means to keep the damage at bay. “Why am I not surprised you’ve made relations with that prestigious family.”

Brushing off the singer’s cynicism, Briery clutched her elbows and lowered her voice. “You said they’re worse for the wear… what is the situation, exactly? Are they hurt? On the run? You know I will do everything in my power to help, Hadwin, but the details will dictate the course of action. And I hope they don’t mind close quarters; our caravans are small to begin with. But if they’re in need, we will make it work.”

Aside from the fortuitous connection, their one degree of separation from mutual company, Rowen had approached the right person. On more than one account, she had Hadwin to thank—not only for his uncanny taste in young woman who looked like her (which wasn’t suspicious at all!) but for his guidance on how to read people. Our Sight gives us just one look at the story, he explained to her, in the past. And it’s a skewed story, if all you’re relying on is a speck of detail. You’re concentrating on a mole, Ro, when you should be taking in the whole face. 

Rowen had indeed encountered just the right person to meet all of her need, almost serendipitously, it would seem. The young summoner, someone who was so easily manipulated by virtue of desiring to believe that everyone was somehow inherently good (just the opposite of Rowen) wanted nothing more than to help the unfortunate woman before her, regardless of her relation to someone whom she held in such high regard.  But that she was the Rowen Kavanagh, and the one thing that had kept Hadwin beholden to Mollengard for so long… She didn’t hesitate a beat to open up to her. She owed Hadwin that much; to see that his sister was safe and taken care of. Even if it meant that he would no longer have a reason to show her kindness.

“I am--I’ve been in your brother’s company for a while, now.” She confirmed, returning the girl’s smile. Rowen seemed genuine… exactly the way she’d pictured her, based on Hadwin’s infrequent mentioning of his sister. Or perhaps she had only assumed as much based on the way he treated her--and thus suspected that she bore similarities to Rowen. “And he… yes, he did help me. Immensely.” More than I can ever repay him for, she mentally added. But she knew that Hadwin was not after compensation for his help. Chara had been right: he’d never have left her to die at Mollengard’s hands. “Honestly, your brother has been a hopeful beacon of light for me for a while. You’re very lucky, Rowen, to have a brother who cares for you so much.”

And what is the extent of Vitali’s care for me? Her mind couldn’t help but venture into territory she hadn’t wanted to face. Just because he helped me as a child does not mean he will care for me now… Just another thing to consider while moving forward--and she no longer knew what moving forward looked like.

Teselin listened to Rowen’s account of what had happened to her, of the horrors that Mollengard had put her through during her own imprisonment. She could not imagine how it would at all compare to what had happened to her and Chara, considered they had been captured for very different reasons, but nothing good could come from being in the hands of Mollengard. And she marveled at the fact that Rowen had managed to escape all on her own. “I… yes. My comrade and I were captured by Mollengard.” A tremor somehow made its way into her voice. She hadn’t thought that it would be difficult to discuss, considering she and Chara had made it out alive, in the end. But just thinking back of her time spent in that cell, of her screams, of Chara’s screams, of the way it felt as though the very essence of her life was being ripped out through her skin whenever they attempted to extract her magic… She couldn’t do it. The experience had scarred her more than she wanted to admit, and the details wouldn’t form on her tongue. So instead she merely commented, “They wanted our magic. They managed to take my friend’s; somehow, they couldn’t take mine. If not for your brother… they’d have killed us both.”

Given Hadwin’s uncanny ability to see fear, it shouldn’t have startled her that somehow, Rowen Kavanagh was able to see through her to the very feat that had shaken her to her core. She knew she’d killed Mollengardian soldiers--and she knew how she’d killed them. If it was possible, Teselin turned a shade paler as the two of them stepped into the sunlight. “My name is Teselin.” She told her quietly, not at all mollified by Rowen’s declaration that it was impossible to escape Mollengard without killing. Even if that were true… there was no reason why she’d had to kill them the way that she had: painfully, gruesomely. She wasn’t sure how she was going to forgive herself.

“Let’s get you something to eat, then. And a pair of boots. I’m sure we’ll find a dagger, somewhere, as well. This city looks like it caters to people looking to spend money.” The silver coin had more than covered the two outfits she’d bought from the tailor, and at least half of the money Hadwin had given her was left. Some food and the remaining provisions that Rowen required wouldn’t be an issue. “You don’t need to pay me back--Hadwin gave me this money. My friend and I… obviously, we didn’t have anything to our name, after he helped us escale Mollengard’s prison. This is the first clean outfit I’ve had on in a week. I don’t doubt he’d want me to use my remaining coin to help his sister, after all. I’m not sure how exactly you two ended on poor terms, so long ago, but...” She flicked her dark eyes to Hadwin’s sister, the spark in them softening ever so slightly. “He cares about you a great deal. You are fortunate to have a brother so determined to seek you out and ascertain your safety…”

Vitali, you never tried to find me. Never sought to find out if I was even all right. More and more, thoughts of her own brother made her heart sink, propelling her to further reconsider finding him at all. Whether or not she was beyond help, regardless of whether her magic had finally reached a place so destructive that her path was set against her will, she wasn’t sure her heart could take it if she arrived in Galeyn, only for the necromancer to turn a cold shoulder to the sister who he hadn’t cared to see in years.

“You’re not impressing anyone with your double-edged smile and sly words.” Was all Cwenha said in response to Hadwin’s comment, which he preceded with words in her own mother tongue. That they shared a language only made her all the more bitter, and brought memories to the surface that she’d rather forget. Cwenha had left her past (including her native tongue) behind, upon joining the Missing Links. It had been something of a rebirth for her--which was precisely why Briery tolerated her hostility to someone whom she considered an ally and a friend (and then some). Hadwin reminded her of a time that she wanted to erase; and, fortunately, the shapeshifter knew not to take it personally.

Cwenha, small lips pursed into a pout, left them alone in the tent, not wishing another moment wasted on the shape-shifter scum. The ringleader took that time to hear out the details of Hadwin’s predicament--or rather, the predicament of two women who were somehow under his care. “Mollengard…” Briery failed to suppress a shudder, and rubbed the back of her neck. “Those poor souls. We’ve caught word of Mollengard spreading through Stella D’Mare… so far, we’ve been lucky enough not to get caught up in the crossfire, during our travels. But that doesn’t mean our luck won’t turn.”

Pacing the tent, the ringleader tapped her chin thoughtfully. “We’ll take your Rigas and the summoner. At the very worst, we can dress them like the rest of us. Mollengard isn’t on the lookout for a troupe of performers. I think we’ll be able to see them to safety.”

After Hadwin excused himself, suree enough, Teselin was there waiting for him, speaking with Cwenha. The diminutive blonde raised an eyebrow and cast a steely glance over her shoulder at who had just exited the tent. “This mongrel is with you?” She commented, with a roll of her eyes. “Please take him. It’s starting to smell like dog around here.”

“Hadwin.” Teselin smiled, the shadows under her eyes looking temporarily brighter. “I found someone I think you want to see.”

For a moment, the young summoner’s heart stood still, and stood back. This moment wasn’t one that belonged to her. It belonged to Rowen and to Hadwin, and despite the melancholy that threatened to break free from the back of her mind--he won’t need me, anymore--she couldn’t help but feel at peace. For once, she’d done something right. She’d helped someone… someone who mattered to her. Even if the opportunity had merely fallen into her lap, it was no less significant, not for Rowen or for Hadwin.

She was so enamored of the moment, of the look of relief on Hadwin’s face and the brightness in his eyes, that she was too late to witness when it took a turn for the worst.

Rowen approached her brother, arms open. But something about the way she held one of her arms… her knife. The dagger they had just purchased, she’d hidden in her sleeve, made its way to her hand. Hadwin was too paralyzed to notice. “Wait--”

Her call didn’t make it in time. Rowen’s blade met Hadwin’s gut. And then Rowen took off again, too fast for anyone to make chase, the only thing left of her being the wound she had left in her brother.

