Time: Evening
Location: Palace Grounds to the Camping Site
Mention(s): @princess@ReusableSword@CitrusArms@SilverPaw@Tae@Tpartywithzombi

---

The carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestones as they made their way through the capital’s outer gates. Riona sat across from Cal, keeping her gaze fixed on the window.

With each turn of the wheels, each hoofbeat carrying them further from the city walls, something inside her began to unravel. The crushing weight of the Capital’s invisible miasma of spite and fury that had been her constant companion—began to thin.

She should have felt relieved. Should have welcomed the lifting of that burden.

Instead, its absence left her feeling hollow and scared.

The cursed fire within her, fed for so long on the city’s malice, flickered uncertainly. Riona pressed her palm against her sternum.

It was still there, quieter, but still there. And she knew it would remain as long as she had breath in her body and will in her heart.

It was a quiet carriage ride, and Cal could only attribute the somber atmosphere to the weight of Darryn’s murder. After a while, he moved from his seat and sat beside Riona. Still quiet, he didn't want to interrupt her thoughts, and there weren’t words that would make anything easier. He offered proximity until the silence became comfortable.

Sensing movement, Riona turned her head toward Cal. In the carriage’s dim interior, Riona’s eyes looked like bottomless pits and her skin had paled a bit from sudden weariness.

She gave Cal an appreciative smile before looking back out the window. “It’s been awhile since I’ve left the capital. Feels… strange.”

“Sorian, and all her problems, will still be there tomorrow. You deserve a break from it.” But Riona looked far from relaxed, so he pulled a flask from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Got a potion for that too.” He joked, shaking the flask.

Riona let out a small, amused sound—something between a sigh and a laugh. Her mouth twisted into a half-grin. “Really?” She shifted in her seat to face Cal fully. “You’d better be sharing that,” she said, reaching for the flask.

__________________________________________________________________________

The air became different; crisp and clean and infused with hints of campfire and roasted food. The clomping of hooves slowed to a stop and the carriage door opened, allowing them to step out into the carefully tamed wilderness. Everything at the campsite was lit by soft lanterns and moonlight, even the nearby lake seemed to shimmer. Friendly staff was quick to greet them, a handful of strange faces with familiar, mandatory, smiles.

And one all too familiar face. Callum froze for a moment, almost grateful for how lifelike the haunting image of Darryn now looked. Side effects must be getting weaker. He felt relief at the thought.

“Darryn?” The name fell from Riona’s lips in a breathless whisper that said she saw the impossible too.

Stratya Durmand

Time: 25th,
Location: Pinebrook Camping Event
Attire: Very Light Armor Set
Zweihander Greatsword + Simple Leather Sheath
Swordbreaker
Family Dirk + Crest
Interactions: Ariella @Tpartywithzombi
Mentions: Kira @Potter

Stratya was just taking in the beauty of her surroundings, relaxing herself for the time being, when someone came skipping toward her. Certainly a welcome distraction from brooding, the Captain smiled warmly as she turned to face the younger lady, pushing off the pillar she’d leaned gently against. She placed a hand lazily on the end of her zweihander’s hilt to steady it as she moved, a plain leather scabbard protecting the blade from dulling against the ground. Not that a big sword like that needed to be particularly sharp. Her bundle of effects were tied around the large weapon’s handguard. As she watched Ariella approach, she noticed someone else who had occupied herself with standing aside and watching. There wasn't much time to watch or analyze her, but something about her seemed out of place. Hm. Anyway.

“Lady Arriella,” she chimed, pleased to have a pleasant face to look at, “aye, the air frrom the fahrrest is crrisp an’ rrefrreshin’ an’ t’ sky is clear. Looks like therre’ll be a lot o’ food, too. Ooh, I’m rreyt glad I came.”

“ This should be quite the evening I think. How are you feeling after my brother's party? “

“Oh, I’m jes’ fine, thank‘ee f’rr askin’, swee'earr’. It’d take morre’n a strrong drrink orr two ta ge’ me ill. Even if they were unusually strrong.” The friendly knight leaned in, lowering her voice, “t’ween you ‘n me, m’Lady, I’ve been dodgin’ t’ social even’s. I'm a figh'er, nae socialite.” She leaned back again, chuckling, “I though’ tha’ was jus’ some drrink I’d never seen, aye? Hweh! More t’ fool, me.”

Speaking of the party, the knight remembered, “you were in’errested in ‘andling a blade, aye? You mentioned somethin’ at t’ par’y, but y’r fahtherr appearred and ye seemed nae inclined tae mention it ‘rround ‘im.” Stratya hummed softly as she considered Ariella, briefly, and then she dug around for a moment before producing a plain dagger from within her bag of things. “I unduhstand most lassies are nae rraised with weapons like I was. Nae t’ trea’ ye like a child, but nae swingin’ i’ ‘rround, ey? If yerr interrested in tha’, I c’n give ye figh’in’ lessons la’er. I have boffles we c’n swing abou’ at ‘ome.” The dagger was short, only most of a hand long, with a small guard.

“I brrough’ tha’ ferr forraging, but, ah,” she paused, taking another look at the surroundings of glamorous camping. It seemed like everything was provided, “I wonder if I’ll need ta.” The Captain looked between the dagger and Ariella for a moment, before asking, “‘forre I go ‘andin’ this overr to ye, Lady Ariella, what ken ye of ‘andlin’ a blade?”

---

Ah, someone he could trust. He hadn’t worked with him for too long, but all the times that he had to deal with him, the man had been professional and nothing short of impressive. At this moment of this crisis seemingly crawling and seeping through the cracks beneath the earth, threatening to swallow this earth while the nobles went for each other’s throat, it was good to have allies.

”Lord Ravenwood.” John bowed firmly with a hand on his chest. Understanding the cues, he leaned in a little, and followed along with whatever Roman deemed safe. ”Sure. Long story short, you knocked several guards unconscious. Some tried to stop you. In the ruckus, their youngest went out cold.”

”You’re aware of why you went rogue, right?” He crossed his arms. ”Would save me some time if you do.”

Roman walked with John a little ways away from the pavilion before he spoke again, “No.” he said bluntly with a hushed voice. “The tonic I took alters one’s perception. I was talking to my grandfather who died twelve years ago.” shifting his head slightly to keep his ears open for anyone investigating the pair. “My instincts would have told me to protect… what happened after I charged off into the forest?” never one to beat around the bush, Roman opted to get straight to the point.

”You barged through the guards trying to hold you down, tried to pursue something I’m not sure, but then…” John gladly obliged. ”Two people joined in trying to knock you down. One is Farim, and the other is this woman who used some form of magic on you. She appeared angered that we were intervening, but I won’t deny, she knew what was going on with you, that being…”

John took a deep breath. He didn’t know how to explain it at first, as it all depended if Roman knew what was going on with his own body. He seemed to be rather well-informed to the extent that he could, so John decided to be as straightforward as Roman would have liked, but was prepared for questions.

