Nagan really didn't understand the Council's insistence that dragons stayed behind when they weren't 'necessary.' Even if half of them weren't Dragonmages, there were still some who were. Honoria, Elvar, even Tinlar, and the only reason Tinlar was at the Council instead of alongside the rest down towards the south was that he had a water dragon. You would think the Council would understand that dragons weren't pets, but real companions. But Nagan pushed those thoughts away with a huff. Ravi had Kint with her, and he had Az here. Az, however, walked near the back of the line along with his squad, leaving Nagan with no one to talk to except the other lieutenant, Darro Faen. He'll just have to add that qualm to his already extensive list of things to argue about later.

"What is it now?" Darro asked, his annoyance clear after hearing Nagan huff.

"Nothing, sir," Nagan replied quickly, too tired to start another argument with the man. Thankfully, Darro didn't question him further.

While they both held the same rank, it was made abundantly clear Nagan would still be working under another lieutenant. Why it had to be Darro? He didn't know. He worked perfectly fine under Lieutenant Tirst back when he was a sergeant, so he didn't see why the Council transferred him over to Faen. Tirst at least listened to what he was saying when they butted heads.

The wind picked up at that moment, and Nagan looked up at a darkening sky. He had lived in Tarkon long enough to know when rain was imminent.

"Lieutenant Faen, I still say we should stop in Leurial. This storm is not going to blow over."

"I'm not blind."

Nagan waited for Darro to continue only for the other to stay silent. He tried not to grit his teeth too hard as he spoke again.

"Well? Are we gonna talk about it or are we splitting ways here?"

Darro looked at him sharply. "You will not be going anywhere without my permission."

"Great, glad we got something established." So much for not getting into an argument. "So since we won't be arriving back at the Information Unit tonight either way, Leurial is a well-populated town bound to have an inn large enough to room the platoon for a night. We don't have onyxes, and we don't have dragons. Unless you plan on doing nightwatch in the rain, Leurial is our only option, and we're one turn away from missing it if we don't want to backtrack when we change our minds."

"Then instead of heading south and following the storm's path trying to get to Leurial, we should continue west. If it rains, it won't take long to find some farming village to house us."

Nagan shot Darro an incredulous look. "We just got done with a situation involving people—farmers to be specific—who were unhappy with the Council stomping all over their farms whenever they pleased and demanding crops."

"Those mediocres were smuggling supplies to the Kinsmen," Darro said almost boredly. "They deserve nothing."

Nagan stopped dead in his tracks, not even turning to look as he heard the line of people behind him stumble to a stop. Murmurs began behind them as the group halted before a fork in the road. Without breaking eye contact with Darro, Nagan shouted orders over his shoulder.

"Sergeant Roda, Sergeant Xien, get up here immediately!"

"What are you doing?" Darro hissed, taking a step towards Nagan. Nagan, however, only continued to glare.

"Having a proper discussion instead of you treating my words like a joke." Nagan finally looked away as Roda and Xien approached. Completely ignoring Darro, he continued. "We have two options: continue forward and find shelter along the way, or head to Leurial and find an inn. Now, I will kindly request you take a good look at the sky before telling me your preference."

"We should head to Leurial," Roda replied immediately, catching Nagan off guard, but Nagan didn't have time to think about it before Xien nodded along.

"Yes, I've been noticing the weather as well," Xien said, glancing between Darro and Nagan almost hesitantly. "Either route we take, we will still arrive back at the Information Unit by tomorrow. But since we do not have any onyxes or dragons to cast large-scale barriers, it would be best to take shelter somewhere reliable or risk exposing ourselves to the elements, and thus, risking ourselves to sickness."

Nagan was a bit too old to say 'I told you so,' but that didn't mean he didn't want to. He trusted Xien to be the voice of reason—a voice Darro would listen to since Xien almost always laid out his logic in a way no one could deny—but Roda...Honestly, Nagan only invited the man up out of courtesy. While Xien had been the sergeant for the support squad—medics and messengers—for a fair amount of time, Roda only transferred to the Information Unit recently, and since then, he offered no opinion to any of their decisions. But Nagan hadn't known Roda for long, either, so perhaps the other was finally becoming comfortable enough to voice his thoughts. Either that, or he really didn't want to be caught in the rain.

Darro looked between the three of them, his expression slowly simmering down from annoyance to aloofness, until he let out a sigh of resignation. Without another word, he continued walking down the path and towards the fork in the road.

"Where are we going?" Nagan knew the answer, but at this point, he wanted to hear it for himself. Darro was stubborn, but not completely unreasonable when the right people got involved, like Xien.

"To Leurial. And I expect everyone to move twice the speed we were going before if we want to avoid the rain."

Nagan briefly looked back at Roda and Xien, nodding his head in the direction of Leurial to confirm the command. He trusted his troops to follow as he caught up with Darro, resuming his place a few steps behind him.

Darro was also a petty man, Nagan decidedly told himself, and the proof was his nightwatch shift despite having done it the previous night. Either way, Nagan still won in the end.