“Hadwin!” Teselin screamed, and rushed for the shapeshifter, who had fallen to his knees. She pressed a hand over his own, to staunch the rapid blood flow. “Why… why would she do that? I didn’t know…” Tears spilled from her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks, small shoulders shaking with her sobs. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t know she would do that…”

Hearing the commotion outside the tent, Briery was fortunately quick to act. Calling for Lautim, she instructed the giant to pick the wounded shapeshifter up carefully, meanwhile sending Rycen to fetch a healer, immediately. She and Cwenha escorted Lautim, along with Teselin, back to the inn where they where they were staying. Teselin managed to pull herself together long enough to fill in Chara about the details. The Rigas caster hadn’t yet cleaned herself up or set out to buy any new clothes, but the sudden change in events was enough to snap her out of her stupor.

The next handful of hours were tense and fast-paced, with little time to breathe, let alone think. Rowen had wounded Hadwin grievously, and prior to the arrival of the healer, Briery was sickened by the possibility that he might not make ie through. He was quick to heal, but that did not mean that there wasn’t a time when death could be quicker. It was a stroke of luck that the healer Rycen managed to find on short notice was adept in magic, and able to assess and address the damage relatively quickly. Indeed, Hadwin’s wound was life-threatening, and even with magic at his fingertips, the healer demanded silence and to work slowly, too preoccupied with mending what was torn, inside and out, to bring the shapeshifter to when he at last fainted from blood loss. In the end, one of the beds was ruined with bloodstains, for which the inkeep demanded compensation, but after hours of monitoring the wolf man’s vitals, the healer deemed that he would make a recovery, though perhaps not to the extent that he could travel by the next morning.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before; sorry I was not able to introduce myself sooner.” While Hadwin had yet to regain consciousness, Briery thought she would take it upon herself to try and get to know this infamous Chara Rigas--who she had been warned might be a little bit unhinged. “My name is Briery Frealy. Hadwin has informed us of your plight, and my troupe and I would be more than happy to see you safely to Braighdath. I thought you might like a change of clothes, so…” She offered the distraught woman a clean gown, folded and ready to wear. It was pale pink in colour, full length with sleeves that billowed, and then tapered at the wrists. While nowhere near as gaudy as the skin-tight gold in which she was clad, it was feminine and on the more casual side of formal. “Don’t worry--it won’t make you look like a circus freak, like the rest of us.” She smiled kindly. “Not sure if pink is your colour of choice, but we look about the same size, and it’s something clean to put on.” When you feel like cleaning yourself up, was what went unsaid, but the ringleader could only imagine what this woman had recently endured, and maybe being clean wasn’t yet a priority for her. She was malnourished and thin, and Briery imagined that when she gained back a few healthy pounds, the gown might be too tight, but it would get her through until they reached Braightdath, at the very least.

Just then, Hadwin began to stir. Excusing herself from Chara’s company, she took to the side of the shapeshifter’s bed in time for him to open his eyes. “You gave us a scare, there, Kavanagh.” Briery commented, when recognition flickered on the shapeshifter’s face. “Your summoner friend says it was none other than your long-lost sister who tried to take you out… what odd family relations you have.” She gave a shake of the head, and at Hadwin’s inquiry into Teselins’ well-being, replied, “Your summoner friend was very distraught. She feels responsible, since she brought your sister to you… up until just recently, when the healer declared you were in stable condition, she wouldn’t leave your side. But she didn’t feel as though she could face you, poor thing.” The ringleader shook her head with a frown. “I’ve sent Cwenha to keep an eye on her. I’d ask how you manage to get yourself into these situations, but I don’t believe the blame fall upon you for this one.”

When the wolf man made to sit up, Briery stopped him with a gentle hand between his collar bones. “Oh, no: you’re not moving, unassisted, for at least the rest of the day. Travel as early as tomorrow might also be dubious, depending on how you’ve healed up. That girl literally gutted you. Were you anyone else, and I’m sure you’d be dead, by now.” There was a glimmer of relief in her hazel eyes that suggested she was glad he was not just anyone else. The ringleader had genuinely worried for him, and still did, it seemed. “Your tunic is ruined, but you’re about Rycen’s size, so I’m sure he won’t mind partying with a shirt for you to wear. As for this bed… the inkeep was not pleased with all of the blood. Fortunately for you, Cwenha and I sweet-talked him into accepting a modest sum of money to cover the expenses. The tables have turned, Kavanagh; now you us a favor.”

Briery grinned ear to ear, a twinkle in her eyes as she stood from his bedside. “We are still more than happy to escort these two refugees to Braighdath, fear not. But I rather like the idea of having a favor from you in my pocket. It means I will be seeing you again.”

Straightening, she shot another kind smile Chara’s way, before sparing one for Hadwin. “Now, my troupe and I have to get on with preparing for our show, in a few hours. I won’t be heartbroken that you cannot be there: though I do expect you at a future demonstration. Our act just gets better and better.” Before leaving, she paused, and mentioned, “I’ll see that Cwenha brings your summoner back here safely. I think it would be safest for the lot of you to stay in, tonight, in case any Mollengardian soldiers are prowling about the town. We can all reconvene after the show.”

Laughter pattered to a stop. Eyes searched and found Teselin, at his side and staunching the flow of his grievous injury. Though unable to concentrate beyond holding himself together, his attention was on the weeping girl. “Don’t...blame yourself,” he whispered between pain-clenched teeth. “Let’s just see this...as her version of ‘hello.’”

His memory blacked out, then. When his senses reappeared, he was floating in the air. No--not floating. Two giant arms carried him with great care and gentleness through the streets. He coughed, attempting to choke down the blood that gathered like bile in his throat. When he spoke, streams of it spidered out of his mouth. “Lautim,” he clucked, his voice weak and raspy, “you beautiful man. You really know...how to make another man feel special.”

It was like this until they brought him to a bed--which he assumed belonged to the inn where he was staying. Along the way, he drifted in and out of consciousness, but when awake and aware, he cracked jokes, asking all those present what his insides looked like, if wolf-meat would sell on the butcher’s block, and if they could use him as a sideshow act in time for the Missing Links’ performance. When his consciousness faded, this time, for a good hour, the last glimpse he descried from his waning eyes was of Teselin--gripping his hand. He smiled at her until his head lolled to the side, and he lay still and unresponsive.

Over the course of hours, the small room at the inn accommodated Hadwin’s unconscious body, the cast of the Missing Links, Teselin, Chara, and the healer that the flashy, wiry man brought in for the task. Hospiria, from what Chara recalled, was originally founded as a sanctum for the sick and injured. Though its reputation fell in contention among its rivalry with St. Thorne, and it lost traction among the city’s growing merchant council whose ideas into transforming the monastery town into a bustling crossroads haven for travelers won out over healers, the monastery still existed, and thrived. The demand for healers never grew thin, and sure enough, one entered the tiny space, clad in blue vestments and carrying a medical bag.

Chara, her self-consciousness mounting, pressed against the far corner of the room, half-hidden from the mess of bodies, and from the mess of her soiled clothes--though nothing hid her foul stench from even the least olfactory of noses. Like the rest of the room’s occupants, she perfected silence, though not due to the healer’s demand for it. From screaming herself raw earlier, she lost her voice, and communicated only through head and hand gestures, or facial expressions. When the healer announced that Hadwin would make a full recovery, she slumped against the wall, surprised at her relief. While the wolf-man assumed the role as their guide and provider, she didn’t credit him enough for his efforts, dismissing it all as meant for Teselin. She, through leaching, benefited, convinced he wouldn’t miss her if she died. Whether her suppositions were true, her heart-wrenched at his sorry condition, at the lacerations in his abdomen, and the reasons for his sudden accident. His long-lost sister, Rowen. The girl to whom he dedicated his service to Mollengard, until switching allegiances to Stella D’Mare, for hope of a better outcome. And here, he had reaped the fruits of his labors. A stab wound, from the sister he struggled to save.