”After you seemed to calm down, something formed above and around you, before our eyes. Literally.” John said. ”They were many, translucent…silhouettes, if I were to describe them. There’s no face I can describe, just that it looks very vaguely humanoid, to put it generously.”

From what he described, it sounded more of a fairy tale or a horror story than a situation report, but that was what he saw, and he assumed everybody saw as well.
”Those silhouettes made angry comments about us being sinners, and that we ‘stole’ this land from them. Then they disappeared, just like that.” John concluded, continuing to the princess. He sighed, knowing this was his mess.

”As for the princess.” He said, doing a brief shoulder check before continuing. All of a sudden, he noticed someone looking his way. He wasn’t sure if those were just the usual gossipers, but he decided not to take any chances. ”She ran off into the forest after you had already fought Farim and that woman, so it’s not your fault. From what I heard, she was found unconscious but only with a bruise. To me it just sounded like she wasn’t watching where she was going and bumped her head, or whoever struck her was quite soft so as to not hurt her.”

John gave as much hints as possible that it was them that did it. Whether Roman would get it was up to him. If not he’d have to arrange a different meeting later on, privately.

His brow furrowed and his eyes twitched as he searched through his mind as to what could have happened and what he was saying. “Sounds like possession.” He whispered more thinking out loud than anything. “More than a few pissed off spirits around this city,” he continued. “The presence of the other women is strange and doesn't sound like one of ours.”

Again he pressed through the information he was just given and nodded, “Farim might be an issue, you're sure no one was around or has come forward about the princess being injured?” a witness to what happened would be an issue as well but speculation could be worked around. If what he was picking up from the doctor and what he was saying was true and he had a hand in it.

The information the man provided matched up with several of the other reports he was able to look over. He still had to ask him about it earlier today but one problem at a time. Roman still had his own information to give to the doctor. Trying to investigate this other mystery woman was another thing he would have to make a report on later.

”Not that I’m aware of the contrary.” John whispered, but he was sure, because they were the only ones there at that time. So the only corroboration that could implicate John would have been Anastasia, and from what he heard, she was not known for reliability.

”As for that woman, yeah I do not know where she came from. I do know that she ‘threatened’ Mina as a decoy to get your attention. That would be something for her to elaborate further.” John said, then proceeded to give Roman a general description of Torvi.

”I’m still a little unsure of how this possession works, but just from the big picture, this seems like 2 unfortunate events - you drinking the tonic and the princess being injured - unrelated but the crown is connecting the dots.”

A sigh escaped him, roman took a glance back towards where everyone else was being dropped off clenching and releasing his jaw. “We will look into her more at another time right now there are more pressing issues.” He stepped in closer to his friend, his voice again lowering to a hushed whisper.

“I had multiple physicians that were tasked with subduing me should I lose control given the nature of the tonic specifically made for me. Two of them went beyond what was ordered and took it upon themselves to remove anyone out of my way by any means in order to protect them. Unfortunately Ana was one of them.” His mind was racing as he spoke remembering what was discussed at his earlier meeting with his people. They would have to fabricate at least two other statements from their people to support this claim if it was pushed.

“Those two have been stripped of their positions and will be returning home within the next two days to receive punishment, prison, and reeducation.” A pause to lock eyes with john. Making sure he understood what was being said for all of its gravity. “I will take responsibility for this. It plays into my own plans.”

John made a note to tell the Society this. This would be something they could likely help with. They maintained records and licenses of physicians across the country (a relatively new thing in Varian society). He knew Roman. The man enjoyed seeing a well-oiled machine work, so if there were any pebbles John could remove for him, it would benefit both of them. They could probably make the case better too.

As for Roman’s plan…

”You sure?” John furrowed his brows a little. ”Caesonian laws are not known to be fair, even for Varians.”

John trusted Roman to have a plan, but the doctor still had some trauma over Caesonian treatment of him many many years ago. Inside, he didn’t want the man to be subject to the same thing.

“Agreed, but here the king is the law. I plan on giving him an opportunity he won't want to miss.” he couldn't risk telling him everything. Not that he didn't trust him but drugs and magic could get you to divulge information you would rather not and there may be listening ears nearby still. “No matter what happens, stick to that story and don't stray from it.” a thought came to mind as he spoke.

“If you and yours come across any evidence of rampant magical use or sickness pass those reports onto me or Erik, if you think something needs to be paid for our misdirection.” He didn't know that physicians without kingdoms organization would see this as him trying to pull favors but at least this way it would definitely pull some scrutiny away from them so they can continue their work.

With that settled it was time to bring up the other thing, “can you give me a bit more detailed report on what happened to you this morning?” there was a hint of something in his voice and his posture. Anger but at who or what?

John gave much of what Roman said a firm nod, and left it at that. Until he brought up the attacks earlier today. John’s teeth gritted. He was of the same temperament as Roman, but for a different reason.

”It was near the Sorian temple. A perfumer outside the shop Lasko sprayed something on my face, making me see…unpleasant things from my past.” He spared Roman the description. ”I managed to keep myself relatively in control, because I’ve been under magic influence before, but I had to flee.”

That was what he knew at least. What came next was speculation. ”I don’t think she was the shop’s oblivious employee. And while I’m not sure who’s the people committing the attack, I’m pretty sure I know who calls the shot: Calbert.”

“Hmm” was the only immediate answer from him as he mulled over the information. What he said matches up with most of the information that was in the report. Like with Riona he couldn't give him all of the information but there were a few things he could tell him to at least get him on the same page or close enough to it. John was, after all, very intelligent and careful.

Again his voice was but a whisper, “Calbert is definitely connected but our intelligence points at him working with the criminal syndicate in the city. Our sources believe it's the same one that's running most of the black market dealings in Varian as well.” again it was speculation for him as well but given what Violet told him and what he has observed, that man has his schemes. Getting his hands dirty directly didn't seem like his way.

He paused as he considered his next words, this time leaning in to whisper in the Dr.’s ear. “Your lot needs to proceed with extreme caution, we have found evidence of between two to four vampires operating within the city. Possibly under the employment of the syndicate or someone very powerful.” he stepped back to gauge the man's reaction while he remained just as serious and stoic.

”That sounds about right.” Somehow the idea of a criminal syndicate targeting him didn’t phase him that much, but several vampires running around the city did.

”Vampire…” John planted his lips on his palm, pondering. Was that Violet girl one of those vampires? She didn’t seem like the type, but human hearts are difficult to predict. Or…

Was Mina’s uncle a vampire too?
That certainly fitted the description. His blood gained life when other people’s blood were added. He always seemed pale and lifeless. It was a good hypothesis worth investigating, but he wasn’t sure if Mina should know. For all he knew, the guy could be part of this syndicate too and John would be walking into the cave there.

