A winter night's breeze stirred the crumbling, brown-dotted leaves, carrying with it the acrid odor of smoke.

Enemy. Three to the right. Right on time. Illusion?

Solaria ducked back down into the shallow ravine, her hands stilling. Behind her, the rest of the group tensed. Shahin took a moment to consider her flurry of signs before he inched up, peering one-eyed at the patrol approaching from the right side.

It was exactly as Solaria had reported: three men dressed in the uniform of the Elusian guard, their armor clinking as they progressed towards the only hole in the enormous castle wall: a sturdy wooden door. Shahin narrowed his eye and waited for the telltale buzz which signaled the Hidden People's magic counteracting the illusion; when a couple of seconds proved fruitless, he ducked back down.

No illusion, he signed back to the group. Meric, go for Stage One.

The witch pursed her lips, then nodded a silent affirmative. Her fingers twisted in an unnatural sigil, then another, then—

Shahin felt more than saw the wave of magic which pulsed from Meric's fingers, sweeping across the open ground between the ravine and the castle walls. He shut his eye quickly: Meric had been perfectly clear about the limits of her ability with illusions, and the force of the Hidden People's boon stood a substantial risk of dissolving it in spite of her best efforts. Unimpeded, the spell settled around the guard patrol, instantly muffling the sound of their footsteps.

Eyes shut, Shahin allowed himself a vicious grin. His fingers flickered into another sign.

Attack.

There was a sudden scrabbling sound as Solaria and Andrea leaped out of the ravine, hurtling towards the guards with weapons drawn. The sound of their advance was abruptly smothered as they entered the field of Meric's spell, and Shahin wondered with grim satisfaction how much time the guards would waste on shouting for aid.

In a matter of seconds, it was done— Shahin heard Meric exhale, and the unsettling sensation of sorcery faded to nothing. There was a tap on his arm, and Shahin opened his eye; Meric knelt beside him, her expression neutral. He nodded acknowledgement, stood up, and glanced out of the ravine towards the imposing stone wall of the castle.

Andrea and Solaria stood beside three corpses still dribbling blood onto the thirsty ground, the latter stately as a queen, the former grinning broadly. Shahin rolled out of the ravine, wincing at the lingering stiffness of his joints, and jogged over to join them.

Stage one complete, Solaria signed to him. Andrea huffed out her breath in a quiet snicker, brandishing a set of keys and pointing at one of the guards.

Good, Shahin signed back, the old Adrigolan combat signals slowly returning to mind. Solaria, guard Meric. Distraction needed, but dangerous. Reinforcements required?

Solaria rolled her eyes, but followed the expression with a vicious grin. Reinforcements not necessary. Resources sufficient. You and Andrea, go for Stage 2. Next patrol in 2 minutes.

Andrea was already at the wooden door, testing one key after another. Shahin resisted the urge to upbraid the girl for moving ahead of orders; after all, time was limited, and combat-signs were hardly the most expressive of languages. After a moment, Andrea turned the key with a triumphant huff, allowing the door to swing open. As Solaria began dragging the corpses of the patrol over to the ravine and out of sight, Shahin slid soundlessly to their newly acquired entrance and slipped inside, Andrea hot on his heels.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Shahin scanned their surroundings with a soldier's instincts. Courtyard, cobblestone ground, unideal footing for combat. Empty. He spared an instant to snort at the foolishness of the Lemarian prince for failing to assign a guard on the inside of his castle's weak points, then gestured for Andrea to follow him. They crossed the courtyard in a matter of seconds and reached a side door to the castle; Shahin pressed his ear to the door to listen for occupants. Hearing none, he drew his sword and in one swift motion sliced off the hinges; unsupported, the door sagged out of the frame and was gently lowered to the ground.

"Stormlord's saggy cock," Andrea breathed with more than a hint of wonder. "Your sword's enchanted? I didn't even know anyone short of the Kingsguard could get a blade like that."

Shahin gave her a wintry smile, then pressed his finger to his lips in the universally recognized sign for hush. He stepped over the fallen door and into the castle proper.

They moved, Shahin had to admit, with astounding harmony. Andrea shadowed his steps like an expert as he moved with deceptive speed down halls that ached with familiarity—no, not now, don't think about those things— slowing only when they heard human voices. At those times, he would duck into a side hall until the Elusians passed them by, or he recalled a route that could take them around a stubbornly stationary voice. She followed him then, too, without the slightest hint of hesitation or fear; to have such an individual behind him, guarding him was...

Gratifying. Not all the way to comforting, of course, but it had been a very long time since he had someone to watch his blind spots in a tight situation.

"Sir Garner of Adrigole. Is there a traitor to the king in this hall?"

"Yes. There is."

Shahin's lips thinned. He knew better than to discount the cold, furious certainty of the mage.

He chose you because you trust no one, and none can lie to you. You know better than anyone that the fruits of faith are poison.

"We're almost to the king's quarters," he told Andrea brusquely. "Jonathan will have moved there from his old residence. Usually there's a guard, but any minute now—"

He was interrupted by the sound of an enormous rumble, then a crash that resounded in the halls like the echo of a gong. Andrea gave him a grin that positively reeked of bloodlust.

"—any minute now, Meric and Solaria will finish their preparations and begin the distraction," she finished. "Gods, Meric's such a scrawny little thing, too. Who knew she had the juice to animate trees into siege towers?"

Shahin gave her an arch look. "I hardly think you're in any position to call someone scrawny. I nearly mistook your fingers for toothpicks at that stupid banquet."

The sound of guards approaching cut off their conversation, though not before Andrea made a rude gesture with the hand that wasn't gripping her dagger. Casting wildly about in the torchlight, Shahin stepped over to an alcove concealed by a sizable tapestry that depicted an Elusian water god attempting to woo a maiden. Pulling the tapestry aside, he tugged Andrea in after him, allowing the tapestry to fall back into place and plunge them into near-total darkness.

The footsteps of the guard approached, then passed them in a matter of seconds. Shahin noted the sergeant's bawled orders—something it would seem was characteristic of sergeants of every nation. After a minute, they were gone, and the two of them were breathing heavily in the gloom.

"You knew this alcove was here, even behind the tapestry." Andrea's voice carried a musing note which sent a thrill of alarm down Shahin's spine. "And you've been running around this castle by back ways and main halls alike. This isn't the first time you've been here. Hells, I bet this isn't even the tenth time you've been here."

Shahin scowled in the darkness. "Cleverness might be good for sailors, girl, but it's a tiresome trait in soldiers. Try to remember what role you're playing right now." He shoved the tapestry aside, stepping back out into the torchlight.

"Ah, but we aren't soldiers, are we?" Andrea replied. "We're knights, and cleverness is our friend."

"Speak for yourself. Cleverness never gave half of what it cost me." Shahin rounded the corner, and found a grand set of doors, anchored firmly in the stone and carved of expensive mahogany. "We're here. The door may be locked; in that case, I'll need your help picking it—"

Andrea slid around him and tried the handle. It opened with a click, and the door slid soundlessly open. She grinned at him. "Or maybe things will be easy. Do you have the enchanted stone Meric made?"

Shahin slid one hand into the black leather pouch at his side, pulling out a snake, carved of heavy gray granite with smooth green jade for eyes. He grinned for the first time—in how long? Days? Months?— in the operation, elbowing the door all the way operand stepping inside. "It's right here. Once we hide this under his bed, Meric should be able to trigger the charm from anywhere she pleases. The snake comes alive, and our sleeping princeling—"

"—will remain perfectly unharmed."

Shahin's words died in his throat.

The exquisite woman in shining regalia gave him a sharp-toothed smile, chocolate-brown hair bound up in a warrior's bun. The two strapping men beside her in knights regalia echoed the grin. As did the three guards behind them.

Behind him, he heard Andrea gasp a breath, then shift her feet into a fighting stance. The woman chuckled.

"Really, now," she sighed. "You hardly even need a master tactician for this nonsense. Once we're warned of an attack, even a child could guess the parts before they happen: first, the flashy diversion, calculated to seem real. Feint, then infiltrate."

Once we're warned of an attack. She's not lying about that.

"Shahin?" Gods bless her, there was only a hint of fear in Andrea's voice.