Was she like a stab wound, to all those who knew her? To her father, whom she continuously alienated? To Teselin, a lonely girl desperate for companionship? To Alster, a man she claimed to love for decades, and abused? Or to Lilica, who she walled out of her life to avoid pain, only to receive double, because her imagination weakened when envisioning a reunion? In the latter case, she firmly drove the blade through her own abdomen, preferring her self-inflicting hand to that of her lover. Was she even welcome in Galeyn, after all that had happened? The Chara of Lilica’s heart was dead, locked away in a stone. Gone. No proud leader, self-assured of her place in the world. Since birth, she never questioned her status as a Rigas. Never doubted where she belonged, in the context of her family name. But now…

I’m nothing. I should disappear. A Rigas no more. I should have died with my city…

She blinked out of the doldrums when a glittering, woman approached her, garish and gaudy in a gold body-suit. By her introduction, she was the leader of the Missing Links who would ferry her and Teselin to Braighdath. She almost wanted to say, “No. Leave me here. I’m not going.” But she nodded mutely and accepted the gown, leaving any comments about its ugliness to herself.

“Chara,” she rasped, through the gravel-thickness of her ruined voice. No Rigas moniker. No mention of her title. Never again. With an excusing nod, she took the gown and dipped out of the room, more willing to face the unknown outside the door, now that her quiet space had been overrun with denizens of the unknown. At least if she was cleaned and dressed, no one would affix her with pitying or judging stares, even though she was beginning to prefer her less than dignified treatment. It drew a firm line of separation between Lady Chara Rigas, and just Chara.

But, she reasoned, a clean and dressed Chara was more likely to disappear in the eyes of society. Just another face. Another body…

No! With horror, her hands drifted to the points of her ears, a glaring Rigas identity. They would all see. They would all know!

Not a Rigas. Not a Rigas…

She rushed into the public bath. Luckily, no one was there. No one saw her.

But they would, if she did nothing to conceal her oh so visible past.

Rowen waited for him in her hut. Her nightmares were too severe, and he promised to catch them before they reached her, so he fixed a permanent bed at her feet. She didn’t appreciate anyone’s company but his, and he took it as a compliment of the highest order. “That’s love, right there,” he told her, when she agreed to his move-in.

“No,” she countered. “That’s tolerance. I’m tolerating you.”

“Whatever words you need to sound tough and in charge,” he chuckled, and ruffled her hair. “But I know the truth.”

As the weeks and years spanned, he would arrive inside Rowen’s hut at late hours, stumbling with uncoordinated steps and slurring curses when he rammed his hip against the edges of a table. Often, she questioned his new rituals, and he dismissed them with a grin. “Gotta keep Fiona in check, too, you know. Someone has to watch she doesn’t fall into a barrel of whisky and drown.”

“I don’t like it,” she said, eyes wide in fear. “It’s not just mam you’re watching. You love her lifestyle. It’s exciting and dangerous, but you’re,” she hesitated, “turning into a shadow.”

“Like your nightmares? I’m a shadow in them, now? Ro,” he cooed, and drew her into his arms. “I’ll never be your shadow. The world will see differently, and I’ll treat the world differently, that’s true, but I’m not turning dark on you. I promise.”

But it wasn’t enough. He knew that, now. Her Sight was so knotted tight with the world, she could not differentiate darkness from light. In her eyes, there was no light. No love. He was a shadow she let germinate and grow for too long, and it overtook her capacity to see beyond shades of black. She needed to eliminate him...and he understood. So he let her.

And he survived. Because he was a cockroach--and he always survived.

When he winked his eyes open from their half-slumber, Briery was the first pair of eyes he met. Her fear that he wouldn’t live evaporated from his Sight like a sudden gale scattering ashes. “Yeah...I can see that,” he confirmed, with a weak smile. Slowly, he sat up on the bed, admiring the extent of blood that clung to the sheets. He hid any discomfort in movement by maintaining the amused furrow in his brow. “Didn’t know anyone could bleed that much. Do I have anything left?” But his belittlement of the situation, at his own expense, trailed away, as did his smile. At her chastisement, he stopped moving. A thoughtful expression replaced the amused furrows. “I bear her no ill will. I raised her from a small girl, so...in a way, I’m to blame for my own near-death. And,” he began to chuckle, but the pain in his abdomen reduced it to soundless streams of air, “I taught her that gutting move. We reap what we sow. I’m glad at least that the universe has a sense of humor. But I don’t forgive it for throwing Teselin in the middle of that shit-show. She’s been through enough.”

He didn’t dwell for long; Briery, smile turning sly, shifted the subject to detail the state of his new debt to her. A sideways smirk fell upon his face. “So I do, flying squirrel. It’ll be your turn to chase me down then, hm?” He leaned towards the ringleader, and in a sultry tone, whispered, “I look forward to it.”

When Briery took her leave, Hadwin, alone in an empty room, rammed his head into a pillow and sighed. “Can’t move unassisted, huh?” he said to the ceiling.

“I’ll assist,” an indulgent voice quipped from the corner, a blurred figure with a cutting smile.

“Like hell you will.” Defying his orders to rest, he pulled off his sheets and planted two feet on the wood floor. “I’m not sticking around for...whatever it is you find oh so imperative to say. I might have done a piss-poor job of it, but I looked after Rowen. You didn’t. Nobody did.”

Clenching his abdomen, he climbed to his feet, wavering like a man who drank the entire contents of a wine cellar. Reserving one hand for the walls, he half-walked, half-slid to the door. Short breaths of exertion huffed into the air and his eyes danced with black spots, a separate phenomenon from the wisps of fears he always saw.

“You’re going to fall down the stairs,” the blurry figure on the wall mused.

“A concussion is preferable to standing your company for the next few hours,” he snapped, and wobbled out the door.

Somehow, Hadwin made it to the bar area on the main-floor, donning his shredded and blood-stained clothes like they were the height of fashion. After some arguing with the bartender, who was still incensed by the state of his sheets, he ordered an ale. Due to his severe blood loss, he reached a cozy level of inebriation after a full swig of one tankard, though it exacerbated his lightheadedness to an extent by which he could no longer lift his head from the counter.

In the interim between drinking and the start of Briery’s show, he convinced a few rich revelers to let him ride with them in their carriage, which they obliged (after showing them his mouth was good for more than talking). They dropped him off near the stage where other spectators had been gathering, bade him well, and threw him a cane to use, as a “tip” for the good time he showed them.

By then, he had sobered up and regained some of his strength; while broken bones mended almost instantaneously, flesh wounds and blood loss took a bit more time to heal. It was enough, though. Enough to enjoy the performance of the Missing Links while keeping upright (albeit with the help of his cane and a bear of a spectator, who he had befriended for that very reason).

When the show had reached its terminus, and the crowd slowly dispersed, Hadwin cane-hopped behind the tent, to the spread of caravans in its aesthetically-pleasing half-circle. En route, he stumbled upon Briery, who looked on at him in shock. “Surprise,” he said, wiggling his fingers for dramatic effect. “You really thought I was going to stay holed up in my quarters and not see your show? Not bloody likely. I’ll have you know, I took precautions getting here, too, so no worries about being spotted by the wrong folks. I saw it all, beginning to end, and you’re right. It’s gotten better and better. I approve of the changes. Though,” he lowered into a whisper, “it would be unfair of me to say you caught my undivided attention, bushy-tail.” For good measure, he reached out and flicked the top knob of her pony-tail.

“I’m here to reconvene--though Chara didn’t want to come. She’s still in the room at the inn. But before we talk about anything else,” his eyes took on a different feature, soft and furrowed and tender, “I want to see the kid. Unless...she’s not yet ready to see me.”  

Briery only shook her head at the nonchalance Hadwin portrayed, despite his rather critical condition. While stable, he was nowhere near ‘recovered’; but the shapeshifter had once told her that if you didn’t laugh, then you’d cry. And laughter at least unleashed some modicum of feeling good again, even when everything was dark, by virtue of smiling. “I am by no means in any position to judge any member of your family… you included,” the acrobat sighed. “Though I do worry for you, Hadwin. That girl--your sister or not--has it out for you in a bad way. Sooner or later, she is going to learn that she didn’t finish the job, and she’ll be back. Your safety is compromised. And for that… I insist that you accompany your charges to Braighdath. In fact, I will only shepherd them to safety on the condition that you meet that demand. Do you understand?”