”That’s valuable information to have, thank you. Let’s see if we have any sort of countermeasure against those creatures.” He nodded. ”We’ll go around only when the coast is confirmed clear.”

John pondered a little bit further. ”I won’t make any conclusions yet, but I have a feeling one of us Varians at home may be one too.” He whispered back.

The way John mentioned creatures as a description for the afflicted people made him involuntarily squint his eyes into a glare. Yet he was right to be worried about them just as he was. “Cursed people not creatures. And yes we are aware but we are more worried about the ones we don't know about. The last thing we want is the inquisition of this kingdom investigating.”

Rumors always circulated about the medical conditions of some of the nobility. His father made him aware of several issues with several nobles and that we were not able to move against them or confront it. Surely there was some deal put in place between his father or the crown and these nobles. Either way it currently wasn't his problem.

“Do you have anything else to report?”

”No…” John finally let out a sigh, knowing he had not much else to pretend.

He would pat Roman in the shoulders, but again, he wanted to keep the image of a lord and a commoner, so he bowed his head lightly.

”People don’t know it, but we’re in dangerous times.” John said, smiling with a tight lip. ”I hope what you’re doing works out. Stay safe. Don’t get killed.”

“Likewise, remember I take the heat, you and yours just pass along any magical use you come across to us.” He sighed. He could only wish that their lives didn't have to be like this, that they could relax and enjoy what time they had. There will always be work to be done, and so they must go to work.

Roman plastered the fake smile and body language he has been using for most of his life and bellowed out a hearty laugh. Stepping around the tree and back towards the others, “and that's when I told her, "That's not me you got a hold of that's my hammer.”” another laugh to really set in that he was just telling John some off color jokes.

It takes two to tango, and John filled in the steps well. He replied in fake cackling. ”Like…what part of you did she mistaken for your hammer, my god?”

Outside, the sun peeked over the horizon.

The passage of time, marked by the skies’ changing hues. Pitch black night gave way to the light blues of twilight. Soft pinks crept in, intermingling with fiery orange-reds and bright yellows.

The city was slowly waking up after having fallen asleep the eve before. The squires, and other knights-to-be had been given no such luxury. An hour before midnight, they had to present themselves at the grand cathedral. Each of them had donned a humble ceremonial vesture. Each of them had been cleansed in a pool of blessed water. Each shivering wet body had been led to the main hall. They dispersed among the statues of the seven gods – Triumpheus, Aquena, Imperis, Amora, Tempestes, Vena, and Duedon. All had knelt throughout the night, praying. Standing up was permitted only when changing their positions at the altars, as each candidate had to pray to each god.

The lone woman among the candidates stood out. She’d asked to wear ceremonial warrior robes, an old tradition from her village. It had been made with the fur of the boar from her first hunt, nine years ago, and with other furs gathered that year, so it would be large enough to fit her always. It was a good fit, and kept her warm.

If it wasn't for a hunt, or there wasn't immediate danger, the huntress wasn't one to hold herself so still, nor was she in the habit of praying. She found the mental and spiritual exercise settling, as she found herself in front of the statue of Vena. Thoughts of her first hunt entered her mind. Had the Goddess smiled on her at that moment?

Raynor had taught her about the Pantheon, but she could only remember so much. As she prayed, however, she remembered more, slowly. What each God or Goddess stood for, how they had once warred with deities Raynor hadn’t spoken as much of. That they’d all been created and united by something yet higher that was gone now.

The leader of the gods, Zivitas, was depicted in a grand statue at the front. Throughout the vigil, the crown prince had stood there to observe the rites, so still and silent, he may as well have been a sculpture himself. He wore a ceremonial armour of fine make, proudly bearing Caesonian colours, the royal crest engraved upon his breastplate. He moved only when strictly necessary; when it was time for the knight candidates to move from one of the god’s statues to another, he clapped once, paced a few steps to one side, then to the other, then returned to his station as a silent sentinel.

As the person who was considered to have been handpicked as the next divine ruler and placed on this world by the God of Light, the crown prince’s sheer presence was sublime. He exemplified virtue, radiated holiness, and embodied perfection.

Or so the tales sayeth.

But with him standing there by the altar, overseeing his worshipful supplicants, it was all too easy to believe it. An instinctive response when one gazed upon him: the surety that they were in the presence of the divine.

As she prayed, the lone woman found her eyes wandering, though the itch to move had gone. The church was an amazing structure like she’d not seen before. It was so grand, and the statues so awe inspiring. Her eyes went to the Statue of Zivitas at the front, and then down, to the Prince before it. Oh, they’d done him up marvelously. The armor was beautiful and glimmering, clearly glamored with the Glory of the Gods. And the man, Stratya could have mistaken him for a divine statue, himself.

The warrior had to admire his control. It wasn’t everyday you saw someone who could control their impulses and muscles so well to stand so still, not even sway or shuffle. Her father had always shown her understanding, and knew that she could listen just fine, even if her hands or eyes were busy, so he'd never bothered to force her to stay still when she didn't want or need to. What kind of training did the prince undergo, she had to wonder?

She caught herself staring and looked instead to the statue she was in front of. Surely, he’d noticed her staring. It wouldn’t do to give the wrong impression, like she was some star-struck bumpkin or something. No, she was just impressed. She’d been dubious whenever she considered what they said about the royal family and the Gods, but seeing the crown prince like that made her think it might not all be hogwash.

Only now that morning broke could the applicants approach the central altar. They knelt once again, arranged in a neat row. The final stretch of their night-long prayer was dedicated solely to Zivitas. At the very least, the knights would have company. Scarce guests had attended the vigil, but now that morning mass approached, more and more people began trickling in. Nobility in their finery, members of the militia, and curious commoners alike were in attendance.

Once the bell tolled quarter to nine, the queen appeared, her royal visage thoroughly dazzling. She walked in through the side entrance, an entourage of attendants following her. Prince Wulfric, who up until then seemed to have been frozen in place, finally moved. He turned to her with a courteous bow, awaiting her to join his side. As he rose smoothly to face the crowds once again, a servant announced, “Greet Her Majesty, the queen, and His Royal Highness, the crown prince!”

At once, the congregants rose, men bowing, ladies curtsying. The squires instead changed their kneeling posture, rising to one knee while bringing a fist to their chests.

The head priest entered from an adjacent chapel, and the guests sat down. The candidates who awaited the moment they would take their oaths returned to both knees.

“We are all gathered here to observe the knighting of these fine gentlemen – and lady – celebrating the virtues of honour, loyalty, and courage. He is no knight who is not ordered nor virtuous…” A long-winded sermon began, elaborating on the nature, conduct, and duties expected of knights.