It didn't take the platoon long to find an inn, giving the innkeeper a token in place of money upfront. An odd, unreliable system in Nagan's opinion, but he supposed in the end the inn did get paid. It only involved the exceedingly simple protocol of Meixong sending a request to the Council for the amount needed, waiting two days to three months for the money to arrive, maybe requesting more if the amount was wrong—this also took about two days to months—and then sending the money to the innkeeper, but they could only claim it if they still had the token. If they didn't, well, then there was no proof soldiers were there in the first place.

Needless to say, Az slipped the innkeeper a very generous tip.

Thunder rumbled above as Nagan rounded the corner for the sixth time that night. Rain pounded against the window pane at the end of the hall as well as the roof. He could barely hear himself think. The drone of the storm soothed him, however, not minding at all as the wind howled as it whipped around the corners of the building.

He turned around and paced back down the hall once he reached the window. Right, then left, then back down the stairs to the ground floor. The platoon may have been allowed the top floor—the third floor—but that didn't mean it was the only area he had to patrol. If he had been in this situation a year earlier, he would've rolled his eyes at the rule.

But then one night an angry (and drunk) patron of the inn they were staying at decided he didn't like soldiers there. While Nagan was on nightwatch and was only watching the entrance, the patron climbed up the outside of the inn, sneaking into the floor above through the window. Luckily, the patron didn't want to hurt anyone—he only pounded on doors and yelled—but Nagan received a hefty scolding from Lieutenant Tirst, and once he arrived back at the Unit, he was swiftly informed of Meixong's orders: ten lashes for negligence. The lashes hurt his pride more than his back, but he never made the mistake again. Someone could've died if the patron had worse intentions.

Nagan nodded politely to a man lumbering up the stairs, keeping note of where his footsteps led. He went left and down a hall. As long as no one entered the third floor, all was well.

When Nagan entered the tavern, he was relieved to find it nearly empty. Everyone either went home—realizing the rain wasn't going to let up—or retired for the night in one of the rooms above. Now there were no more hecklers; drunk men jeering at him or loudly asking him questions from across the room. Luckily, most of them knocked it off when Nagan refused to answer, but others grew more persistent every time he returned. One even approached him, only to be stopped by a barrier and a strong warning.

The only exception was an old man who sat at the table nearest to where Nagan stood about an hour earlier.

"They get younger every year," the old man remarked, his back to Nagan. He took his time taking a long draft of his beer, not really expecting Nagan to respond, but he raised his cup anyway while looking over his shoulder. "You allowed to drink?"

Nagan gave him a side-long glance at that. It wasn't as if he had to keep an eye on the room at all times, he only had to make sure no one went up the stairs without him knowing. From where he stood, no matter where he looked, someone would have to climb the banister to keep out of sight, and if they got past that, Nagan had placed a minor alarm spell to alert him if someone passed the threshold.

Typically, Nagan wouldn't humor a conversation when on watch—or anyone in general if he didn't need to (unless it was his friends)—but something about how the old man had no expectations for him caught his interest. He didn't even seem to expect Nagan to respond. Nagan remained alert, but his shoulders relaxed as he leaned against the wall, his foot tapping against the wood with his heel.

"Technically not without my caretakers in the room," Nagan replied with a huff of laughter.

"I knew it, you're a youngun. You'd think mages went far enough with the War of the Millennium, but here you are." The old man nodded his head towards Nagan's cloak. "And that's a Dragonmage cloak, ain't it? You must be from the Carvolier batch."

Nagan briefly scanned him for any magical presence, only to find none. "I don't meet many mediocres who know of mage history."

"I don't meet mages who know mediocre history, either," the old man jeered good-naturedly, taking another swig of his drink. "Don't you ever find it odd how unaware we are of each other? It's almost like we're competing to live in the same world."

"I...don't believe there have been any major conflicts between mages and mediocres?"

The old man tilted his head back and let out a hearty laugh, finally turning in his seat to face Nagan. His face was red from either the alcohol or the laughter. "Oh, there wouldn't be any mediocres left if there was!"

Nagan remembered freezing at the exclamation, staring at the man in shock. Is...that how they see us? The old man, however, continued laughing for a few more seconds before turning his back on him again. A few more odd questions were asked, and Nagan answered them when he wanted to, but by the time Nagan returned back to the tavern after doing a round, the old man had left.

A little chime from one of his earrings brought Nagan out of his reverie, informing him to start another round. As he walked back up the stairs, he remembered to temporarily disable the alarm spell as he passed. It wasn't as if the alarm wailed in his head when triggered, but after years of having it go off when it wasn't him, he wanted to avoid his fight-flight kicking in when it didn't need to. Nagan didn't even pause to reset it, only recasting it once he was beyond the bottom step.