The ringleader raised an eyebrow, leaving no room for argument before taking she moved toward the door. “Rest tonight, and we will reassess tomorrow. Don’t worry about the girl; we’ll keep an eye on her. She’ll be safe; you have my word, and you know how good my word is.”

Briery and the Missing Links were indeed as good as their word, especially with an ally involved--and especially given his questionable condition. After the dust had settled around Hadwin Kavanagh, and his charges were both safe (the ringleader did glance in at the woman named Chara, who lobbed insults and aggression toward her in the form of words, since she’d caught her bathing), they scrambled to resume what was left of their temporary stage for that evening. Hospiria was a hotspot for their troupe, and never failed to bring in the big earnings, so they went the extra mile to make sure everything was perfect. This particular locale upped the ante every year; they did not want the same show, which forced the Missing Links to come up with new, breath-taking performances. Fortunately, their ringleader was in the best shape of her life, all thanks to a certain Rigas caster and a handful of very capable healers, meaning that they were sure not to disappoint.

And they didn’t. The crowd the nomadic performers attracted ultimately grew until the entirety of the town square, and all adjacent streets, were entirely blocked, which spurred law-enforcement to redirect the flow of traffic via carriages and horses. Rycen’s pyrotechnics and sleight of hand amazed, Lautim’s display of inhuman strength tore breaths from lungs, Cwenha’s fluid dancing and bewitching songs entranced, and Briery dazzled, a nimble blur of gold and glitter on the tightrope, the silks, and the trapeze. Men and women alike couldn’t get coin out of their pockets fast enough to beg for more--and they were happy to give more. In the end, the show progressed over an hour after it should have ended, but their profits were more than they had initially estimated--and a good thing, too. After paying for a healer to tend to the shapeshifter after he’d been savagely attacked by his own flesh and blood, on to of compensating for the fact his blood stained the sheets of the bed at the inn, they’d been out some unexpected expenses. And with a couple of travelers in tow with them, they’d need every coin they could charm from the pockets of their spectators.

After one last applause, when Briery finally insisted they must retire for the night, the troupe gathered back in their tent, smelling like sweat and success. But they were not alone for long, before they found themselves amidst a rather unexpected visitor.

“Hadwin.” The ringleader’s brows gathered, her rouge-tinted mouth furrowing into a frown. “I didn’t realize that the words ‘no moving while unassisted’ were open to interpretation. I know you’re mad, but are you entirely mad?” The man was unsteady, leaning on a cane that had most definitely not been in his possession beforehand, still clad in those torn, bloodied clothes, bandages peeking out through the rips. “Tell me you have some sense of preservation. I don’t care about who did or did not see you; I care that you live to see another day, because you owe me, now. Remember?” That frown softened, a smile peeking in its wake. “If you kick the bucket before you repay me for all of my help and hospitality, know that I will go after your damned ghost.”

“If he wants to get himself killed, let him.” Cwenha chimed in, her white-blonde hair still holding the perfect pin curls in which she’d styled it earlier. The girl was like an animated porcelain doll: she barely broke a sweat on the trapeze, much to Briery’s envy. “I think the world will survive with one less scoundrel. I don’t know what that girl sees in you, but you have her awfully worried.”

Of course, she was referring to Teselin, who quickly came up in conversation, as Hadwin revealed the purpose of his disrupted bedrest. Whatever air of annoyance Briery had carried on seeing that the wolf man had blatantly defied her advice melted away. “I know that you don’t blame her, but she took what happened to you pretty hard.” The ringleader informed him in a softer tone. “Cwenha couldn’t console her. I managed to get her to have a cup of tea and try to rest, but she only calmed down when she had assurance that you would be all right. I think she’d be happy to see you up and about, but… well, not as you are, bloodied and bandaged and wearing the clothes you were almost killed in.”

“What our esteemed ringleader is trying to say is that blood isn’t your colour, my friend.” Rycen tossed him a bundle of fabric from across the room; a simple grey tunic, non-descript and somewhere around his size, as they shared a similar stature. “I don’t need it back, rest assured. After tonight’s haul, I might just overhaul my wardrobe, entirely!”

“Let’s save the daydreaming for when we get to Braighdath and see how much we have left.” Briery suggested, and shook her head. “Come on. Look a little more presentable, and I’ll take you to your summoner. She’s been in the ladies’ caravan since this afternoon.”

After Hadwin had successfully discarded his ruined tunic, and replaced it with something a little more neutral and less indicative of the fact he’d almost lost his life, Briery led him to her caravan, which had been securely locked from the outside. “Don’t worry, I informed her of this; just a precaution to ensure no one finds their way inside if they know she’s here,” she explained. “She didn’t really seem to care, either way.”

Turning a key on the wooden doors, the mechanism opened with a clack, and they swung open to the colourful, glitter-infested inside of Briery and Cwenha’s private space. Curled up on the bottom bunk, her chest pulled to her knees, was a young girl clad in red, whose dark eyes matched her attire when at last she looked up to meet those of the ringleader and… and…

“Hadwin.” His name was akin to a sob on Teselin’s tongue. The young summoner detangled herself from her bundled position and sat upright, but she did not run to the shapeshifter. Not for lack of wanting to, either; the longing was there, in her eyes, but something was holding her back.

“See? I told you he’d come through, my dear. You have no idea just how invincible this man is.” Briery tried to reassure her with a smile, but there was no one else capable of making this moment right than Hawin himself. She was quick to recognize this. “I’m going to go wash the glitter off of my body, but I’ll be back soon. Make yourselves at home. And keep your hands off of my costumes, Hadwin.” She warned in jest, gently elbowing his shoulder. “They’re not revealing, no matter how many times you say it. They allow for flexibility; there is a difference.”

The acrobat stepped out, shutting the door behind her quietly, but Teselin didn’t move from the bottom bunk. She appeared more shrunken and defeated than before, and for good reason: she had led Rowen right to Hadwin, unknowingly playing a part in his almost death. “She needed help… I found her in an alley. She looked frightened and didn’t have any clothes, so I got her some… I would have done it, anyway, even before she told me who she was. But when I found out she was your sister… I never imagined it would turn out like this. I never imagined that she would want to kill you, Hadwin…”

Eyes swollen from weeping, the young summoner leaned forward and rested her forehead in her hands. “I thought she was looking for you, the same way that I am looking for Vitali… I have no one to blame but myself. I know I trust too easily; I don’t care that it gets me hurt, but now it has hurt the people who matter to me. Part of me just… well, I saw myself in her. I wanted to believe her intentions were genuine. She really had me fooled.”

Rubbing her hands down her face, Teselin looked up in Hadwin’s mildly inebriated and still rather pale visage. “I don’t understand how you’re all right, let alone standing up by yourself. Just hours ago I thought… that I’d never see you again. So I prepared myself for that, and I prepared myself to take on the burden of the consequences. You never fail to surprise me.” She tried to smile. Under any other circumstance, Teselin Kristeva had always found a reason to smile, even in the darkest of times, but now… hope was barely holding on by a thread. And she was only waiting for that thread to snap.

“Why, though? Why would she want you dead?” Resting her hands in her lap, she moved to the side to allow Hadwin room to sit next to her. Having him close was reassuring; the warmth from his body indicated this wasn’t a hallucination or a dream. He was here, he was real, and he was alright. Her poor judgement hadn’t killed him. “Rowen… she didn’t tell me much. She only said that she was looking for you, that she hadn’t seen you in several years, and that you hadn’t ended on good terms. What does that mean? What could have happened between the two of you that she would want to kill you, when you care so much for her? I know you care… I know what you’ve done, what you’ve been through, to try and save her. How can she hate you, despite all of that?”

Of course, nothing was as simple as it seemed, particularly when it came to family dynamics; Teselin knew this well, given that her own family was far from what she would consider ‘normal’, or even healthy. Hadwin’s tale was even more convoluted, as he went into how he cared for his younger sister, yet despite his kindness, the darkness that blinded her grew more and more all-encompassing, until she could not longer see light. Just the opposite of Teselin, who despite the darkness plainly in front of her, had always chosen to see the light. If not… well, she didn’t want to think of what she might have succumbed to, years ago.