Stratya Durmand, at first, listened intently, but as the words arriving at her ears began to resemble the similarly long-winded lectures from the village elders, her attention began to slip. By the time she was fifteen, she'd become quite accustomed to only giving them half an ear, and picking up on their questions and cues.

Stop that. Pay attention. This is an important day. It won't do for you to mess it up by being inattentive.

An hour later, the speech was finished, and the queen began calling up the applicants to knight them. She did it in alphabetical order, so there were a few people up before the lone woman. The procedure was the same for each person, the variations only in what the queen said to them, and the pledge they gave.

When it finally came time to be knighted, the woman in ceremonial furs had approached the Queen as those before her had, and knelt. The Gods had offered her mind respite from her previous years of trouble. She was presented to the queen by her sponsors then gave her pledge.
“On my ‘onor, I pledge to up’old the Virtues of Th’ Gods within t’ lands o’ t’ Kingdom. I vow ta always perrsuue Peace and Prrosperri’y for i’s people. I will defend t’ lives supporr’ed by t’ Kingdom’s borr’ers, and conduct myself wit’ digni’y and compassion. I will respect th’ lives I take in hunt, and the lives around me ev’ryday. I pledge my feal’y tae you, Yourr Grrace, Queen Alibeth Danrrose. May th’ Light guide my blade.”

“A fine pledge,” the queen proclaimed, cool satisfaction colouring her tone. “Stratya Durmand. You have cleared out a scourge plaguing this kingdom. At a young age, you have shown exemplary dedication and ability to protect Caesonia. I expect great things from you.” She subtly gestured to the woman’s sponsors, who respectfully passed her the weapons and the shield with its coat of arms. Alibeth took the sword first, ceremoniously raising it only to lower it into a tap on the woman’s shoulder. She tapped her other shoulder, then passed the equipment to the kneeling commoner. “Accept your new station,” the queen commanded. She kissed her own knuckles - a strange gesture, if one didn’t know what was coming - then backhanded Stratya across the cheek. It was a swift, resounding strike, stinging her skin red. “I dub thee ser Durmand. Arise.”

When Stratya did so, she was presented with the armour she now had the right to wear.

“Welcome to the ranks, Captain.” The first prince acknowledged her the same as he had everyone else. He inclined his head, and locked gazes with her. A moment passed, and then she was sent off. Now, the newly minted knight could enjoy her well-earned perks.

The queen gave her a home within the interior walls on the castle grounds. And land. Her mother, brother, and sisters, who had come with her for support, didn't want to move from their ancestral home, and she understood that, but herself, the new city she found herself in was refreshing. No painful memories. No thoughts lurking around every corner that made her question herself and if there hadn't been more she could have done to save him.

She had only a few hours to appreciate her shiny abode, however. She was supposed to mount her steed, and go join the parade. All knights were to ride around the city, then gather in the athletic stadium for a day of feasting and games. King Edin opened the event, the watchful queen in attendance at his side. The second prince Auguste joined the fresh knights, welcoming them along with his very own Knights of Dusk. The men - and woman - of the hour had food, drinks, and plenty of fun. Jousting tournaments, horse races, swordsmanship duels, boxing matches, and more. Hundreds of people gathered to watch, cheering them on.

Late in the afternoon, the crown prince joined them again. He had disappeared after the mass, and it was anyone’s guess as to what he’d been doing. He had changed armours, now donning a more practical leather armour. The celebrations had winded down, but matches were still ongoing. After catching up with his brother, Wulfric went into one of the arenas in the stadium. Without further ado, he joined in, challenging the occasional knight to a duel.

One of the ones he was interested in was the lady knight. So few women ever did make it to knighthood in Caesonia. Unfortunate, but it was what it was. When she caught his gaze, he nodded at her, and beckoned her closer.

The knight in question had been having a bit of fun competing. Well, not that she was very focused on how well she was doing. While her showings in jousting and horse racing had been, say, lack-luster, her abilities with her own two feet on the ground shone much brighter. She’d been a notable contender in the boxing matches and had a fair showing for archery, but she’d not lost a set of three in swordsmanship spars.

Though she’d been in that heavy iron and steel stuff for the parade, Stratya had changed into a set of hardened leather armor supplemented with chainmail, and a buckler on her forearm. Both lighter and cooler, though just a little worn. Since she had, her record had only strengthened. She bore a short sword and her dirk on one hip, and a dagger with a prominent hand guard on the other. The crest on her dirk matched the crest on the metal piece, on her chest.

“Good day, Captain. Auguste told me you have an unusual fighting style. Care for a match?”

“Prince W’lfrric,” the lady knight studied the Prince a brief moment, “I only ‘ope y’ve nowt rreservations o’ losin’ tae a woman, y’r ‘ighness. Some o’ these po’ lads take it a wee bit ‘arrd, y’ken.”

“What a boastful knight you make for,” he smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant. “Talking about winning before we have even done anything? I do hope your confidence is merited,” he drawled.

No, the prince didn’t seem like the kind of man who would challenge someone and then back down for much of anything. That wasn’t the sense she got of him when they locked eyes at the ceremony. “Well, Your ‘ighness backin’ oot now seems worrse’n losin’, don’it. I accept y’ challenge. Bes’ two o’ thrree? Morre?”

“Best two of three is fine.”

As Stratya took her starting position for their duel, she turned to face the prince by altering her stride and, instead of planting her foot and turning with her joints, she used the swing of her leg for momentum to spin on the ball of her foot and turn to face the prince, and land smoothly into her ready stance. She led her stance with the buckler, which she slid down onto her left fist, and drew the short sword into her right hand, to the back of her stance, pointed forward across her body.

Perhaps this fighting style was plain. Prince Wulfric had mentioned he’d heard from Prince Auguste she fought unusually. There were more interesting ways of fighting she’d shown today, but he'd have to hit her first, same as all the other knights who had seen more than this.

Wulfric withdrew his sabre, shifting into position as he did so, left foot to the back, right to the front, hips angled so his body presented less of a target. His first slice was swift and powerful, no announcements made. He had an impeccable sense of distance, showcasing his awareness that reach was to his advantage, striving to keep his opponent out of her optimal range. He had great control over his footwork, born of years of practice. Given each of his movements was measured, he was a surprisingly fierce combatant.
The prince was no slouch, she could see from his stance. Good, he'd make a fine opponent. This wasn't a confined alley or the woods, either. There was only the dirt, herself, and the prince to consider. He was likely more used to fighting in an open space, and he certainly seemed like he'd be ready to face real combat, if the need arose.

The knight noted Wulfric had brought a saber to spar with, something with more reach than her short sword, and leather armor. He understood speed, then? He wouldn’t be easy to overcome with maneuverability, but that was also how she understood how to fight. Metal armor was expensive, and the Barony of Encia had better things to do with their steel. The leather armor, gifted to her by then-Lord Raynor Lancaster during her investigation over the previous years, had been plenty good.