Once we're warned of an attack, she said.

We are betrayed.

"Run."

"I saw, I saw, a maid so fair." Such reminiscing words come out of Cassius like a novice's tap: flat and overflowing. The careening of the horse-drawn cart over knotted roads tickles it into a warbling falsetto, but only so often. Through one layer of lumber and two of iron, the fluctuations must travel. The floor is wooden, of course, so too their seats, but continuously so. Below that, they are conducted by metal spokes, and above is Mumford's chaste heart. Cassius lays his heavy head there and suckles at the man's breast, champagne spittle dribbling down an inconvenient area of Mum's jerkin. "I don't wanna be here," Cay whines after a hiccup covered with the back of his hand takes him away from his song for a moment.

"Neither do I. It smells of ale," Mum points the comment across the carriage at Vere, "and of horses left to fester," he says loud enough so the driver will hear. Even the Populist Prince has had a few ales tonight. For sustenance.

Vere is not meant to be with them. His accosting was part of the reason they had called over the cart to leave. But after they shared the driver coin and took their seats, Vere piled in without forfeiting so much as a pleasantry. The driver didn't say a word - she's Adrigolian isn't she? Nobody in this country stops Sir Lebriole from doing as he pleases.

Now he sways like hoove pudding in a tempest. To and fro, crashing into Leonor, who is getting closer to glassing him with the sloshing mug she's nabbed from The Tipsy Turtle. She drinks from it instead, the amber liquid reflecting off her eyes.

All the while, a lute is played without purpose.

"It pains me, it pains me

to ride away from this night

from wordplay to swordplay,

where I have no might.

If you'll ask me to stay here, I'll say that I might,

but Vere will get mad, and say I'm no knight.

He's looking right at me now,

in his booze-dribbled smock.

He's irrationally angry,

he's a bit of a-"

Vere interrupts, crooning. His worm-like finger trying to point straight enough to be threatening:

"You've been singing that same blasted song

since seven-o-clock!

Play one more sour note

and you'll be sock

Ed."

Cassius finds the guest verse uproarious, his head rolling like a pin across Mum's chiseled stomach. He gives Vere a knowing look, eyes twinkling, and flicks a pointedly sour note.

The lute is plucked from Cay's hands, and he jolts upright. "Vere," he says, trying to temper, but the man across from him is embued in temper. Sinew and knuckles tighten around his precious lute like a chicken by the neck. The pathetic little mewls of reasonable Cassius are drowned out by the cracking of cypress and the screaming of strings. The instrument drapes over Vere's knee. Outrage explodes throughout the car. "Vere, you alcoholic fecking bogtroll!" Cassius smarts. He does not scream, and his voice has no venom - just ire. Leo does shout, for she's been waiting for an opportunity too, and Mum stays calm, though his hand flashes to a scabbard still sitting in some drawer back at the castle. The woman they had all forgotten existed in their interactions, the driver, re-exerts her influence and brings everything to a halt. Hushed silence envelops the scene, though daggers still fly. Ears cringe at the plods which are her riding boots trudging around on the mud road. People huddle away from the door as it swings open.

Most noticeable about the driver is her wild eye. It's her left one, naturally, and it seems to hop in the chariot with them. Cassius imagines it looks disconcerting even when it's keeper isn't enraged. His imagination, though, is cut out by screeches. "Get out!" she yells, poking at them with a carrot she's taken from the feed. "Move yer chicanery to the road!"

Cay is quick to. Expenditure has always helped him with his anger, with his best lute - strung out, and the night is pleasant. The carrot is still thrust at him on his way out, and it stings more than he expected. Mum is careful to force it away from him as he follows. Although she insists to the driver that she had been perfectly pleasant the entire ride, she's still eager to join her company, and get away from Vere, who is the only one to confront their ronyon banisher. "Do you know who I - who... who you're trying to me kick out?" he sneers.

"Yee I do. Go 'ed back to your king and rouse him and tell em all about what knaves you lot's been just so he can come down on a dusty maid with a chariot." Any man the taking side of that can only bare his teeth and back down. For once on the night, Vere is not exceptional.

"I need a drink," he says as he rejoins the huddle of his fellow knights. They watch their ride to the castle scuttle away, and start to walk behind it.

Somewhere down the road, another cart passes. This one is mangy, and meant for expeditions rather than expediting. Leo attempts to wave it down, but the driver, this one a young man, has no intention of stopping. Smarting from rejection, and determined to once again prove himself, Vere walks out in front of the unit. It almost upends itself trying to avoid him and the blood he would surely let. When the dust which had been kicked up settles down, he is standing nose-to-nose with a horse.

"Woah, Herschel." The driver plaits his vest, taking time to measure his response. He smiles at Vere, "You're lucky we saw you when we did. Herschel would've done much more than just kiss you."

"I don't care about your fecking horse," he says, shoving it aside and facing up with the man. "My friends and I need a ride to the castle. If... if yous don't have room for them that really isn't a matter, but." The driver eggs his ride forward, edging away from the leech. For the first time, Cassius is able to see into the back of the cart, and has to blink in response to the two faces which peer back at him. "Ay, hey! I thought we were having a conversation here," Vere scrambles after them.

The driver sighs, looking over his shoulder at the wooden back of his barge as if there was help for him there. "My condolences sir, but we're not off to the castle, no. Just to the," he tries to look back again, "the pub, see?"

"Do you- You guys have no idea who I am!" Vere laughs. "You would drive me to Elusia if you did!"

The driver mumbles to admit that he doesn't and how he's dreadfully sorry about it, but in the hold, a girl sticks her head out of the window. "You're a lonely drunk, talking rubbish!" she says with great conviction. Either panic or planning leads the driver to spur ahead his horse and cast Vere aside.

The air they leave behind tastes of steel. "Look! Look where they are going, there are no pubs that way!" Vere hops up and down and points in any direction, beside himself in compensatory ire. "Those are no friends. I knew something was off about them, I knew they were... I knew it!"

Leonor snorts, "I bet you know where every tavern in the land is?"

For the first time, Vere is able to press his lips together and breathe through his nose "That's correct."

Mumford is the first to run after that mangy carriage, which takes everyone by surprise. As most people do in the presence of Mumford Hampton do, though, they follow.

When they arrive at portcullis of The Charred Castle, they are winded and unarmed. "They're likely making way for the King's quarters," Mum says again. But those are flights of stairs away, and Cassius can't even say 'flights of stairs' in this moment. He looks between the full but passing branches of the surrounding woods for any sight of their ride, as to cut them out at the source, but it has vanished. Trying to block out the gasps around him, he frowns, and thinks back on the night as far as he can remember, which isn't very. An idea comes to him. It won't stop the Elusians from doing as they wish inside, but he might be able to stop them getting away.

"You guys do what you can, I'm going to the kitchen. Trust me."

The kitchen is just a duck away from the great hall, and the castle is dead. Inside, there is a cellar in which roots and tubers sit in great big heaps. Two carrots should do it.

Back outside, the winds which weave about the auburn leaves carry the scent further than his tired legs ever could, but also almost overpower the whinnies when they finally come. Herschel is reproachful at first, but Cay is patient and courteous, and after the first bite of carrot goes down they treat each other as friends. He unties the animal and rides it back for Hessians. Together they go back and lay in wait in the caravan.

*

The dungeon rankles with the vocalizations of those with tongues truly free. One high-registered woman, labyrinths away from the skeletal chair he sits, decries Gavin as a murderer. Cassius takes note of it more so than many would, but only in his head. There are, indeed, notes in his lap. It's what he's meant to be doing on this endeavor, and why (along with the recommendation of his renowned friends, who are still at His Majesty's side) he was hired on. To tell their tale. Or the tale of how horrid Johnathan sent infidels for Adrigole's head. So far all he has are the accounts of prisoners looking for battle plans only. Cay can already hear the King rubbishing such reports.

But he has spoken to each of the insurgents, and that is all he has heard.