“She couldn’t see past your shadows, anymore…” Teselin spoke up at last, when the shapeshifter had concluded his explanation, insofar as he could understand his younger sister’s point of view. “When I spoke with her today… it didn’t sound as though she hated you, Hadwin. I think she wanted to see differently. She wanted to see the you that I see… at least, that was how it felt. She did not come across as having a vendetta… why would someone, stuck in an alley with no clothes or money to their name, take their first opportunity to re-emerge and harm someone who cares about them?”

At last, Briery returned, in a loose-fitting tunic and leggings, with her chestnut hair hanging in damp curls down her shoulders and back. Specks of glitter still clung to her skin, but her face was wiped clean of stage make-up. Somehow, though tired, it made her look fresher--more human. “Anyone here worked up an appetite? Rycen just went and poured some hard-earned money into everything the town baker did not manage to sell, today. Got some sweets and savouries, depending on what you fancy.” Leveling a kind smile at Teselin, she added, “If I were to guess, you strike me as someone with a sweet tooth. How about I go and fetch you some of the fruit tarts?”

“Thank you, but…” Teseln shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“I’m afraid I can’t accept that, luv. You need to keep up your strength; I’m sure Hadwin would agree.” Though gentle, her tone was firm enough that the young summoner didn’t feel she had the energy to argue. “That goes for your other friend, as well; the blonde woman. Should I go and fetch her?”

“Actually… you should.” The young summoner suddenly appeared concerned. “Chara is distraught. Broken… she shouldn’t be alone. She should be here with us.”

“And who was going to enforce that rule, Briery?” Hadwin raised a bushy eyebrow and leaned on his cane. “What if I had to piss? The chamber-pot was clear across the room. And fetching Chara from the bathhouse would not only make me a voyeur--which is something I don’t do, on principle...unless consensual--but it would constitute ‘unassisted movement.’ So as we can clearly see here, I was meant to defy your sensible, yet impractical order.” He finalized the argument with the defiant raise of his chin. But as her words dipped into concern, concern corroborated by the wisps of fear in her warm, hazel eyes, he ran a hand over the bloodied, torn shirt that exposed the bandages around his torso. It wasn’t hard for him to believe that hours ago, he was pressing together a gaping hole which threatened to spill out his innards. While unafraid of pain, or death, in that moment, he feared for Teselin. What would his death do to her? What would her belief of its indirect cause wreck on her conscience? And what of Rowen? Would his passing clear her mind of its all-encompassing darkness, or expedite the march into a place too black for even shadows to exist?

And there was Briery, who openly expressed her care for the continuance of his life. In a world where he was worth more dead than alive, he found the ringleader’s encouragements novel, and worth adhering. If death came for him, maybe he’d fight a little harder. But if Death took the form of Rowen for the second time…

I won’t hurt her. Even if it kills me.

“Clan Kavanagh is persistent," he said, with the curl of a smile. "They can’t rest even in death. So if I die, you’ll be the first person my ghost will find. Debts are serious business, my auric spirit, and I hate to disappoint those who rely on me. Especially you,” he said, with a suggestive pop to his stance--which, with the cane, lent him a dapper air. If only he weren’t dressed like a common street tramp.

Luckily, Rycen had swooped in to save him from his fashion faux pax. He caught the bundle in his dominant hand, nodding his head in thanks. “Pshaw; red is my color. When painted in the blood of my enemies, I wear it well, thank you. But I see your point, here.” He frowned at the unsalvageable outfit. “A shame, too. It’s my favorite shirt and jerkin combination. I’ll just have to go and rob a tailor’s shop, then,” he said, with a flippant and purposeful head swivel in Cwenha’s direction. “I’ll be sure to grab you a silver silk scarf, a chuisle mo chroi. Use it to strangle me in my sleep, if you’d like--though it would for sure be a conflict of interest. The majority wants me alive in this shockingly rare occurrence; I’m sorry for your loss...truly.”

Before Hadwin stepped into the mens’ caravan to change, he peered over his shoulder at Briery and winked. “Feel free to give me the voyeur treatment. I don’t mind the eyes, you know.” Teasingly, he clinked the door shut, before shedding his clothes. Due to the phantom stabs in his abdomen and the lightheadedness caused by blood-loss, the process took him longer than normal and knocked the breath out of his lungs. Splattering cold water from the basin over his face and slicking back his tousled hair, he pinched some color into his wan cheeks. After a few deep breaths of recovery, he strode outside the caravan to model his ‘borrowed’ gray tunic, cane and all.

“I’m starting to fancy this addition to my wardrobe,” he told Briery, referring to the cane. “What do you think?”

But the time for playing around had reached its end, when the ringleader opened the door to the womens’ caravan and invited him inside. Needing to duck to enter without grazing his head on the ceiling, he caught a red-clad lump crumpled in the corner like a discarded pile of clothes. At the sound of entrance, the lump animated, and the distraught face of a young girl popped out from the pile. Oversized for her small frame, as usual. He couldn’t help but smile at her ragamuffin appearance, a genuine grin that met her eyes--though it hurt his head to face the assault of her pulsing, overflowing vortex of fears. With him featuring as their central subject. Again.

“I am pretty damn invincible. Here, here,” he said, supporting Briery’s statement with the firm tap of his cane. “Not my first stabbing, either. Would you believe some people bring daggers to a bar brawl?” He exaggerated a sour look. “Monsters, the lot of them.”

As Briery drifted out the door, Hadwin rolled his eyes at her comment and muttered something about how a thin layer of skin on top of skin left little to the imagination anyway and she might as well be naked. Animals had no need of clothes, after all, and she, he decided, was a squirrel in disguise. Society and its unassailable rules would argue against human indecency, particularly the indecency of a woman in public. One day, he hoped, the narrative would change. But for now...he endorsed Briery and her collection of skin-tight suits.

Alone with Teselin, he slid forward in the caravan, towards the maelstrom of her fears. Gripping his cane, he steeled himself for a conversation he preferred to avoid. No matter the ease by which he spoke the words, no treatment of the subject changed the fact that he almost died by his sister’s hand. Teselin knew it, and he knew it. A charade of glib, dismissive words was pointless. So he dropped the smile, and listened.

“You don’t have to explain, Teselin. Sounds to me like she chose you as a mark. Told you some kind of sob story, most likely, to garner pity and trust out of you--for gain. She learned from the best,” he sighed. “And you said it, yourself. You didn’t know she was gonna kill me. Hells, I didn’t, either, until too late. Not your fault, chickadee. It’s her fault. By extension, it’s my fault, because I’m the one who raised her. I got what was coming to me, that’s all. You were just unfortunate, getting caught in the middle like this.” The bottom bunk creaked as he joined her on the pallet. “You’re a mouse in a lion’s den, Tes, but you don’t have to be. If you want, I’ll teach you to sniff out deceit and identify the wolves from the sheep--if you pardon my insulting metaphor that society has crafted to shame us wild, majestic beasts,” he grunted. “As it stands, though, this was a complicated situation to navigate, because you knew who she was, and that I was looking for her. All you did was bring her to me. There’s not enough damning evidence on your part, kid. Nothing to make me hate you. Ran into some bad luck, you did, but that’s all. And you survived.”

Resting his cane against the twin bunks, he swerved around, best as he could manage without banging his head, and clutched the small girl into a side-hug. “I get by with the skin of my teeth. I told you I’m hard to kill. I could list all the times I cheated death and we’d be here till the sun rises, so take me on my word. This was bound to happen.” As if the last of his words merited explanation, she followed up with a series of questions he expected she’d ask. His jaw slackened, imagining the comforting texture of a wooden stem between his teeth, and the burning aroma of hashish on his tongue. He needed to be under the influence for the next bit. 

“Ah, the complexities of family dynamics. So,” he began, shoulders twitching, “Rowen was born unwanted. Not at first, but she wasn’t...what they expected. She hardly cried. Valued her solitude. Never spoke. No one knew what to do with her. So they left her alone. As for me?” A squiggle of a smile appeared, but fell out of form. “Even back then, I didn’t like to follow convention and I was curious, so I spent time with her. Poor kid had developed her Sight early; she didn’t know who to trust. The darkness stunted her, for so long. Though it took some years, she finally let me into her world. I was all she had. But the shadows gathered around me, and she couldn’t see anything else. I was good as corrupted. It started when she blamed me for my mam’s death, which,” he lowered his head to stare at his hands, “isn’t inaccurate. We all ruled that she...it was purposeful. She put herself in a position to be killed. And I was the catalyst.” His legs bounded in place. No longer able to sit, he half-sprinted out of the nook, catching himself before he stumbled.