The crown prince opened their spar with a slice. Like second nature, Stratya's body reacted to the incoming blade. Her buckler swung out to meet his blade and knock his stance open for her opportunity. She took a step forward with her right, changing her stance to put her sword arm forward. She came back with her own forehand slice, attacking the flank she opened, a quick strike. He’d called her boastful and given her a smile she didn’t quite like. She had to earn her boasting, then.

The knight parried, and Wulfric withdrew his blade back before it was knocked too far away. He edged back slightly, inviting…Suddenly, the edge of his sabre was sliding along the short sword’s, shifting the course of its path. He drew the point of his sabre towards the woman’s chest. If she continued advancing for her strike, all she would manage was to get stabbed.

Watching her movements, her body, the sword, and the buckler. He knew she would not get so easily skewered, and prepared a follow-up slash. Since they’d ended up a bit closer together than was convenient for him, he aimed a quick kick at her abdomen, only to transition into his planned sabre maneouver.

Stratya flicked her wrist and tucked her blade under the incoming sabre, then raised her arm across her body, forfeiting her own strike to carry the prince’s sabre away from herself. When Wulfric kicked her hip, it forced her to step back again, but didn't break her stance. The arm she raised in deflection continued the motion from its follow through, to a chop aimed for his upper torso - his chest or pauldron - but the distance had become too great. Her attack missed and she took another step back, finishing her absorption of his kick. His blade was poised, but she saw his movements. Her sword arm was forward, but she needed to be closer. She couldn't slip for a moment, a fine opponent!

She sprang forward from her rear foot again, her buckler guarding her hand as she swung for another body shot, from low on her left side.
His sabre glanced off the knight’s buckler when she guarded his strike. The captain lunged towards him. She was quick and persistent. But so was he. He sidestepped, guiding his sword diagonally across his body, prepared to intercept her attack. He angled his body just so, repositioning in a way which led her further into his space. A prime opportunity for her.

He was ready to block, of course, but that wasn’t all. He let her sword slide against the false edge of his weapon. He wove the sabre’s tip craftily, as if seeking to bind her blade. While her momentum still carried her towards him, and when she was near enough, he grabbed her left forearm. It was a quick and unexpected pull, striving to disbalance. While she was recovering, his stance was such that he easily stepped past her. His next strike was targeting her exposed back!

There wasn't time to think about why the prince drew her in with his movements, she was already moving toward him. She saw the opportunity, but realized quickly that she had gotten greedy when she found her momentum being used against her. With his sabre, he'd carried her attack up and over him, and used the opening in her stance to grab her forearm from under her buckler and pull her through. It forced her to take another step to keep her feet under her, and still she was off balance. As she stumbled, he was moving behind her! Damnit, she couldn't turn and stay upright like this!

Stratya maneuvered her sword over her shoulder to block but felt the tell-tale impact of a sword against her armor as she chose to regain her footing. Her attempt at a block had missed, and she couldn't tell by how much - he'd hit her in the first bout. Her head turned to peer over her shoulder as she caught her breath, absorbing the fact. If she had pivoted as she fell to block, the distance could have been used to roll back up and ready again.

One bad decision. Ooh.

The knight grinned. This was exciting! She'd been pleased he wasn't a slouch, but this! She laughed as she straightened her posture, “Haha haa! You arre a fine figh’er, Yourr ‘ighness!” She tossed her buckler up and grabbed it out of the air by the edge, before giving it a short toss aside like a disc. Her dagger with the handguard came from its scabbard on her right hip, into her left hand, as she turned to face the prince again.

It was mostly a normal, if perhaps somewhat wide, dagger, except for the teeth along the back edge. It was deep between them, beyond simple serration, each hooked over the gap to catch things leaving. A swordbreaker, she held it as though the toothed back of the blade were the edge. She took her stance, her right foot only slightly back and her short sword held out to the side, edge to the prince and point angled toward him like the curved wing of an eagle. Her left arm and the swordbreaker were kept close to and in front of her body, like a folded wing, and she approached slowly.

There was the briefest appearance of a feral smile at his first victory. “That’s one,” he remarked. He watched eagerly as she took a different stance, changing out her buckler for a swordbreaker. A more aggressive approach, then.

If she was like a bird, a flurry of bladed wings fierce as a whirlwind, he was as fluid as water, a raging, twisting, serpentine torrent when on the attack, yet receding as surely as the retreating waves when evading. He had picked up speed in response to the captain’s two weapons, sabre weaving into a dizzying dance meant to overwhelm his opponent. His footwork remained grounded, and steady, but the knight could see - and knew from experience - that he wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace. Not for long, not long enough to have the first strike again. Stratya let her royal opponent wear himself down for a moment, waiting for the right movement from him as she focused on stepping past or deflecting his strikes. The inevitable moment when he faltered, the split second when he slowed down, she was ready.

Had the prince been emboldened by his first point, or had he been provoked by her posture which gave an air of superiority? Perhaps both. The knight saw her chance, the kind of movement she'd been waiting for. The swordbreaker flashed out, the toothed edge catching Wulfric’s sabre in its traps. With a quick twist, the teeth ensnared the blade, capturing it and robbing the prince of control over his sabre, the short length of the parrying dagger giving it leverage. Stratya pulled him closer by the blade as she lifted it over her head, spinning herself on her front foot, coming under his sword as though he were spinning her for a dance. She stepped to his side and, as she did, her blade slashed across the chest of his armor.

“And one f’rr me.” She released his sabre and twirled away on her momentum, taking two such spinning steps before landing in the same stance. If he wanted to be cheeky about it, “was mine easierr?”

“We shall see.” He appeared utterly unfazed at her comment as he readied himself for the final match. His approach was similar in essence - aggressive, opportunistic, flowing - yet it was almost like facing a completely different combatant. If he was akin to a deluge before, forceful yet quickly passing, he was now like a snaking river full of hidden depths. His sabre flashed as he wove it in circular motions, attacking, parrying and evading. This time, he was patient and well-paced. He dealt with her swordbreaker by aiming for her wrist in retaliation, or evading into a counter-attack from a tricky angle.

The first time those jagged teeth brushed against his blade, on the verge of catching it, he aimed a kick at her head, disentangling the blade as he whirled around, following up with a strike.

His approach had changed. It was subtle, but he’d learned from the point she’d scored on him. There was something lurking, waiting - Stratya was finding out the prince liked to kick. She abandoned her attempt to grip his blade as she buckled her knees and dropped her stance under his kick.

His left leg swung across the empty space her head had been in. He used the momentum to carry his body into a spin. By the time he had both feet on the ground, he was nearly turned around, his sword-hand extending towards the knight’s thigh, aiming for a diagonal slash from below. However, the captain had been faster. His sabre was inches away from the woman when he heard the clink of steel on steel.