With the notes, on his lap, is a lute. One of higher quality than what Vere splintered in two, but also one he fancies less. He plays sour notes on it without any rhythm. They mingle with the wails of torment to create music. Nothing he enjoys listening to, though. One of the prisoners fancies it more. A quick glance up from the instrument alerts him of the motion, then he peers into her cell as Aurora's head starts to twist and bob. The movement is unlike the sloshing steps he sees in the taverns. Even in transition, it is smooth, and it tells a story with more depth than his lyrics ever do. He stops playing and leans in toward her. "You dance?" he asks.

"Only when there's music," she teases, leading his hands back to their playing positions with bored eyes - shocking, but muted, like lightning in the daytime. Cassius' calloused fingers do climb back upon the strings, but he does not play.

A tilted smile ghosts across him. It is not for her, or anything in the cells, but for a thought he's just had, almost a memory. He composes himself, and brings his attention back to Aurora. "Do you ever wonder what would happen if we met each other on a plain which a river would run through. And if there was a bridge there made only from slats of cedar, and that I was on one side, and you the other, and we had with us the armies we are members of. What if, then and there, I were to play a song, and you were to dance to it?"

Through iron bars, her face lights up; not with cheer, but with wit. "Oh, romantic bard, I think we'd both have our throats slit." 

Vere Lebriole was quite certain that he'd been the only one to kneel and pray at his bedside before sleeping.

There he was, knees scuffing the rough stone floors of the barracks, head bowed to his fingertips, fingertips bowed to the stiff (and frankly, quite smelly) mattress that made up his sleeping arrangements. The room itself was nothing private, but its populace was thinner than it'd been in hours now that some of the men and women were out at the nearby tavern to survey their drinks and an evening intercourse partner. The thinness was why he'd knelt. And while Vere had no doubts that he himself could manage finding a bedmate for the night, he simply didn't want to. He preferred the quiet to the noise, and that was strange to him, because many years ago, he'd preferred the noise to the quiet, and was often the sort to initiate the noise himself.

"Amen," he rasped. Then he rose on two fine legs and crawled into bed. There wasn't anything else to do but sleep and wait.

His body sighed as it stretched out along the cot, head relaxing as it lay on the thin pillow. He became mindful of a small bump underneath it, prodding his head, and he swept his arm under the material to push the little medicine vial aside. My life in a bottle. Wonderful. With his other hand, he ran old fingers across the edge of the mattress until they came upon a slit; thus, he fingered it, and something cold and sharp touched him. And the end of someone else's life by a knife. Just in case. Lovely. He retracted his hand and curled up into a ball he knew he'd regret curling into in the morning. Everything - meaning few things - was in place, and he could sleep.

He tried. He really did. But some young part of Vere seemed to still be stuck in him, and in that moment, with the silence ringing obnoxiously in his ears and his eyes to a ceiling illuminated only by dim torchlight, he thought he'd've preferred noise to the quiet.

The quiet gave him little distraction and more room to think of things he'd rather keep buried. As he saw the flicker of firelight on the wooden beams above, he thought of what it must've been like to see the flames chow through his first home. He thought of what the heat must've felt like when he was a boy, sitting by the hearth - because things are always different in the way-back. He thought of what his wife must've thought when the same heat came for her, and how different that heat must've been to the heat he'd felt with her after they'd knelt at the same bedside and crawled in together. He thought of the olive tone of her skin cradled against a much smaller, shrunken, shrivelled version of her, and the dark mud color of her hair brushing over the bundle.

He thought of a great many things in the span of half an hour, none of which would bring him anything but inconvenience. Fingers pinched palms and palms tightened around fabric and fabric suffocated; he sat up, rubbed the creases in his forehead, and grunted as if to say to himself, "It's no good thinking about the dead and the gone, Lebriole. Think about them too much and you'll think about them constantly. Now, what good'll it do you if you think of them out on the battlefield? You will drain all the fight from your body with those thoughts. Now shut your mind up and think of better days."

And so he did. Then came the days of pressing a finger to his own lips to signal to the others not to talk of his ventures. Then came the days of muscled legs and features as young and sharp as his sword; he would turn and the armor upon him would glisten, both with light and sweat, as he ran, swinging, huffing for victory and huffing for life for the two were synonymous at some point. These remembrances gave him adrenaline, and he couldn't possibly sit any longer than he already was, so he stood and began to walk down the middle of all the rows of beds, mostly empty, sometimes full.

I was brilliance, he thought, straightening his back.

I was successful, he thought, lifting his chin.

I was bold, he thought, smiling softly to himself.

Eventually, he found himself at the door separating him from the brisk outdoors; he realized this only because another man pressed a hand to his chest and said, "Nobody's s'posed to be out while one mission's underway. State your business, please."

Vere felt the smile begin to falter, but saved it as best he could with an excuse - these barracks were killing him slowly anyhow. "Well." He stiffened, hands clasped behind his back. "My bowels are in great need of expelling their contents, young man. I should like to spare my fellow soldiers," he panned his arm to the few within, "from my own wretched and involuntary needs."

The guard raised a single brow, and Vere sighed. "I must relieve myself, I have to shit and would rather not do it in a bucket, may I go?"

The guard, seemingly too tired beforehand, sheepishly ducked his head and passed away from the door, gesturing for his leave. "By all means. No rush."

The smile having returned, Vere waltzed out into the night air, immediately struck by how dark it'd gotten and the chill of it. Only a faint blue lit the way, but the blue wouldn't stretch towards the destination he'd claimed; the forest canopy blocked out almost all the light, and only little flickering lightning bugs offered any solace to the dark.

He figured he ought to go in rather deep. And it wasn't like he'd lied, either. Now or never, that was the motto.

However, he only felt like he'd walked too far when he'd stopped, and while he could still see the flickering torches perched by the barracks, he felt very removed from all that was happening, would happen. All the happenings.

It was noisy with life but quiet with lifelessness, and this balance was one he enjoyed. It was like the war didn't exist. He wanted to keep this for a few minutes.

Turning, Vere picked out a particularly nice bush, and went to it. But what he at first mistook as the shuffling of his own feet was something much more distant, but much more close all the same. They were still footsteps, nonetheless, but footsteps that fell clumsily. Footsteps that did not know the land and had a penchant for knocking into unanticipated nooks and roots. Vere immediately straightened himself back out again and looked out into the forest, seeing nothing but the few millimeters spanning out from a firefly here and there.

He pursed his lips, pressed a hand above his brows to try and tighten his vision. It didn't work. "Curious," he muttered.

He meant to turn and head back to the barracks, but in shifting just the slightest of degrees, he came to find two faces, faint and shadowed, but there only a few trees from him. They saw him, too, and saw that he saw them; when he beckoned them forward - which he did only because they looked to be children - they knew they had no choice but to approach, and so they did. They seemed uncertain in how to hold themselves, and shifted frequently. One second, the boy's shoulder was rigid, and the next it was drooping, but a forceful, obvious droop. Something isn't right here. Then again, children are oddities altogether.

They came within a few feet of him, and while the girl very much wanted to be shoulder to shoulder with her counterpart, the boy stepped forward, keeping her at his back. His incredibly stereotypical Adrigolian clothes rustled in a breeze that swept by. "Hello," he said, smooth.

Vere crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet firmly in the dirt. "Greetings. Where do you come from and where do you go?" He paused, leaned his shoulders forward. "Hm?"

"We-" the girl began.

"Romantic endeavor," the boy cut in quickly, inconspicuously scratching his hip. "Don't tell our parents, if you happen to know them."

Vere's eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and he could see the boy a little better now; his messy hair was dark, and his face was sculpted, and there was something about the features that made him think, but he couldn't quite place them anywhere specific. Offense. Go on the offensive. "Well, I can't say I do know them, nor do I know you. Where do you come from and where do you go?" And then, as a joke: "If I find that you're two Elusian lovers, you might regret eloping so soon." He began to chuckle, but-

-but the boy drew a blade from his belt and pointed it directly at Vere. Now he saw; now he couldn't mistake the crossbow slung across the boy's shoulder and the sword in the girl's belt. And for a moment, he started, taking a few steps back and gasping a firefly into his mouth. But the boy's hand shook, and the blade was not steady. "Say nothing of us and we'll spare you."