“She turned away from me for good, when I took my revenge on those farmers who shot my mam to death.” He grit his teeth. The black dots from before blotted his vision, but they took on distinct shapes. Fears in memories. An unmarked headstone. The nettles of stinging rain, falling without end. The blur of his mam, with the glass-cutting teeth, whispering, Avenge me. Do to them what they did to me. “I butchered them, Tes. They hung my mam’s pelt on the wall, so I skinned them alive. Rowen was well within her means to convince the Chief of my exile. A death sentence for a faoladh.”

Snatching up his cane, he twisted his hands around it so hard, his flesh burned and pinched. He reveled in the distraction. The pain. “No surprise that in the seven years since I’ve seen her, I got worse, not better. She probably held out hope that I was not only alive, but a changed man. But when she saw me today, I let her down again. So she resolved to destroy me before I could destroy her. The sting of her betrayal runs deep. She trusted me, and me alone. And I fucked it up; made her worse. Dammit--I always fuck it up!” A wounded roar carried his last words. To the walls. To the cane, cracking under the pressure of his vein-bulging hands.

Without warning, Briery reentered the caravan, attired in a practical outfit, sans the glitter and spectacle of her on-stage persona. Loosening his hold on the cane until it slid out of his hands and clanked to the floor, Hadwin schooled his face into a pleasant construction, smoothing out the anger lines and expelling the rest through a long, breathy sigh. “Fuck, Briery. Look what you did. Scared me shitless!” He displayed his trembling hands, as an example. “Walk in without warning, looking like a normal person--it’s the stuff of nightmares!” Bending over, he retrieved his cane from the floor and rested against it. A crack ran lengthwise down the smooth wooden surface.

“Think you scared the appetite right out of me, too--but you’ll chew me out if I don’t regain my strength, either, so get me some of those savories. Anything with meat packed in ‘em. We’ll hold each other accountable, scamp,” he said, affixing eyes that hadn’t yet recovered on the young summoner.

“I second that,” he said, when the ringleader mentioned Chara. “Couldn’t get her to come with me earlier, but now there’s no crowd or unwanted noise for her, so maybe you’ll have an easier time. Though I warn you--she’s getting worse. Dealing with the loss of herself real hard. Oh, but before you go,” Hadwin slapped Briery’s shoulder and held her in place, “got one condition for sticking around on this caravan misadventure to Braighdath. I want a bit in the next show--in whatever way you see fit.” He erupted into a toothy grin. “Even if it’s me as a wolf jumping fire hoops. As long as it's something daring. We’ll discuss the details on the road.”

Later, when Briery arrived at the inn, Chara had returned to her spot in the corner of their shared room, clean and wearing the pink gown that the ringleader had offered. Pale of face and short of breath, she looked up, startled, when the door opened and revealed the vaguely familiar form of the woman she’d seen hours ago. “No,” she rasped, a simple word, packed with meaning. “Leave without me. You’re better off.” Around her head she’d wrapped bandages that the healer left behind; it traveled over her ears, to her forehead, and fed to the back. They were dark with blood on the sides. At her feet, a discarded dagger revealed glints of it on the tip. Two curious, hardened nubs of skin lay beside the dagger, soaking in small puddles that stained the floorboards red.

She knew she had sensed loss in his past, but Teselin had never considered the depth of that loss. Hadwin was not someone who exuded tragedies; on the contrary, he always aimed to portray the opposite in his character. Someone unshakable that took life as it came, hurdles and all. Perhaps it was naive of her not to have taken into account the reason for all of his more vice-like habits: the gambling, the drinking, whatever substances his put into his pipe, the overindulgence in sex whenever it came his way… they were red flags, all of them. Ways to push aside dark memories of an even darker past. Things that she could see now, clear as day, that he wished not to discuss. Perhaps, then, she hadn’t been ignoring it, all of those warning signs. Perhaps a part of her simply respected the shapeshifter… and, selfishly, maybe she didn’t want to hear any of this, any more than he wanted to tell her. She had been faced with enough darkness; in many ways, he’d been protecting her from it. And from himself.

“So… everything she said, to get me to help her… you think it was a lie?” It was impossible not to feel ashamed of being so blatantly played. Trust was most definitely her most genuine virtue, and her most bitter vice, but beyond her tendency to trust the wrong people all too easily… Rowen Kavanagh played her roles well. There hadn’t been a doubt in the young summoner’s mind that the young woman had genuinely needed help; and maybe she had. Just… not the sort that Teselin (or anyone, for that matter) could provide. Just a mark… I was just an opportunity, to her. She couldn’t put a finger on why it hurt so much, why it felt like such a betrayal. Maybe she had wanted to see that kindred spirit in Rowen… a friend. A sister. Something that the young woman clearly wasn’t.

But that was not what should be bothering her, Teselin realized, and mentally chastised herself. Hadwin had almost perished for her mishap, and for all he did not blame her, she found herself struggling to find her own forgiveness. Look what it had done to him, bringing his sister back into the picture by such means. He was practically crawling out of his skin…

Fortunately, Briery stepped in just in time to halt whatever breakdown was on the horizon. “You’re damn right I’ll chew you out. Get your hide outside; Rycen’s got a nice, warm fire going. You might have to fight off Lautim for dibs on the meat-filled pastries, though: good luck and godspeed to you, in that case.” She chuckled, and stood aside to let them pass. “I’ll go encourage your Rigas friend that it’s safe to come out of hiding. As for your condition, Kavanagh… we take our shows very seriously. So we will indeed discuss the details amongst us all. For now, I’d just like to see you convince Cwenha it’s a good idea. Now if you manage that,” she snorted and met his smirk with her own. “Then you’ve got a deal.”

Unbeknownst to the ringleader, sorting out Hadwin’s ‘role’ in their show was to be the least of her worries.

“Hello?” Briery knocked gently on the door of the room’s inn, before trying the handle. It appeared not to be locked, so she let herself in. “Chara? It’s just me--Briery. Just finished a show, and the lot of us are settling down to eat something. Thought you might join us.”

The first thing the acrobat noticed was the blood on the floor--and not Hadwin’s blood. She had been sure to clean that up, as part of the incentive to have the inkeep go easy on her in terms of compensating for ruined sheets and a mattress. Her calculated gaze put everything together in no time; the crumpled form of the Rigas woman on the floor, the bandages, stained suspiciously burgundy, wrapped about her head. The pieces of skin on the floor…

But she knew better to gasp, or to flinch, or display even a modicum of emotion at what lay in front of her. There was a storm raging inside this broken woman, one that she could not quell alone, and meeting her with another storm would only do more damage. Briery had to be the calm that face it; and, fortunately, she had experience in this field.

“Leave? Oh, no, we’re not leaving, hon. Far from that. After what happened to Hadwin, I have doubts that we’ll be out of here as soon as tomorrow morning.” Briery shook her head, stepping inside and closing the door behind her, but she not make to approach the woman in distress--not just yet. Walking on thin ice didn’t even come close as a metaphor to a life in crisis such as this. “You look as though you haven’t had anything good to eat in a while. I figured you might want to come before the pastries are all picked over. You have no idea how some of my crew eat.” She chuckled lightly, before carefully, casually, taking a step forward. Only then did she pretend to notice the specks of blood that stained her borrowed gown, and pursed her lips. “Oh no--your dress is stained. Nothing a good wash can’t remove, but you deserve something clean after what you were left in. Don’t worry, I am of no shortage for spare clothes. I’ll find a colour that suits you better; pink isn’t really for you. Be back in a moment.”