That kick had been aimed for her head! As he spun about for a counterattack, her short sword thunked against his back plate in a sound hit.
“’at’s two,” Stratya reflexively, calmly blocked for the prince’s follow through with both her weapons. Combat experience had taught her that a blow would not necessarily stop her enemies in one, and though the prince was not an enemy, nor had she done anything to injure him or stop his counter attack.

Though it took a lot of strength to suddenly exert the necessary amount of counter-force to stop himself from completing his attack, Wulfric stilled his blade. If he hadn’t done that, the attack might have gone through before the knight had moved to block. Regardless, the fight was over.

A grin painted her face as she sheathed her weapons and straightened herself, “I am impressed, Prince W’lfrric. You figh’ wit’ a ferroci’y I nae anticipa’ed. T’is good tae know ye c’n ‘old yerr own, serr.” She felt like she might have seen something not many were privy to. “’at was fun, we shoul’ sparr again, sometime.”

Wulfric nodded, sheathing his sabre. “It was; my brother was right. You make for an enjoyable opponent. I often spar with the knights, so I am sure we will see each other in due time.” As he tended to do with people who he had had a fun match with for the first time, he offered her his hand. He shook firmly, and professionally. “See you around, Captain.” Without further ado, he went on, to observe and participate in other matches.

Stratya watched the Prince take his leave after sharing a handshake with him, a certain melancholy brewing in her mind. That had been a very satisfying, very enjoyable, fun duel, but there was someone she wanted to have seen it. She lifted her face and gazed up at the sky for a moment before she took her leave of the arena. The captain would go to her new home, and break in her new kitchen to comfort her spirits.

Kidelaut knew Redwater as how one might know an old friend – with fond memories of their past together, and a wistful longing to experience those times again.

He still remembered the day he first laid eyes upon the town. He had been a mere youth of fourteen back then – a recent arrival from Kimoon with nothing but dreams of making a name for himself in these foreign, Caesonian lands. And Redwater, unburdened by infamy in those good old days, had been a quiet town on the outskirts of Felipina, barely half-a-day’s ride from the city. Kidelaut recalled making the trip on foot – he hadn’t the coin for a carriage – with apprehension gripping his heart the entire way. After all, he hadn’t any idea what to expect. He hadn’t even known much about Caesonia as a whole.

And yet, when he saw the town rise into view, saw how it straddled the River Vermelleuve with its series of bridges and waterwheels, and saw how idyllic it looked sitting peacefully beneath the snow-capped peaks of the majestic Sans Pareil Mountains, the worry and anxiety melted away, replaced by awe. Kidelaut had, up until then, never seen a sight quite like it. The Redwater of that time had looked as if it had been pulled straight out of a fairy tale, and planted in the Caesonian countryside.

Kidelaut closed his eyes. Even now, everything was still vivid in his mind, as if his memories were of things that happened a few days ago, and not well over a decade in the past. He could still smell the crisp, alpine air, invigorating and refreshing; hear the chirping songs of birds unknown to Kimoon; sit beneath a sky that was never overcast, be it day or night; and see the eponymous red-tinted waters, courtesy of the riverine mosses which the locals used to make a distinct, crimson dye.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. For the better part of a year, he had called Redwater home. In return, the town had carefully etched those pleasant memories; those bucolic moments that brought him comfort during dark times, onto his mind.

And those etchings were now all that remained of the old Redwater.

“‘S’cuse me, this seat taken?”

A man’s voice shocked Kidelaut out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped open, and he blinked a few times to clear his mind. Still, he possessed enough mental clarity to notice that the man spoke with an accent, one that was just thick enough to identify him as a Varian northerner – someone who hailed from the eternally snow-covered lands beyond the Krasnivaya Mountains.

“No, not at all,” Kidelaut said and shifted further to his side of the bench, until he could rest his arm on the scrollwork of its armrest. He cast a sidelong glance at the man. Like most who ventured onto the streets of Redwater, he kept the lower half of his face covered. The upper classes had a preference for comfortable masks made of soft, layered fabrics. This man however, dressed as he was in garb that marked him quite clearly as a sellsword – drab, earth-coloured clothes beneath a cuirass and short tassets, and a sword by his side – wasn’t of such a class. And so, he instead had a thick scarf wrapped up to his nose.

“Please, do have a seat,” Kidelaut continued. The sight of the man’s scarf, and his attire, made him aware of his own. Just like the man, Kidelaut was dressed as a sellsword. Though his suit of half-plate might be a touch shinier, and his forest green shirt and trousers a little less frayed, he nevertheless looked every part a blade looking to be hired.

Such attire, coupled with the muggy air, made for a very discomforting experience. The scarf Kidelaut had pulled up to the bridge of his nose didn’t help with matters. Every breath felt like a chore, one that couldn’t even adequately fill his lungs. But Kidelaut also knew that without that strip of fabric, the air he would invite into his body would be little better than poison.

The man said a word of thanks, his armour clanking as he sat down heavily with a grunt. Then, he reclined with an arm stretched over the top of the bench, the hand of the other running through a head of straw-like hair which had the appearance of short and pointed grass. Kidelaut responded with a simple nod, his gaze fixed on Redwater’s main square, directly ahead of him and just beyond the point of his boots.

He sighed and hung his head. Here, he had no better view of Redwater’s sordid fate.

Gone were the clear skies; the light of the evening sun could barely pierce the thick smog which blanketed the town in clouds of dusty brown. Street lamps struggled to provide illumination, but their lights were little more than vague, yellow glows through the hanging filth. Gone was also the fresh, clean air; so pervasive was the scent of iron that it was palpable even through Kidelaut’s scarf. He felt the metallic tang creep into his nose, and could even taste it upon his tongue. And gone were the birds and their songs; it didn’t seem as if there were any living creatures in Redwater apart from the people who called it home. The only songs that remained were the droning hums and angry grumbles of distant machinery.

But worst of all was the river. Kidelaut couldn’t see it from where he sat, but he could hear it. One couldn’t escape the rush of water here in Redwater. Once, he would have enjoyed the noise, but now all it did was remind him of the sorry state of the Vermelleuve. It still flowed red, but it wasn’t the rosy pink of Kidelaut’s memories, and instead a sickly orange, as if the water itself had rusted over. Dam and dam exploiting the river for more and more power slowed its flow to a gurgling trickle as it meandered through town, staining desolate riverbanks and sapping life from all that it touched.

Kidelaut shook his head. If the Redwater of years past had been a setting from a fairy tale, then whatever it had become was surely a victim of a Kimoonese cautionary story. One that cautioned against the sins of rampant industry with all of the subtlety of a brick to the face, he noted.