Vere sighed the firefly back out, and the thing spasmed between the three. "I'm afraid I can't simply 'say nothing.' See, that's how I get executed. Treason is an easy enough charge to make so long as you've got a good enough story. Enemies are even easier to get rid of, and if the context of this entire encounter helps at all, you are, by definition, the enemy, aren't you?" Sweat. Shiver. Slick. They're just kids. "I am encouraged by my superiors to kill you both."

A metallic shriek rang into the air as the girl pulled forth a blade of her own and shoved the boy out of the way, taking charge. Her hand did not shake as she pressed it to the edge of Vere's throat (but his did) and her voice did not falter when she spoke. "You will do no such thing!"

"Gordon," the boy started.

"O'Hannigain," the girl said, never taking her eyes off Vere.

"Lebriole," Vere said. Both partners glared at him and he held his hands up in surrender, chuckling. Perhaps his laugh was too high-pitched. Perhaps it lasted a little too long. But it didn't matter, because with metal millimeters away from his arteries he could easily envision himself handsome, charismatic, strong, and the smile on his face felt better than it looked.

Things moved quickly in his brain. He swivelled his head around "Gordon" as best as he could and widened his eyes at nothingness. The boy caught onto this, and glanced back with his grey eyes, whispering her name and making her consider turning away. This half-second of contemplation was all he needed, and he kicked her legs out from under her. She fell with a shriek, blade caught tight in her grip and flinging out. Pain sprung up along Vere's collarbone and he lunged backwards, away from the both of them. "Bloody hell!"

With one hand he clasped pressure against the slice, and with the other he instinctively shoved two fingers between his lips and blew once, twice, thrice, whistling the shrill warning that all knights of Adrigole knew. It was second nature to do so.

Yanking the saliva-covered fingers from his mouth, he looked at the two across from him. "You'd best start running, because in ten seconds they'll be here." He held a narrowed gaze with the boy. "They don't take kindly to strangers in the woods."

The two took off in an instant, and sure enough, ten seconds tops, three other knights were out there with him.

It was noisy, but Vere somehow found quiet in thinking of what about the boy struck him familiar.

Andrea stood with a high, stone wall pressing against her back, her chin tilted toward her chest. The alcove was small and her breath shallow. Each rise of her chest moved her fingers with it and made the job of dragging a brush across them difficult. It didn't matter if the coat was uneven for the sake of slashing them across another's throat, but it mattered to her. The one aspect of her appearance she did not compromise on was her nails. Dark blue dribbled down the side of the bottle as she worked, a few drops splattering onto the cobblestone when her eyes were turned. Although, even if the girl had been staring directly at it, she might not have seen it with her mind elsewhere.

The conversation she had with Garner two nights ago held her captive. It had twisted her gut into knots and brought an ever-present taste of bitterness to her tongue. It would have been easy, of course, to blame it on something else. The fact that he had been a moaning, dripping mess an hour before was one. Another was the undeniable fact the mage couldn't handle more than half a pint of ale without tripping over himself, and she had coaxed him through one and a half, at least. Maybe it's all in my head. Still, he had seemed genuine and gravely concerned. But who did that leave to not trust?

No one stood out as the type. Cassius? A fool through and through, who Andrea would be surprised to learn knew how to wield anything aside from a lyre. Someone like Vere, who drank so much he puked on men's shoes some days and acted like he was meant to wear a crown others, was as interesting to Andrea as her father's cold clam chowder. She could sum him up with the word "arrogant," throw in a dash of regret and a pinch of petulance, and that alone would be the knight. Sancta, aside from harboring a snake that tended to be a constant interruption during dinner, was as straightforward as they came, and Meric, well—

"What are you doing?" A hushed voice broke Andrea's concentration. Her eyes darted up briefly to find Shahin staring down at her with his usual irate expression.

"I'm fighting an army of talking fish," she answered flatly, smoothing out the latest coat of nail polish onto her pinkie. A little missed and got onto her skin, and she spent a few seconds wiping it off on her black sleeve before looking to find her fellow knight continuing to glare at her. An exasperated sigh brushed her lips. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Andrea tried again, with the sarcasm clearer in her voice.

Shahin's lips twisted. "Avoiding watching the guard's post, if I were to guess."

This caught Andrea's attention, and she scowled. Corking shut her navy bottle, she dropped the object back in a free pocket. It wasn't like lookout duty was even hard. For the man's benefit, however, she made a grand show of slowly tiptoeing out of the alcove and peering around the corner. As she suspected, the two guards that had been placed before his door for the past half hour remained stationary.

"Dum and Dee haven't moved," she confirmed, twisting back to hide behind the stone wall as a sneeze came from the pair. Being the only sound she'd heard from them thus far, it lent an uncomfortable tightness to her muscles. Everything else was silent, including Shahin's breath, which she didn't think was possible. Didn't he need to breathe? Contemplating the idea of sticking her hand under his nose to check, Andrea risked a glance after the corner of her eye. He wasn't watching. Gradually, she raised her hand up to the proper height—about an inch or so above her head—and then slid it over.

He caught her wrist and twisted it back, placing her hand in a semi-awkward wrist lock. A small tug released pain down the center of her forearm, and the girl ceased struggling. "What were you trying to do?"

She met the burning gaze with a shrug. "I thought you might have died."

"From standing in a hallway?" he asked incredulously.

The stomp of feet saved her from responding. It came from around the corner, giving them little warning when the guards' shadows flickered past and over the knights' tight alcove. Her eyes followed them go, stepping in time with each other despite the height difference of half a foot. One of them also looked to hold a limp, but that was of little importance. Soon they'd gone and disappeared from view. That hall would lead back out of the castle, down to some shoddy barracks, and the two would be gone long before they heard any screams. Not that there would be any screams, not if they were careful and Meric and Solaria held up their posts.

A grin split the girl's face. Her jaw clenched down with the squeak of bone on bone, but she was too excited to care. Now, they could finally move. "Come on, One-Eye," Andrea called the words over her shoulder already tiptoeing down the hall and around the corner. The previous conversation was forgotten. All that mattered was the excitement stirring in her gut, and the increased weight of her dagger slung beside her hip.

It wasn't hard to slip into the restricted section of the castle in between the guards' shifts. One wooden door, which may have been locked before Andrea took a skeleton key to it, and a large set of stone steps. Those were taken two at a time by the girl, leaving her huffing and puffing as her companion reappeared beside her a few seconds later without losing his stride. From there it was two dark hallways forward, a turn to the right and another door. This one was larger, but it wasn't locked.

Andrea risked a glance back, hand resting on the cool metal handle. She didn't ask anything but raised her eyebrow. Go in or no? A swift nod of approval came from Shahin. It had been decided that he would be guarding the door, in case of some fantastical, unseen circumstance, and so he made no move to follow as she creaked open the double door and squeaked through the crack in the middle.

They shut with a soft thump, leaving her at the bottom of a second stairwell. This one the stones were well polished and her footsteps soft. A slower pace was taken as she crept up. Moonlight fell in patches, spilling onto the unscuffed stone and soft fabric shoes she wore. It came from a few small windows, high enough to let in light but not dangerous, life-threatening arrows—not at head height, anyhow. Also too small to let in a human, which was something they had briefly considered when formatting the plan. Andrea had no problem with heights, but being shrunken down before climbing? She'd rather eat pickled leviathan.

Upon reaching the top of the mount, Andrea arrived in a bed chamber. The lights were dim, and the last flickering candle that sat on the end table was breathing its last. A sputter of light came as she moved closer. It's own melted wax was trying to drown the flame. What caught her eye, however, was the face the light cast upon. Smooth skin, closed but fluttering eyelids, and a sharp jaw. Her smile inched wider as a dagger was produced from its sheath. The glow flashed across it and made the clean edge gleam beneath it. Close enough to breathe in the scent of fresh linens and watch the rise and fall of the prince's chest, she raised the dagger. Its sharp edge trailed along his cheek. Without thought, a harder press of her wrist let the weapon make its mark. Dark red pooled in the narrow cut and slid down a shifting cheek. The sharp edge replaced itself over his heart and a shift motion was made.