With a wink and a warm smile, Briery took a very dangerous chance and left Chara alone. Not for long--it did not take her long to track down the healer who had tended Hadwin, and threaten him into providing a bit more help--but leaving anyone alone with thoughts of self-harm (and tendencies of such that had come through) always left the risk that they might flee. The ringleader was banking on the fact that the blonde woman was in too much shock (from her experience with Mollengard, along with the blood she’d lost) to leave the room--and, fortunately, she was right.

True to her word, she returned just moments later with the nervous looking healer in tow. “My friend just had an accident; your help would be greatly appreciated.” She explained, as though it were no big deal. The acrobat had already debriefed the man on the walk up to the inn, and made it very clear that he was not to so much as hint at judgement or react in any way other than professional. Fortunately, she had just the knack for being intimidating enough to make people like him listen.

But Chara’s wounds were only half of the problem. The rest was up to her, if she wanted to have a chance at bringing this poor woman back down to earth. “So, I figured it isn’t up to me what colour you should wear; I found a couple of choices for you. Personally, I think they both suit you, but I’ll admit I’m particularly biased toward the peacock blue.” Small, inconsequential decisions: that was the very first step. Something feasible to remind this woman that she was still in power, that she still had control of some things. Even if it was as mundane as the color of a gown. “Honestly, what do you think? The blue complements your eyes in the most exquisite way, but the violet is such an eye-catching colour on its own. Either way, you can’t go wrong.”

Briery kept her busy with small talk, keeping her attention on anything but the state of her ears, which the healer carefully addressed by healing over the torn cartilage and skin. It took a while to convince the wrecked woman to make so simple a decision as that of choosing a colour; but ultimately, she chose the exquisite blue, at which point the acrobat went on and on about how she had just the bracelets and pendants to help her accessorize. “Honestly, I think you can wear this better than I can.” She smiled, holding the garment up for her to see. It wa decidedly less plain than the pink gown, and definitely more befitting of a Rigas. “You’ve actually got breasts and a lovely hourglass shape. Everything I put on just ends up looking like a bedsheet if I’m not careful.” Briery laughed, knowing well she’d be laughing alone, but laughter was contagious. So were smiles, and warmth. That was the point.

As soon as the healer finished up, Briery shooed him out of the room so that Chara could change. But the acrobat didn’t leave; she made the excuse that the lace-up back of the gown required assistance, if only to keep an eye on her new charge. While Chara wasn’t looking, busy pushing her arms through the sleeves of the gown, Briery pocketed the dagger when she wasn’t looking.

“Beautiful. Again, I’m biased, but you really bring this gown to life.” She beamed, and gently laced up the back. As though everything was normal; as if she’d known this woman for more than a few hours, and they had been the best of friends for years. Not once did she allude to the gravity in the room, or to the fact Chara had seen fit to disfigure her own body. There would be no talk of that until Chara herself was ready to bring it up. “Now, what about your hair--how do you usually wear it? I think it looks just lovely, worn long and over your shoulders.” Dampening her fingers in a wash basin, she took the liberty to gently comb them through the Rigas woman’s hair--with the intent of cleaning her blonde tresses of blood, as much as she was able. “But I am also quite skilled at intricate braids, if I do say so myself. What do you think?”

Again, small decisions. Something to give her power in a safe space. To Briery’s great relief, Chara chose to leave her hair down--all the better, to cover the brand new scars she’d given herself. “Lovely; I’d say you’re fit for a night on the town.” She commented, grinning from ear to ear as she gently took Chara by the arm. A guiding hand, not a forceful one--although she was prepared to break her character if the Rigas woman turned on her, or worse, on herself. “Unfortunately, I don’t think any of us has the energy for a night on the town, just this moment. Let’s just settle for a nice meal among friends. You’re already outshining me, but I confess, I’m not much without the costumes, gold eye make-up, and glitter.”

Walking the Rigas woman out of the inn and toward her caravans brought back disturbingly vivid memories of the last time she’d had to talk someone out of a dangerous situation. That person had been her very own Cwenha, six years younger. Still a child--younger even than Teselin--and ready to throw her life off of the edge of a bridge. Get away! You can’t stop me; this is my choice! The small, pale-blonde thing had told her, tears streaking her face. Her clothes were ripped from the aggression of her last client; the final catalyst that had caused her to decide to end herself. It is my choice, for once!

Of course it is, Briery told her, approaching, but not too close. It belongs to you alone. And only you can decide. But you have other choices, too. So many, in fact, the possibilities are infinite. Can you even imagine?

No, Cwenha had countered. I don’t want to imagine. I don’t want to think or feel anymore. This is what I want… She’d looked down, into the dark depths of a raging river, several meters below. A fall she knew she wouldn’t survive. No one can hurt me anymore if the water takes me.

Fortunately, Briery had seen an opening, the second she’d spotted the girl propped precariously on the ledge of the bridge. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you even get up here? That’s a feat for an acrobat--I should know. I am one. That small novelty was just what she needed to have the young girl’s attention; to bring it elsewhere than the topic of her own demise. That’s a talent, you know. Have you ever thought about doing anything with it? I can tell just by looking at you, you’re a natural.

I don’t know, she’d replied, looking as numb as she sounded. I just climbed.

Briery had smiled. What if I told you I could teach you to fly? No strings attached; I’m performing tonight, at dusk, near the fountain. Just myself and two lugheads who happen to be part of my troupe. If you like what you see, I’d love for the opportunity to show you the ropes--literally. If you don’t like it? She’d shrugged her shoulders and held her hands out. Then once again, the choice is yours, how you see fit to go forward. But, how about a simpler choice, right now. Reaching into a satchel across her shoulder, she withdrew two pastries, one smelling of strawberries and cream, and the other, spices and meat. Do you prefer sweet, or savoury?

Funny, how it always came down to food to break the ice. But between her playing best-friend to the distraught Rigas woman, bringing her lovely new clothes and taking her hand without waiting for her to ask, Chara seemed to be leaving the pain behind temporarily in favor of numbness; of going along with what was happening, whatever it may be. Eventually, she might find the energy to fight it, but when that time came, Briery would let her. Fight was progress--a sure sign of a will to live. Cwenha had fought--with herself, with Briery, with everyone--for months after she’d agreed to join the Missing Links. Eventually, piece by piece, that fight turned into something productive. Now, the only person for whom the little blonde woman reserved any fight was Hadwin Kavanagh; and Briery couldn’t rightly blame her for it.

“I hope you saved some of the spicy pastries for me.” She announced as she gathered around the caravans where everyone sat, eating their fill before a small fire, her hands still supportively entwined about Chara’s arms. One brief glance in Hadwin and Teselin’s direction said it all: say nothing, ask nothing, she implored. There would be time for questions later. Right now, she needed to ascertain that Chara would be safe.

The idea to remove her Rigas ears arrived in the bathhouse. Alone in the cavernous hall, she sank into the questionable water, tinted brown from all the bodies that sloughed off loose skin and dirt. On any other occasion, she would find the place appalling. When she was Rigas Head, she could be choosy in her bathing rituals. Hot water prepared in her immaculate tub, scented in rose or lavender and fresh in accompanying petals, soaps of almond and rich oils to scrub on the skin, silken robes that whispered as the wide bell sleeves settled on wrist cuff and the hem slid down to billow about the legs…

Bathing was once an escape. A necessity. No one bothered her behind the closed doors of her private retreat. Here, anyone could waltz inside and scrub beside her, unaware of the position she once held. The person she once was. The city she and others had to abandon.

No, a voice countered for the second time. Rigases were recognized by sight. The peculiarities of the tapered point differed in size and shape from elvenkind, distinct enough to pinpoint a carrier as a Rigas. Apart from the blue eyes and blonde hair, a trait not universal among her family, the ears announced her prestige. The ears informed others of her standing in society, especially in the southern regions of the world. The ears screamed ‘Rigas’--and she was a Rigas no longer.

They had to go.

Someone had left a serrated-edged knife in the bath. More of a maintenance tool for sawing small blocks of wood--and perfect for sawing ears. The universe supported her in this coming endeavor. To free herself from the past, she needed to cut away the past. The physical act of it was the first step towards totality. Like the shadow of the earth blotting out the moon in eclipse, she intended to disappear.