Beside him, the man cleared his throat. It was an awkward, unnatural sound. “I hear that Veirmont is a fine place to visit in the spring,” he said.

“Not as fine as Vayansk in the summer, however,” Kidelaut replied. Under his scarf, he grinned. “It is good to see you, Jaakko.”

“Likewise, Renny,” Jaakko replied. Neither used the other’s real name. Both had done this exact thing too many times, and knew far better than to make such elementary mistakes. Jaakko glanced at Kidelaut from the corner of his eye. “Frostbite take my fingers, Renny, you look like someone just took a steaming shit in your dinner. What’s going on?”

“Do I, now?” Kidelaut chuckled and shook his head at Jaakko’s strange choice of words. “That is very, very strange of you to say, especially since our faces are hidden.”

“True, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy whenever you visit Redwater,” Jaakko replied, the grin on his face clear in his tone. “Call it my gambler’s instinct to bet on whatever’s most probable, eh?”

“As you wish,” Kidelaut said. “And you said it yourself. If I do appear morose, it is because of this place.”

Several years ago, when Kidelaut visited Redwater for the third time since moving to Hartworth, he hadn’t been just morose. He had been furious. The sight of a forest of chimneys spewing plumes of black smoke into the air; of sprawling refineries dumping their refuse onto dying fields; and of the mines burrowing deep beneath the Sans Pareil allowing their toxic run-off to drain into the Vermelleuve, had enraged him. Dutiful knight that he was at the time, he had raised his concerns to his then-master, only to be told that although such things were ghastly, they were ultimately inevitable along the path of progress.

And like a fool, Kidelaut had allowed such a flimsy excuse to placate him. Such moments, such memories made him wish for a temperament closer to Cynwaer’s. That seafarer was brash and overly-quick to resort to violence, but at least he would have fought hard for what he thought was right. He wouldn’t have simply taken a noble’s word at face value.

Kidelaut drew in a deep breath. The scarf flattened against his nose. “In any case,” he said. “Do you have what we asked?”

“Sure as the springmelt, I do,” Jaakko replied. He paused, eyes narrowing as he took a quick look around them, disguising that action with the pretence of stretching his neck. Apart from a handful of people quickly crossing the square, and a few hurrying past a row of squarish buildings to their left, there wasn’t much in the way of a crowd. Kidelaut had expected that. Redwater only truly came to life at night, well after sunset, and after the refineries closed for the day. Only then would the smog be at its least dense.

Satisfied that nobody was watching, Jaakko quickly slipped a hand between his cuirass and shirt, carefully pulling out a thin, stained, and slightly bent folder. It had no markings on it. No names, no labels, not even a scribbled drawing. To anyone else’s eyes, it would have likely appeared to be something mundane, of no particular import or significance. That was if they even noticed it in the first place.

And that was exactly what Jaakko and Kidelaut had intended.

Jaakko placed the folder beside him, as if he were simply putting it down for a moment. Without looking at Kidelaut, he slid it towards the middle of the bench.

Kidelaut waited five heartbeats, then pulled the folder towards him. He picked it up, peaked at its contents, and slotted it between his own cuirass and shirt.

And that was it.

“You have our thanks,” Kidelaut said with a nod.

Jaakko chuckled. “I’ll need more than that, considering the trouble I had to go through to get that,” he said with a shake of his head. “Tell Songbird they owe me more than just a drink, this time. Giving me less than two days to dig up all that information on His Iron Lordship, what were they thinking?”

“You managed it, however,” Kidelaut noted.

Jaakko nodded. “That, I did. Don’t make it a habit, though.”

Kidelaut tapped a finger on his thigh. “I do admit that I am curious, however,” he said, turning his head fully to look directly into Jaakko’s chilly, azure eyes. “You are rather forthcoming about working against the man who employs you. Is there a reason for why that is so?” He paused. “Oh, I mean no offence, and certainly no suspicion. Please, do not misunderstand. Your loyalty is without question. I am merely intrigued.”

He grinned, and his words took on a more teasing – a more Sioridann-like – hue. “Unless, of course, there is reason for us to be suspicious.”

Jaakko regarded him with a strange look in his eyes for a moment before shaking his head. “Frostbite take my– no, take your fingers, Renny. Songbird’s rubbing off on you,” he said with a chuckle. Then, he sighed, eyes gazing out towards and beyond the square. “But, to answer your question, my contract with that little bastard ends this week, and I’m not planning on signing another one, so he’s not going to be my boss for much longer. I’m sure as springmelt not going to care about whatever befalls him.”

He adjusted his scarf, pulling it further up the bridge of his nose. “And besides, it’s about time that bastard paid for all the shite that he’s done. By summer’s thaw, I’d even bet that it’s not just you and Songbird who have plans for him. Half of Redwater probably wants His Iron Lordship gone.”

Kidelaut nodded slowly. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting, but it was certainly an interesting one. One of which he wanted to hear more. “That is news to me,” Kidelaut began, his voice low. For once, he found himself thankful for the scarves they had to wear. The fabric muffled their words, and kept them close. Conversations didn’t drift far in Redwater. “Please, do elaborate.”

“Come on, Renny,” Jaakko said. “Surely as snows will melt, you’ve heard of all the shite he’s done?”

“Only as much as what little I hear from beyond Redwater’s borders, I fear,” Kidelaut admitted.

‘His Iron Lordship’ was the moniker by which the people of Redwater – both high and low – knew a certain Gratien Wesschler, a captain of industry and mining magnate. That much, Kidelaut knew with certainty for a fact. He also knew that the moniker was a misnomer. Wesschler wasn’t an actual lord, for one. As far as Kidelaut knew, he wasn’t even of noble birth, even if he did act to the contrary. And secondly, it wasn’t just iron in which Wesschler dealt. Coal, bloodstone, silver, and even gems; if it came out of the ground, and if it came from Redwater, Wesschler likely had a hand in its extraction, refining, and sale.

All that made Wesschler a very, very rich man. It wasn’t a secret as to how he spent such wealth; even the lowliest miners were aware of the generous bribes he handed out like sweets during a festival, or the gifts he lavished upon the local nobility. Such acts bought him influence; bought him power; and perhaps most importantly, bought him the ability to have his way in just about every matter in Redwater. Indeed, Kidelaut had never heard of Gratien meeting trouble when he bought almost a third of all the mines in Redwater, or when he took over one of the larger and more productive refineries.

Kidelaut’s stomach turned at the mere thought of such corruption, but even so, he could admit that Gratien hadn’t done anything particularly reprehensible. True, his actions likely didn’t endear him to anyone – and had likely achieved the opposite – but Kidelaut didn’t think that a hostile takeover here, and a bribe to get his way there, were enough to antagonise half-a-town, as Jaakko had said.