Her arm caught. It was yanked back, throwing her across the room and her own unbalanced weight sent Andrea crashing to the floor. Eyes refocused, catching sight of a tall blonde wearing nothing but boxers. His chest heaved with effort, a flower clutched within a tight fist, marred. It was no guess he ran all the way up the stairs, and from the blood dripping down from a large cut below his nipple, it was clear he'd already ran into someone else below. His bare foot collided with her wrist, shooting stiff pain through it and sending her dagger skittering across the chamber and beneath the prince's dresser. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He took another kick at her, and Andrea rolled away. Her feet got beneath her, and the girl pushed to a low crouch, waiting. When he stepped nearer, her claws were the first thing to reach him. A large scrape of nails across his skin. She watched, satisfied, as a howl of pain broke his pink lips, and his hand rushed to cradle his wounded jaw. The tips of her nails turned black with the infection of blood and the cuts raked over his face began to boil and sizzle, dropping him to his knees.

Turning before he could recover the strength to stand, Andrea fled down the stairs. She didn't have anything large enough to drive through the prince's heart, and the appearance of one person meant more were on the way.

Halfway down the steps, she crashed into Shahin's chest. A spray of blood coated the cloth over his stomach but clearly wasn't his. A scowl was etched on his face as he looked her over. "Did you do it?"

Her head shook, a disgusted tone slipping from her lips. "I needed more time. I thought I was supposed to have a lookout."

His eyes darkened and body turned away from her, not bothering to answer as he headed back down at an accelerated rate and gave her little choice but to trail behind. "We're out of time."

 From the moment Meric woke that morning, the world felt wrong.

She barely noticed at first. Having crossed into Elusia a few days prior, the world was already wrong; in the new landscape, Meric had found herself permanently on edge, casting glances into the forests and villages her squadron passed as if some spy would be peering back. Today was uniquely nerve-wracking, though; today would see the knights' mission complete, and failure here on foreign ground meant certain death. That morning, Meric's mind was immediately flooded with the painstaking plans her companions had review the night before, the complex network of strategy they would need to navigate as they entered Lemaria. Before long, her hands were also occupied by the morning routine she'd adopted on the road—rolling her sleeping mat, sealing her used garments inside the travel pack, and wandering to the nearest river to bathe—and she was left no room to consider what might have gone wrong overnight.

If she'd taken a moment to examine herself, she might have realized the problem sooner. She might have noticed, for example, the prickling sensation that had appeared in the back of her mind, one that pinched when she thought she'd misplaced her clothes or laughed at Solaria's jokes over breakfast. She might have observed that her breathing came a bit easier, in spite of the paranoia that had hung over her all week; she might have wondered at the missing weight in her chest and the comparable heaviness in her temples. She might have remembered why she was accustomed to weight in her chest and not her head. Then she might have panicked, and the problem would have revealed itself to her, and every facet of the knights' immaculate plan would have remained intact.

But Meric was too focused, and, in that sense, she was distracted.

As the knights hid their packs under rocks and bushes and prepared to walk the half-mile into Lemaria, Meric's eyes grazed the distant embankments of the capital city. Lemaria was old, its stony walls reinforced and modified over time; according to Solaria, the towers had been bolstered significantly since the settlement was first established. Even now, Meric could make out the fat pillars that jutted from curving rock. Guards would dot that tower, with cannons peeking through the window-slits and trebuchets tucked out of sight. Only Meric's illusionary magic, basic as it was, could render them inconspicuous enough to slip through those walls unnoticed. Though the Lemarian guard was formidable, this outer shell of the city was vastly more so; once Meric and her three comrades had entered the city, their task would be more than halfway finished.

They started toward Lemaria on foot, swords and daggers strapped to their backs and eyes open for guardsmen. Usually Meric rode alongside Solaria on her piebald mare, but the horses had been abandoned a day prior—even the peasants' steeds they'd brought to deter suspicion could not join them here, where mounted travelers would be watched. Their walking route through the forest would be decent cover until they emerged onto the footpath, though knowing that fact did not much console Meric. For the sake of her own comfort, she would rather have ridden the patchy mare into town, tangling her hands in its coarse mane and feeling its warmth beneath her. As it was, Meric felt starkly alone; for the first time since she'd woken up, she realized that something was missing, something whose disappearance she felt. But she could only be sensing the horse's absence. Steeling herself, she continued on her way and did not dwell on discomfort.

Solaria was not with Meric, either. She was up ahead, with Andrea, laughing about the prince in that low, warm voice and snapping branches under her feet. Perhaps Solaria might have walked with Meric as she usually did, if Meric had been better company at breakfast. The stiffness hadn't been Meric's fault—she always felt this way, when she knew she would need magic for something important—but Solaria had completed countless missions with the Adrigolian knights, and Meric had completed few, and the relative tension she exuded made for poor companionship. Meric would handle days like these better, once she'd gotten through this one successfully.

"He has to be at least twenty, though," Andrea was insisting up ahead. Golden light filtered through the trees onto her face, illuminating the blonder strands in her loose ponytail. "He couldn't have seized power if he weren't."

"Not necessarily," said Solaria, swatting an errant branch out of the way. "He only needed to be charismatic, enough so the knights would pledge fealty to him. I've met plenty of charismatic teenagers."

"I don't believe he's a child. I don't!"

"Well, if he's not a child," Solaria said with finality, "he certainly behaves like one." Then the knights were leaving the dense-growing forest for the well-worn path running through it, and neither could say another word. As they stepped onto the dusty path—mercifully empty this early in the morning—Meric was glad for the silence. Soon enough, Solaria and Andrea would learn whatever they wished about Prince Johnathan and his charisma (or lack of it); perhaps their focus was better spent on the mission, and Meric's attention was better fixed on her own role.

Speculation was tempting, though—Meric had only learned the night before that the prince played a key part in this mission, a revelation that she had not quite processed. When the mission itself had been announced a few weeks before, the only detail known to the entire knight assembly was that their group of four would infiltrate Elusia. Even individual members of the group received mere pieces of the mission, only enough to complete their role effectively. Meric assumed that her role in the mission was minor, since Sir Garner had told her little during her briefing. The foursome would target a high-ranking official within Lemarian walls, he had said; Meric's job once they had arrived was to obtain safe passage through those walls, using her cloaking abilities to disguise the group as peasants, weapons and all. Sir Garner had remained silent on the official's identity, though Andrea had let a few details slip during the journey. Only yesterday had Meric pieced together the entire picture—while Meric maintained an innocuous disguise over her three comrades, following the group at a safe distance, they would sneak into a royal outbuilding and in some way harm Prince Johnathan.

Perhaps this was why Sir Garner had kept the identity a secret. Now the importance of the mission was all Meric could think about, and her confidence in her magical control was wavering, and something was still very wrong.

The time for Meric to act arrived quickly and without warning. She had assumed the forest road was longer than it actually was, but, after rounding a tight corner, Meric could clearly see the designated junction between their shaded path and the massive farmers' path, which led directly into town. There the knights would need to emerge from the forest, which had been relatively unpopulated, into the undulating procession of travelers that wove tirelessly from over the horizon; there they would need a disguise.

Squinting into the harsh sunlight, Meric could make out moving bodies behind the tree line. The rolling and squeaking of carts and the braying of mules drifted down the quiet road, and Meric fought a shudder. When Solaria nodded and Shahin glanced at Meric with interest, she knew— the time had arrived for her to work magic.

Here was how the magic usually worked: Meric let the world around her fade, her eyes losing focus so that her keen inner sense could receive all her attention. She would then feel the weight in her chest, a weight she had cultivated herself. The weight was a sealed iron door, a dam ten miles high, and it was a friend to her. When she needed the magic, she poked little holes in the weight, straining to keep the entire apparatus still and calm; she would clench her fists and bite her tongue and let a little magic pour through, but nothing else. The weight made sure that the rest was safe. The weight was her friend.

But here was how the magic worked now: it didn't.

The first problem was that the weight wasn't there. She noticed it immediately, now that she was looking; the sensation of absence, followed by overwhelming fear, paralyzed every muscle in her body. If the weight wasn't there, the magic was free. When she'd been a girl, free magic had sounded beautiful to Meric, but she'd learned to appreciate the beauty in safety. Now that the magic was unrestrained, there was nothing stopping that beautiful force from spilling out of her and into the well-trodden earth, dredging up horrors she'd worked fifteen years to forget.