When she returned to the room, she waited until after Hadwin took off for the circus performance, and prepared for the ritual. On the table, she set a basin of water beside a roll of bandages the healer had brought and forgotten, followed by the knife, which she planted parallel to the grains of wood running along the counter. She’d cleaned and sterilized the jagged blade in the bathhouse--in dingy water, true, but she hadn’t a purer option. Satisfied by the arrangement, she pulled out a pipe and a tinderbox--two of the wolf-man’s precious items that the healer, in stitching up his gaping wound with magic, had emptied from the pockets of his jerkin and who Hadwin didn’t notice was missing. Stuffed already with the pungent green substance of hashish, a concoction known to reduce pain and encourage relaxation, she flicked the tinderbox to life and circled the flame around the pipe bowl, remembering Hadwin’s specific ministrations in readying the drug for smoking. Setting the stem in her mouth, she inhaled and inhaled, sucking in as much smoke her mouth could fit and holding it there until her tongue burned and her throat contracted with the urge to hack out explosive coughs. She released, smoke, coughs, and all. Her eyes watering, she took another hit. Calm slowly settled in her chest. Another. The room shifted, appeared warmer. Another. She sat down, and rocked on her heels. On she went, stopping only when the smoke dissipated, and the contents inside the bowl collected as charred remains. Smacking some level of focus into her cheeks, she took even breaths, and tied a clean patch of fabric that she’d torn from the bloody, unsalvageable sheets around her mouth, as a gag.

No more hesitation. She grabbed the knife from the table, rested it below the tapered end--and sawed through the thick cartilage of her ear. Even with the dampening effects of hashish, the pain seared and tore in agonizing strips. White flashed in her vision. Behind the gag, she moaned and sobbed, recalling the torture in Mollengard’s dungeons with unfortunate alacrity. No, it wasn’t the same, she screamed to herself. I’m in power. I’m in power. I alone…

Blood spurted against her cheek, down the nascent pink of her gown, and dribbled to the floor like spittle. But the ear detached, and fell with a thud on the floorboards. She stared at the tumor-like nub. An ugly growth, excised from her body, for good. The feeling--liberating.

She performed the same operation on the opposite ear, and it, too dropped with the ease of an overripe apple disengaging from a tree. They wanted to fall! The stars. Her star. The name--and everything it represented.

The blood did not cease gushing from the wellspring she’d unearthed. Down the dress, to the floor. A sticky mess. More to clean. Only one technique would staunch the flow. With the tinderbox, she heated the blade and pressed the metal against her self-inflicted wound. First the left, then the right.

A lightning bolt went off between her ears and the intensity flattened her to the floor, sobbing and gagging through the cloth. The scent of charred flesh hung in the air and permeated for hours, a putrid smell that greeted Briery Frealy when she entered the room later that evening. Chara, annoyed by the interruption, met the ringleader with challenge in her eyes, as if to say, I dare you to remove me from this spot. I dare you to react to what I’ve done. I dare you to scream.

She’d done none of those things. On the contrary, she acted so unperturbed and cheerful, she wondered if it was a trait among the freaks of the world, like Hadwin, who on their travels brushed aside the more belligerent aspects of his character to carry on with idiotic observations and obnoxious jokes. No wonder he sought out this woman for help. Like attracted like. Yet another font of exuberance and exaggerated cheer to withstand.

“No,” she tried again, voice still coarse and paper-thin; a rough, painful whisper. “Not hungry. I’m staying here. Please leave.” A warning rumbled in her throat. Instead, the woman ignored her and stepped forward! Chara’s eyes squinted into a glare as the ringleader chattered about unimportant drivel, like the state of the pink gown (which blood improved, she thought), and some other nonsense she ignored. Whatever she had done seemed to work, though, and the woman disappeared from the room, door sliding closed behind her.

The relief and relaxation was short-lived, however. Not long after her guest’s departure, the door flew open, and in walked the ringleader accompanied by a man she recognized as the healer they’d fetched for Hadwin. A knowing glint fell on Briery. So you were mortified, her eyes read. It disturbed you. You should be disturbed. Then you’ll leave me alone.

No such luck. Chara allowed the healer near, because he would mend the scar tissue and hide away the glaring evidence of her tampering. The less obvious the state of her ears, the better she could hide among a crowd. The healer was more welcome company; he served a purpose. Not this clown who thought herself qualified to speak of fashion when she presented two garish dresses of dubious stitching and origin. And she could do nothing about it. She had no authority. No title, no name, no home...no magic. Nothing to deter the woman from her presence.

Finally, she gave in. She hadn’t the energy to drive off Hadwin’s very insistent friend, but she didn’t need to like any moment under her thrall. So while the healer waved an aura of rehabilitating magic around her ears, soothing the knotted, throbbing pain, she pointed to the peacock blue dress. “This one,” she whispered. “Violet is a Rigas color. It’s distasteful that you bring this to me as an option.” Briery laughed off her mistake, neither stymied or discouraged, and continued to ramble so much, Chara’s eyes glazed over in hopes of retreating from reality. She didn’t notice that the healer took his leave until the ringleader forced her to her feet and suggested she change into the inferior gown. A change of ears deserved a change of wardrobe, after all.

“You don’t need to help me,” she hissed. “I can reach the back of the gown, myself.” It was not true; she wasn’t sure she could do anything more after her violent “purge” from the family she once served and cherished. In defeat, she didn’t fight the aiding hands that laced her into the gown and cinched her bodice snug against her breasts. “Do you ever cease talking?” she muttered, as Briery spun her around and admired the shape of the gown in relation to its occupant. “At least Hadwin knew when to shut up.”

On the subject of hair, Chara Rigas would have sentenced someone to the dungeons for touching it without her permission. But now that she was nothing and could do nothing, she glared at the wall as the ringleader ran her grubby fingers through it with water. It was all she could stand, so when asked her opinion about its style, she tersely answered, “down,” and jerked away, in case Briery weaved some intricate bun, in defiance to her wishes. An arm captured her before she drifted out of Briery’s reach. “What, now? I said I am not going. You had your fun treating me like a doll. Now leave.”

No authority, Chara, she told herself. Remember. You are not a Rigas. There is nothing you can do.

Biting on her lip in frustration, she dragged behind Briery’s leading tug, half-heartedly fighting against the other woman’s grip. Together, they left the comfort of the room at the inn, the inn itself, and meandered the streets of Hospiria at night. If she ran… The circus freak would run faster. It didn’t matter. She gave up control. Hacked it off her ears. And now, she waited for the end.

So why did she fight? Why did this woman rankle her with so much ire? Why did treatment as an equal and not as a superior enrage a part of her, the part she swore she sliced and discarded?

Shut it down.

With a bob of defeat, she stopped resisting and followed Briery to the caravans at the town green. She sat by the fire, between the ringleader and Teselin. She did not meet the summoner’s eyes, or acknowledged that she existed. Not after the words they exchanged. When am I supposed to vanish? She asked the universe. My star is gone; my ears are gone. Everything is gone. Go away, rage. Pointless pride. I cast you into the fire. I’ve separated from my past...so let me go.

“Spicy pastries...you mean this one?” Another blabbermouth joined the exchange with Briery. Hadwin’s jack-o-lantern grin lit in the orange tint of the fire, wolfish eyes reflecting like gold coins in the sun. He held the cherished pastry just shy of her reach. “What’ll you trade me for it, bushy-tail?”

“I wish you threw it in her face.” Chara wasn’t aware she said it out loud. No, what are you doing? Disappear! Vanish. Don’t engage.

Hadwin, bushy eyebrow raising with intrigue, exchanged a glance with Chara. “I like your thinking. You wanna start a war, I get it. ...It’s done.” It was quick-reflex versus quick-reflex between the shifter and the acrobat. But with practiced aim, he lobbed the pastry from one end, and hit his intended target, point blank. He’d missed her eyes (the pepper in the pastry was an agitator and he didn’t want to start that kind of war), but it was a true orchestration on their part. A performance of silent communication, played out in behest of a woman who needed a little food-borne violence hurled at her most detested person of the hour.

“Clown,” Chara muttered to Briery. But in it was the etching of a smile.