“Well,” Jaakko continued. “Where do I even fucking begin?”

His shoulders heaved as he drew in a deep breath. “Maybe from his love for women? And I’m using ‘love’ very fucking loosely here. We’re both– Well, you were a sellsword, Renny, but I’m sure you’re no stranger to fellows who think with their cocks more than their heads, right?” Kidelaut nodded. “Well, this rat bastard lordship takes that to the bloody extreme. Frostbite take my fucking head if I lie, but I swear I’ve seen him with one girl in the morning, another in the afternoon, and maybe three others by evenfall.”

“Sounds like some people we’ve known, Jaakko,” Kidelaut noted.

“Yeah, well,” Jaakko said, his tone darkening slightly. “The people we knew had standards, Renny. At least they left married women alone, and didn’t…” He stopped himself and looked away. “Let’s just say that he’s not used to being rejected. I’ve heard from some of the local sellswords that if he can’t get what he wants by throwing money at it, he’ll use force.”

Kidelaut’s hands balled into fists, and he set his jaw. “And those sellswords, they don’t stop him?”

Jaakko turned to look at him with a flat expression in his eyes. “Renny, the bastard could sign a confession to every crime known to man and beast, and he’d still be a free man by sundown. Anyone who’s got family in Redwater knows better than to cross him.” He paused and leaned back onto the bench. “I guess that’s why he doesn’t pull his nonsense when me and the other North Varians are around. We’d cave his fucking head in with a hammer.”

“So, this…Iron Lordship is a vile lech in addition to being corrupt,” Kidelaut said. “Songbird is going to love playing with him, of that I am certain.”

Jaakko chuckled mirthlessly. “I hope they make it hurt,” he said. “By the long winter night, Renny, if he was just a corrupt, perverse bastard, that’d be enough for me to want him dead. But no, he has to go the extra mile and be involved in some shady horseshite.” He looked around once more. There were only the two of them around the square; everyone else had likely scurried into some building and away from the smog.

“I’ve written it all down,” Jaakko said, nodding towards the folder behind Kidelaut’s cuirass. “But since I’ve already started ranting about the bastard, I might as well continue.” He cleared his throat, coughing into a fist, before continuing. “Look, Renny, I don’t know much about mining and how it works, but I think I know enough to be fucking sure that you don’t need to bring in close to three hundred new workers every other week, and all of them from just about every corner of Caesonia. Either something in those mines is eating workers, or that bastard is up to no fucking good.”

That caught Kidelaut’s attention in an instant. What Jaakko was saying was eerily similar to the rumours of missing – or abducted, depending on who you asked – persons that had brought Sioridann and his paths to Redwater, and to Gratien, in the first place. “I know Wesschler owns a number of mines,” Kidelaut said, reaching under his scarf to scratch his chin. “I do not doubt that he is involved in some criminal enterprise or other, Jaakko, but I will ask this to be absolutely clear. Is it possible that his mines and his refinery are just that dangerous? Enough so that he would need that many fresh hires regularly?”

“Not a damn chance.” Jaakko’s response was immediate. Evidently, he had already considered – and then rejected – such a possibility. “That bastard treats his workers worse than dung, don’t get me wrong, but it’d take him actually, actively killing them to lose a few hundred every two weeks.” He paused to breathe. “I’m not even sure that they’re actually workers, to be honest. I’ve patrolled the mines and refinery many, many times since he started bringing in these people and I can’t remember ever seeing a new face at work.”

Kidelaut chewed on his lip. “That is indeed very troubling.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Jaakko said. Then, he sat up straight, clenching and unclenching his hands. “You know what, Renny? Now that I’ve said everything out loud, I’m not sure I can just walk away from that little bastard without giving him a piece of my mind. The North Varians listen to me, mostly, so if you need extra muscle for whatever you and Songbird have planned, you let me know.”

Kidelaut looked at him and grinned. “Ah, finally decided to fight the good fight, have you?”

Jaakko chuckled. “Just this once, Renny.” He stood up and stretched his arms. “Though I’ll definitely need new work once we’re through with that bastard, so who knows, eh?”

“Then I shall endeavour to make this operation of ours one that is spectacular enough to convince you and yours to join our cause.” Kidelaut stood up as well.

“I won’t deny that I’ve thought about it,” Jaakko said. “Especially after seeing just how people like that rat bastard treats the lower classes.” He looked off to the side, then back at Kidelaut. “Anyway, I should return to my duties before they miss me too much.”

“Very well,” Kidelaut said. “Be safe and be discreet. We would hate to lose a friend such as yourself.”

Jaakko waved his words away. “Eh, I wouldn’t worry, Renny. If anything happens to me, the North Varians would probably riot, and that bastard might be a bastard, but he’s not a stupid bastard. Not stupid enough to want a small band of very, very angry North Varians on his property, at least.” He nodded, and Kidelaut returned the gesture. “But I’ll be careful, and I hope your path is true as the autumn frost, Renny.”

Kidelaut said one last word of farewell before the two men parted ways. Jaakko stalked off northwards, to where most of the town’s workers had their quarters, and the part of the city that was closest to the mines and refineries. Kidelaut remained where he was for a moment longer, looking up towards an obscured sky, listening to the gurgle of a poisoned river, and tasting the tainted, metallic air.

He looked down and shook his head. An industrialist, hm? He mused. It felt almost poetic. Here he stood, in the midst of an old friend ruined by industry. And in his mind, he still clung onto memories of an old love, murdered by a soulless profiteer. Kidelaut made it a point to never take pleasure in ending his marks – he did what he did because there was no other option.

But for Gratien Wesschler, corrupt industrialist and exploiter of suffering, Kidelaut supposed that he could make an exception.

Thoughts warred within Riona like angry cats in a sack, clawing and hissing for dominance. The man who couldn’t be Darryn—who absolutely shouldn’t be Darryn—addressed the crowd as if the past few days hadn’t happened.

As if he hadn’t been murdered.
Darryn. Alive. Breathing. Talking.

She should feel something. Relief that it had all been some horrible mistake. Anger that he’d let her believe him dead. Joy at seeing him alive and whole. She should be running to embrace him or slap him or demand answers.

Instead, her skin crawled with a wrongness she couldn’t name.

Even after the crowd dispersed, Riona’s eyes remained fixed on “Quinn.” Not that any amount of staring would reveal answers.

It took Lady Ariella’s “CAL!” to break the spell. Training took over. Her spine straightened, hands clasped, eyes lowered, expression smoothed into careful neutrality. A perfect servant’s bow, neither too deep nor too shallow. The maid became another part of the background.

Present but unseen. There, but not there.

Just like her mind.

Roman’s words from their last conversation rattled in her skull. Necromancy.

If Darryn hadn’t faked his death... if this wasn’t some cruel coincidence... Then what in the hells was walking around wearing his face?