That was the interesting part, though, once she took a moment to stare at the ground—the magic wasn't working.

Her head pinched. Something niggled at her from the back of her brain, the same tension she had mistaken for anxiety. She was anxious, of course, but this was different; this was a weight all its own, a weight she exerted no energy to maintain. But regardless of origin, Meric knew a magical block when she felt one.

"Someone sealed my magic," said Meric, the shock pushing the words out of her. Then the indignation sank in, and she spoke again, more slowly: "Someone sealed my magic."

Her eyes lifted from the dusty earth beneath her to the horrified gazes of Solaria and Andrea. They and Shahin stood on the path just where Meric remembered them, as un-disguised as she'd known they would be. She stared at them now, unaltered by magic even though she had resolved to alter them. The sight of the three of them, so baffled and disappointed and frustrated, called the ruined plan to Meric's attention, the plan they would not be able to complete; yet all she had room for was indignation. Her chest was free now, as undesirable as that might be, and it burned with the sensation of someone else's touch. Someone had tampered with her own painstaking work; someone had turned the most private part of herself against her. Meric had never felt more violated and more infuriated.

Then the forest descended into chaos.

The knights leapt from the treetops in what seemed like an onslaught. Shouts erupted from the Adrigolian knights, but the Elusian knights were silent and swift, crossing the meager space between groups in a blur of motion. Suddenly they were slashing with shining swords at Meric's companions, who scrabbled for their weapons as they jumped out of the way. Meric herself was so transfixed by her own rage that she did not move, at least until the dagger of a colorfully-clad knight nearly pierced her abdomen. Then she was running and hollering, "Follow me!" She barely knew her own movements, only the rush of adrenaline and the ache in her head and the hole in her chest.

King Gavin had promised Meric that magic was enough for the knighthood. Where was she now? Where were her companions, without a properly-trained knight? A part of her was wounded by her own inadequacy, but the vast majority of her knew the truth—she could have served the knighthood well, had her magic been with her. The Elusian knights had robbed her of that chance, and they had robbed her of her gift.

As Meric continued deeper into the forest, praying that her comrades were behind her, the world continued to feel wrong. The block would fade over time, she knew; the magic would be hers again, perhaps within the day.

But until Meric had located the person who had done this to her, and until they knew her fury, the world would never feel right again.

How would I describe the morning sun? In its brightness, perhaps? In its climb as it strides towards a zenith, where it'll shine brighter than anything our minds could ever fathom? In its potential, maybe; in the way it brings the promise of a new day, here now but not yet developed. I should speak of it in the life it brings, of the crops that rise to greet it or the people now bustling around under its watchful eye. For the sun is an observer, whatever else it may be. It watches its children with a warm smile, looking on as they go about their lives. They don't pay attention to it, but it knows they are thankful nonetheless; after all, they could never live without it.

Solaria Meridan is far from the sun now, blocked behind walls of brick and stone, hidden in the shadows of Elusia's palace. There's no telling how long she's been there – it's likely the sun has set by now, but it might soon be on the rise as well; for it always comes back. She's beginning to get antsy, eager for something to happen. Anything. Her arms tingle, her fingertips twitch, begging to get their hands on a weapon and jump to action. She doesn't even care that the only blade she has is a sword, though she hates them. They're so heavy, so clunky, so formal; but they are the blade of a knight, and for now she must play the part. Already, she longs for home, for its freedom. She craves to be alone amidst the trees, throwing knives in every direction she can, feeling them twirl out of her hands. But she craves the fight more. Craves justice more.

"We'll have to thank our source for this passage," says Shahin, and though nobody disagrees, Solaria can feel a certain discomfort nonetheless. It's not hard to guess why: they rely on a mole in Elusia's court, one that King Gavin trusts but that she doesn't know. There could be a trap at the end of the tunnel, or they could stumble upon the False Prince's bedchambers. He should be asleep at this time of night. Helpless. The thought brings some discomfort with it – killing someone who can't defend themselves is murder, after all, but this murder is easily justified. Andrea's armour gleams ahead, a grey spark lighting the darkness of the catacombs. Solaria tries to push back the smell of flesh beneath her, but a hint of it remains. An aftertaste. She can even feel it on the tip of her tongue, but a quick gulp flushes it out. Her mouth feels dry, but her canteen is still half-full and even a sip from it doesn't do any good. It's the humidity, she knows. Any underground passage is bound to be unbearably moist. But she's a knight, and so she bears it.

"Something about this place is wrong," whispers Meric. "The magic currents feel jammed. I'm getting some hints through, but..."

"But not enough to rely on?" finishes Solaria.

"Exactly."

"Don't worry. I'd never rely on magic anyway. It's not something I can control."

"Sensible," approves Shahin. This is the most the group has talked since arriving to the entrance of the passage hours ago, crawling through a hole in the ground dismissed beneath layers upon layers of camouflage. It was meant as some escape route centuries ago, but has since been forgotten. Even nature doesn't quite remember it, growing across it so that they had to chop at stems and wild grasses growing across the tunnel.

Andrea chatters to herself ahead. Solaria might complain – would complain, normally; she works in silence, and is thankful that the rest of the group seems to agree – but a fear stops her. There is no other sound in the distance, no rustling rivers or swaying leaves like at home. It's as though this place doesn't just contain people long dead; rather it feels as though the passage itselfhas died – as though it is bound to kill anyone who dares walk its midst. So Solaria doesn't complain about Andrea. Annoying as it is, it's nice to have some sort of white noise. The silence might drive her mad otherwise, and she has no intention of finding out if it would.

"There!" shouts Andrea, pointing in the distance. "A staircase!"

Sure enough, if she squints, Solaria can see a few steps leading up into a lighter darkness. The world around them goes grayer with each stair climbed, lighter with each step taken, until they arrive at the top what feels like moment hours and see hints of light creeping from a crack beneath them. Andrea pushes forwards, cracking open the door and revealing a hallway so ornate it'd be right at home in Adrigole's palace. With the exception of the flowers lining the wall – she doesn't recognize them; they're but decorative, and she's always had an eye for the more practical plants in the world – everything looks as she would've expected. Grey walls, made of some polished stone; torches spread out to light the palace. According to the plan they saw, the False Prince's chambers should be nearby, just a turn to the right at the hall. Everything hangs still, an eerie sort of silence waiting to break.

"Meric, is the magic feeling any better?" asks Solaria.

"A little. It's still blurry, but at least I feel it."

"Perfect. Stay here and try to sense anyone coming our way. Andrea, can you stay with her and make some kind of loud noise to warn us if someone is coming?"

Andrea frowns. "Why don't I get to fight?"

"We need a loud noise."

A chuckle escapes from between Shahin's lips, and soon he and Solaria are heading down the hall, towards the prince. She spots a grim determination on his face, the kind that makes it clear she'd rather not know any more about it than necessary. They move in silence, neither one needing to speak. They have a goal; they will achieve it.

Two knights stand guard when the Adrigolian invaders turn the corner. Solaria curses – she expects this, of course. The False would've had to be stupid not to keep a few guards nearby, or he'd have to be much less selfish than the rumours claim him to be. Swords are unsheathed, soldiers prepared, and before long things look like a standoff. Two on two – a fair fight.

But any fight is about much more than numbers. It's about skill and luck, and both seem to be on Adrigole's side tonight. The dark-haired boy whose sword was clashing against Solaria's mere moments ago leaps to block a swing from Shahin's sword, and she sees an opening. Without missing a beat, Solaria slips away from the fight and slams into the door, stumbling as they swing beneath her wait a little too easily. She starts to fall to the floor, eyes widening and heart speeding up, then catches her balance, and looks up towards the False Prince

And freezes.

Prince Johnathan of Elusia is naked before her, and another man stands in front of his bed, looking frustrated and equally nude. This doesn't fluster Solaria; she's more than comfortable with nudity, with the human body, but that's precisely what makes her freeze – what makes her doubt. The human body.

It's an odd thought to have – she's always known the False Prince to a person, after all, but he's also gained a sort of mythical status through all the stories she's heard about him. The moment is one of utmost vulnerability, where the prince stands exposed and vulnerable to the fullest extent of the word, and she can't help but see a certain innocence in him. It's foolish, sure. Reckless, too. But, most of all, it's human – and Solaria Meridan is human too. So she freezes. And, in the flash of a moment, she feels a set of arms wrap up behind her.