As he ascended, Nagan stared at the painting of a fruit bowl in front of him. On almost every spare wall or corner, there was some sort of painting or small table with a trinket set upon it, and Nagan knew for a fact there was a painting of a woman down to the left and a white and blue vase on his right. He'd seen other inns do this, setting expensive-looking things around as an excuse to charge more, but by this point, he and Az made it a game to try distinguishing which items were of genuine quality. Az was usually right, of course. He went right and past the vase.

His only warning was a glint of steel.

Three things happened at once.

One: Someone lunged at him from around the corner, knife raised, and face covered by a thick shadow. For a brief moment, Nagan saw himself back in the forest by Carvolier, acid-green eyes petrifying him as his wrist bled onto the book that started it all. But this was not the Hooded Man, this was not Carvolier, and that knife was aiming for his chest.

Two: Nagan raised his left arm out of reflex, casting the incantation for a shield barrier. Nothing. He barely registered the magical void around him as the knife plunged through his arm.

Three: Black tendrils muffled his scream as more wrapped around his arms, legs, and torso, dragging him back against the wall. Blood roared in his ears much like how the rain pounded against the roof above. Thunder crackled and rumbled as the storm raged on. No one would hear him if he screamed again. Pure adrenaline was the only thing keeping him alive—his attacker pushing against his arm and the tendrils pulling it—as the knife crept closer and closer to his neck.

Nagan could barely think through the pain. A wave of nausea hit every time the knife was jostled, and it felt as if thousands of needles scratched at his skin where the tendrils wrapped around him. Nagan almost believed it when a little voice told him this was the end. Caught completely off guard, there was nothing he could do.

But there was one thing that might save him, something he hadn't done in years—he promised Az he wouldn't. Even if it meant he lost a little more of himself, this would not be the end of him.

He pulled from the void, and the void complied.

Bit by bit he pulled at the black tendrils, pulling at the dark magic it was made of itself to unravel it from his leg. He only needed a little bit. Once freed, he kicked out to his left, his foot colliding with the side table nearby. The vase crashed to the ground, shattering into hundreds of pieces.

His attacker's head snapped to the side at that, jerking away and breaking his concentration. Nagan latched onto the opportunity with his life, and soon his right arm was freed and the bindings around his head loosened.

His arm gave away at that moment, and he barely had time to tilt his head away from the knife. He gritted his teeth in concentration, ignoring how his wrist pressed against his throat and how the knife's blade bit against his neck. Blood ran down in a steady stream. Reaching blindly to his left side where he knew his sword was, Nagan grabbed the hilt just as his attacker turned their attention back on him.

Nagan drew his sword, leaving a bloody gash across his attacker's chest. With a pained shout, the attacker stumbled back, pulling the knife out of Nagan's arm. His arm hung limply at Nagan's side as all the other bindings fell away, rendered completely useless. But he only needed one arm.

By the time doors began opening and people flooded into the hall, a body laid lifelessly on the ground, blood pooling from its neck and chest. Nagan slumped against the wall a few feet away, his eyes pressed shut in pain as he clutched his arm close to his chest. His bloodied sword rested on the ground next to him.

Nagan jumped and reflexively shoved back when someone touched him, and he almost reached for his sword again, but his vision cleared to a familiar face when a cool hand rested against his cheek. Az gave him a tentative smile as he crouched next to him.

He was safe. Nagan let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. All tension released, and he let his head fall against Az's shoulder.

"Where," Az demanded, already moving to slow the bleeding at Nagan's arm.

"My arm and my neck," Nagan mumbled, knowing what Az was asking. "The knife went straight through my arm. I don't think I was hurt anywhere else."

Az nodded, choosing not to ask about the extensive amount of abrasions around Nagan's wrists and mouth.

Nagan didn't complain when Az shoved a vial into his hand, downing the bitter liquid in one go. It was easier that way, even if it made him want to screw up his face at the taste. Whatever it was—a pain reliever, Nagan guessed—he long since learned that whatever Az gave him was beneficial.

Az was suddenly shoved to the side, and someone grabbed the front of Nagan's shirt.

"What have you done!" Darro bellowed. "By the gods, what the hell have you—"

Nagan's lips barely curled into a snarl when Darro's hand was ripped away, and Az quickly positioned himself in front of Nagan, keeping Darro's wrist in a tight grip.

"Do not get between me and my patients." Az seethed coldly. "Lieutenant Elvar was attacked, and the first thing you do is yell at him?"

Darro wrenched his arm away. "Take a look to your left then, Specialist Arcloven, and maybe you'll see why I'm yelling."

Az continued to glare at the lieutenant for a few more seconds before he did as asked. At first, nothing changed. Az's face remained terse and, frankly, pissed off, but when his eyes widened and Az's jaw dropped in shock, Nagan whipped his head to the side. It took a few moments for Nagan to realize what he was looking at, but once he did, his blood ran cold.

Soldiers stood around the fallen body—even some of the civilians sleeping below stood on the stairs in horror—while another medic hovered around collecting data on how the person died. No shadow covered their face now, clearly showing who Nagan had killed.

Sergeant Roda laid in a pool of his own blood, and Nagan didn't want to think about how much trouble he was in.