Solaria struggles, of course: she thrashes, bucks, kicks, swings her body as roughly as she can – but nothing. Her vision starts to blur as she throws her focus into her limbs, desperate to swing off the weight, but it doubles and she buckles and from there it's over. She feels her mind go numb, feels herself fade out, fully awake but disassociated from her body, feels her efforts fades away.

Finally, she hears the clicking of handcuffs, and then it fully sinks in: defeat.

A dart whizzes through the air with a piercing whistle before thunking violently into the wood around the target, deep and firm, but not hitting its mark in the slightest. The boy who threw it - poor, untalented jester-like child - merely sighs and laughs, sweeping a hand through his dark hair to accentuate stress that likely isn't there. "Well, darn, there goes another one."

Yes, yes. There another one goes. Sancta looks back to the counter she sits behind, looks back to her work, as uninterested in this lifeless game of darts as the rug the two other knights stand on. She's got more important things to focus on, and the only reason she does it around these two is because she's been given only this space to set up her small, fleeting business here in the heart of the kingdom of Adrigole. Not much, but certainly something to boast about in her real shop, where all the real customers come. It'll be splendid, really. A quaint little place she'll talk up later on. She grabs hold of the nearest bottle and pours a sizzling vial into it. Ah, yes, I love the smell of acid in the evening. Always soothes me to sleep.

Her "candle-sniffing" is interrupted when the other, much larger, much more muscular knight lumbers over and yanks Cassius's dart out of the wall. Sancta briefly flicks her gaze up to Calder, but only because his footsteps are too heavy. His general presence is like a slur and she doubts he's even drunk. It's irritating.

Still, he chuckles in that slow, heavy way he usually does, and positions himself right where Cassius was, shoving him aside with a gentle nudge. "We've been playin' all night and you haven't hit the damn thing once. I'd say this really isn't your thing, but I like winning so many times in a row." Calder squints, aims, and flings the dart gracefully out of fingers. It plunks sharply into the center of the target, and he grins with all his teeth, cheeks reddening with satisfaction. "You owe me a great deal of money now, Cas."

"Well," Cassius says absentmindedly, too busy fiddling with the patchwork of his clothes, "the war can always solve that problem for me, if I'm lucky." It should be an insult, but Sancta can't ever take the man seriously, and she suspects nobody else can, either. She snorts quietly from her little personal space, and both knights look back at her, both grinning.

Calder is the one to speak. "Say, why don't you put all that mumbo jumbo away and come play a game with us? It'll freshen it up a bit. And maybe it'll give Cassius time to learn how to play."

"No thank you," Sancta says without looking up, categorizing and arranging the various bottles and vials in her area by ingredients. "I'm a very busy businesswoman, as you can see, and I must get the appearance of this perfect. It's a trick of marketing, you know. Be a dear and hand me the candle there?"

Calder's smile drops and his brow raises; he steps forward to pick up the wide candle, but Sancta's hand falls upon the back of his, striking it with a loud thwack. "What? You told me to get it!"

"No," Sancta says through gritted teeth (though she's not entirely conscious that her mouth is doing this). "I told Savarna to get it. Not you. Return to your repetitive game and leave me to this."

Cassius watches with interest as a large snake slithers across the table, nudging a candle forward inch by inch with its grey head until it rests against Sancta's palm; she strokes the head with the tip of her finger and smiles down warmly at it. Calder only sighs. "Why are you starting shop here, anyhow? We'll be on the frontlines soon. Will you be keeping track of your investments while taking someone's head off, madame?"

"Yes," Sancta says simply. She can say more, but she doesn't enjoy this conversation with Calder, or any sort of conversation with him, really. What does he know about business? What does he know about success in more than one field? In any case, decapitating someone can very well be an investment, if she plays her cards correctly. She plans to begin by demonstration - use her own products to bring swift results in regards to the war, and she'll have clients lining up from corner to corner, port to castle. Other knights will get discounts, of course, and she's considered developing a family discount, too. (Spouses of knights often have some bitterness in them that might draw them to her counter, and boys rarely have very cordial feelings towards their fathers. And if they're in arranged marriages? Well, just come to the Sacred Mother, and she'll solve that unhappy marriage in a matter of days!)

Calder scoffs as if he can't believe any of this, and Cassius, behind him, smirks. Sancta decides that she appreciates the lanky one in the background and tolerates him, but she gestures for Savarna to scare Calder off, and soon the room is quieted aside from the careful tinkle of her glasses bumping into one another. It's looking great, really, and she surveys her handiwork with satisfaction. The incense really adds to the general atmosphere. Keeps the bad spirits away.

Suddenly, the door to the left opens, and the two girls who enter the building close the door harshly behind them to keep out the wind and rain. Even the hoods they flick off their heads hadn't seemed to keep the moisture out, and their hair - blonde and black, straight and wild, respectively - drips onto the floorboards. They glance at one another, the girls, and then catch sight of Sancta at her counter, and step forward anxiously.

Sancta's brain flutters to the tune of her rapid heart, because things have already started picking up, word has already gone around, and she expects that business will be booming soon. As her first customers in Adrigole's finest region, she decides they deserve the greatest hospitality, and she even curtsies to the both of them from where she stands before looking up, smiling wide, and saying, "Hello, darlings. What can I do for you today?"

The two look to one another again, as if needing to confirm their mental shopping list, and then look back to Sancta. It's a little strange, she must admit, but even moreso is the request. "We were looking for shelter," the wild-looking one says, an accent trickling off her tongue, "and we would've gone elsewhere, but it's storming. We were hoping the king might have some free quarters to offer." She tugs her cloak tighter around her shoulders, trying to shrink herself while her shoulders are wide.

Sancta's smile has fallen away by now, replaced with her most common expression of nothingness. Her brows are knit, and, if she is to be truly honest with herself, insulted. "Well," she starts quickly, "that's not really my say. Thank you and good night."

Sancta moves away from the counter, but one of the girl's snatches up her wrist. Sancta sends a look her way, one that says without words that she ought to remove her hand before she cuts it off for her. The girl does not look threatened. This in and of itself is enough to bring threat to Sancta, though. She casts a brief glance at Savarna, and the thing slithers out of sight, just to be safe.

Sancta then swallows. "I suggest you release me. I have no say in what the king allows, and neither do the two men behind you. We can give you no lodging here. Frankly, I'm not even certain how you got up here, given that the rain runs downhill and climbing up the slope in mud is a dangerous feat."

Neither woman replies, but the wilder one nudges the softer one as if to signal their exit. The pale one does release Sancta, but not a moment later does she shriek out in pain and slam her palms on the table, eyes squinting, teeth biting her lip. A whine crawls from her throat, and then she weakens. "Something bit me," she whispers. "Snake."

Sancta smiles but removes it before either woman can see, moving into instant action. She grabs up a bottle from the counter and hands it to the pale girl. "Hurry, take this! If there is any venom in the bite, this medicine will dispel it. Go on, drink!"

Spurred by panic and spreading pain, the girl does as she is told, and that is her first mistake. The second is having her back turned, and so when Cassius throws the dart for the back of her neck, he is lucky enough to actually hit his target. 

The moon, reduced to a thin sliver, casted a bright light on the glass-like surface of the moat. It was nowhere compared to the sea, but Calder didn't mind. For the time being, the war would keep him happy. A war he wasn't currently fighting in, but nonetheless.

Calder took a deep breath, borderline a sigh, of the dark, silent night. Earlier, he had watched the lampposts in town go out one by one until the only thing keeping him company were the dots of stars sprinkled above him and the looming dark castle behind him. It gave peace to Calder's troubled mind. Here, no one could bother him. Here, although he wasn't chosen for the special mission, he felt useful. Here, it was just him, the stars and the water.

That didn't mean he wasn't still bitter. Why wasn't he picked? Instead, the mean girl with red nails, Andrea, and Shahin got to go. If an ordinary person had made the decision, Calder would've had a full day of duels planned to challenge the order; but King Gavin wasn't an ordinary person—far from it. He created the teams for a reason. A reason Calder had to respect.

So Calder set about to prove himself in a different way. A decision a part of his mind started to regret when he looked up at a lit window and the silhouettes of laughing people against it. Yet Calder remained unfixed in his position, standing straight in his armor, and looking out into the darkness. So far, the only threat he had encountered was a friendly spider. It may have been useless, but Calder was doing his duty. And that was what mattered. At least, that's what he tried to convince himself.

Maybe it was the questionable drink he had earlier or something else entirely, but Calder's mind and body kept betraying him that night. His heart yearned to be inside, having fun with the others, and his fingers tapped against his sword hilt, buzzing with the desire to fight. Calder needed to do something, an option he didn't feel he had. This was war. Duty was his only option.

Grounded by his morality, Calder stood there unmoving, keeping track of the time by the position of the moon. As the hours progressed, Calder's body protested to rest, to eat, to leave, to do something. He ignored the complaints thought and preoccupied himself by observing the night. The sparkling lights of the stars, the symphony of the creatures, the soothing song of the waves. Calder let himself become part of the serene setting. Another part of the quiet, and still night full of life. The calm before the storm. The peace before the war.

Like every time before it, the tranquility was swiftly over. Out of the quiet night, a splash ensued from the moat. Calder instantly broke out of his dream-like daze; any ounce of tiredness had now left him. He was alert and ready for whatever was taking cover in the darkness.

His hand instinctively flew to his sword. "Who goes there?" Calder called out. "Show yourself or you'll be arrested." His voice carried through the darkness with an intimidating timbre, but the night only returned silence.

Grabbing a torch off of the castle wall, Calder took a few steps along the moat, the faint light revealed only a few yards ahead. He heard another splash and swung around to face it. But before he could investigate further, another sound came from behind him. Not a splash, but a footstep in the mud.

Calder turned again, this time, he found a young woman in a servant's attire. Her soft brown hair was tied back simply and her wide green eyes looked up at Calder with a sadness akin to a stray dog. She fiddled with the skirt of her dress; the hems were wet with mud. "I'm sorry, sir. I must be lost. This big castle has me all mixed up," she apologized.

Calder loosened his grip but didn't remove his hand. "It's no trouble. If you tell me your destination, I will guide you there," he offered.

The servant bit her lip, and her large doe eyes lost a bit of their innocence. "I'd like that very much, thank you. Can you lead me back to the entrance?"

Calder looked her over once more, hesitating before guiding her back. Why was a servant lost in the castle? And outside the wall at nearly midnight nonetheless? Other than the oddity of it, there was no reason suspect anything else. So Calder shrugged it off and with a nod, turned towards the entrance.

Before Calder could even take a step, something struck the back of his head. His brain rattled like a rock in a box and his knees buckled. Without even a cry of pain, Calder fell to the ground. His vision wavered between two different darknesses. The only thing that gave him a hold on his conscious was the steel grip on his sword hilt, but with each ragged breath the pain dulled and his senses sharpened.

Through his half-lidded eyes, Calder saw someone walk towards him. The "servant". She stopped for a second, standing by Calder's motionless body. He tried to even his breathing, to pass off as more defenseless than he was. If she had caught him off-guard, then he'd do the same. She raised her foot to keep walking. The perfect opportunity.

In the swiftest movement he could muster in his debilitated state, Calder stood, pulled out his sword and swung at the young woman. He expected her to be completely off-guard. He expected her to crumble easily. He expected to win effortlessly and quickly. What he did not expect, which, of course, happened, was for the servant to have noticed his consciousness and his attempted strike. Not only did she expect his attack, she also easily parried it with a previously concealed dagger and a smile on her face. Her innocence had completely vanished and was replaced with pure glee.

The clang of colliding weapons was quickly followed by an attempted jab by the intruder. Calder jumped to the left, but not quickly enough. He winced as the knife grazed his side, blood following the sting. He didn't have any time to react though; another knife flew towards him. Again, his reflexes weren't fast enough, but the cut was much smaller and his cheek bled less profusely than his abdomen. Calder started to wonder who this woman was, but he only came up with one answer: Elusian. His grip tightened on his sword, and he waited for the opportunity to strike.

The woman wouldn't let him catch his breath. She threw another knife, this one Calder easily dodged. Using his momentum, Calder lunged forward, attempting to strike her where she had to him. But the woman was much more nimble than Calder. She easily dodged to the right, sticking her foot out in an attempted foot sweep while doing so. Luckily for Calder, her strength was not nearly enough to topple his giant, sturdy stature. She tumbled to the ground and looked up just in time to see Calder's sword hurtle towards her face. Her eyes widened as she rolled out of the way, the blade grazing her stomach and cutting deeper than her knives had done to Calder.

The Elusian stood quickly, a new knife in her hand. From where she kept protruding them, Calder didn't know, and he didn't have time to ponder it. They stood several yards away, the distance remaining in a mutual break. They both needed it; the battle had worn them down equally.

The intruder's complexion was pale and strained. The mischievousness in her eyes had dulled from the pain, but she tried not to show it. She tried a mischievous smile but winced and pressed a hand to her stomach where her dress was stained with crimson.

Calder was barely any better. His clothes were soaked with blood, and it flowed from his cut and down his face like tears. His head was pounding, and he could barely think straight. Only one emotion occupied his hazy mind: pure hatred.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline that dulled all the pain, Calder yelled and charged forward. He struck again, but the woman was too swift, although she was weakening. She sidestepped and threw another knife, which clanged off of Calder's armor and stuck into the mud. Her eye twitched and Calder assumed that was a rare occurrence. He ignored it though; she was the enemy. Plain and simple.

He struck again with no hesitation, directing his hits so the Elusian's only option was to retreat towards the wall. She noticed his strategy, and Calder saw her eyes search for an opening. He gritted his teeth. She was right where he wanted her. He wasn't letting this attacker get away.

But as his anger welled more and more his attacks became more and more brash. Calder threw all strategy out the window as he threw attack after attack onto the young woman. A few hit, more missed. His frustration at her agility on led her to be able to stick more knives in him. He pushed forward, putting more force behind his sword, and giving her more openings.

As Calder swung his sword towards her shoulder, she ducked underneath, causing the blade to lodge itself into the mud. He growled and pulled the sword out, spinning around, ready to strike the attacker, but she was too far away. Calder stood by the wall and her at the edge of the moat. After a final glance with glazed over eyes, she dove into the dark waters.

Calder threw his sword to the ground. He let her get away. He spent his whole life training, and the one time it matter, he let everyone down. Most importantly, he let the king down.

His vision started to waver. Suddenly, he was on his knees. The pain came back. The adrenaline didn't. Calder took in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. He pressed his hands firmly against his wound. Blood mixed with the puddles made out of the footprints in the mud. His hands went numb. His mind went numb. Everything started to fade to black.

Until Calder heard a splash. Then, footsteps. He tried to pry open his heavy eyelids to see the intruder. All he could make out were two pairs of wet leather boots. One was wore down with use, the other hid several knives and daggers. They were heading towards him. Then, through his numbness, he felt a hand grasp his hair tightly and throw his head back. It didn't take much effort to not cry out. The cold metal of a knife touched his throat, sending chills down his nerves.

"Wait, should we really kill him?" A man with an Elusian accent. Calder stirred from his unconsciousness.

"What? Ya want to heal him, give him a nice warm meal then send him off on his way? He's an Adrigolian knight. Half-dead too thanks to Aurora. We'll be doing him a favor," the other voice quipped back. This one was female and also Elusian.

Calder tried to hide his consciousness. His adrenaline started to spike again, and his nerves buzzed, ready to fight. If he was going to survive...

"No, it's just—"

"Josias, if you're going to stop me from doing my duty, you should go back and heal Aurora."

The man let out a frustrated sigh. "It's my duty too, you know. I'm as much of a knight as you are."

The woman scoffed, rattling Calder's head with her movements. "Fine then, softie. You kill him." Calder almost smiled.

"W...What?"

"Ya heard me. Kill him." The knife was removed from Calder's throat and so was a weight on his heart he didn't know was there. "Do it."

There were a few seconds of hesitation. Calder took a deep breath. His head was released. Mud squished as feet moved about.

Now.