Knock! Knock! Knock! 

The sound of a heavy fist hitting the solid door made Draken's head pound, which was already suffering from a great headache that had not relented for a day. He moaned, and grabbed his prized ankle knife reassuringly, ready to get up to face whatever life was throwing at him next. 

"Don't," said Rapier sharply, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He was at the door of the medicine room, and holding out his hand in a stop motion. "Don't get out of this room," he said, in a rather alarming tone. It was firm, and serious, and a bit shaken.

"What? Why?" he added in a whisper at the expression on Rapier's face.

"We don't know who it is, and we can't let them know you're here. Is that understood?"

Draken understood, a bit, but it still rankled to be told to cower in a tiny room and not fight, or face the new threat. Growling, he paced back to the cot and placed his hands on the wall, angry. 

"Better angry than dead or kidnapped," he heard Rapier say to himself. He heard footsteps that told him Rapier was going to the door, and another set of footsteps alerted him to the fact that Rowan was following Rapier. Rowan did not even pause to say something to Draken, which rankled even more. 

He bit his lip in a repetitive manner, and strained his hearing, which he was improving as he spent more time in this place of locked doors and hushed voices. A few low voices were exchanged, and he heard the rustle of weapons he knew well. The news was bad enough that his two companions were caressing their swords and daggers for reassurance, for stability. 

Draken stayed standing up in the dark, his thoughts conjuring up thousands of terrible scenarios, those images he never seemed to be rid of replaying in his mind time after time. Now he heard some more hushed conversation, and the exchanging of parchment. Letters? Demands? Information? Paper money that some here used? Blood was dripping on the floor from his lip, and still he bit it again and again, not knowing what was going on. 

One thing for sure? The monotonous cycle of the recent weeks was interrupted. At least something to be thankful for, he thought to himself, but reflected that it usually brought worse circumstances than the ones before. 

Soon the hall dropped into silence. Not knowing what to do, or what had happened, Draken made for the door and stopped, vacillating. Just as he was planning to do something completely stupid - ergo, getting out of this room and seeing what was going on - Rapier appeared, face ashen.

"You have to come. A messenger is here, and he has news. And not necessarily the good kind." 

"When has there ever been news of the good kind?" grumbled Draken as he followed Rapier down a twisting, even narrower hall, trying to stop his heart from beating too fast out of dread. 

They hurriedly went down some twisting corridors he had never ventured in before, booted feet padding on carpet that was increasingly becoming frayed and faded as they went on. Draken wiped the blood still welling on his lip. He did not need the distraction of the dripping blood, and it had been drummed into him from early childhood; take care where your blood falls, lest a mage use it against you. Blood magyk was the worst. The blood smeared on his gloved hand, and it dried almost immediately. 

"Through here," Rapier said, bringing Draken back to the present. He followed him through a door with a crumbling archway, gripping his sword reassuringly. He doubted, though, that this problem would be resolved entirely using brute force. Sometimes, you just couldn't stab your way out of things. The sight of the messenger, decked with the livery of some neighboring city, did not improve Draken's outlook. The scrawny man's face was ashen, his hands were trembling a bit, and it was clear that he was of Outsider stock, not lineage from Xeverron. 

When the messenger saw Draken, he emitted a small gasp, and his nervousness became more pronounced. 

"Say to him what you said to us," Rowan commanded in a sharp tone. His face was whiter than marble, and tight with concern and barely contained anger. Messengers in the night hardly ever brought good news, and this time seemed to be no exception. 

"Honorable lords of the city of Neth, I bring forth news from those of the Houses of Nobles." The messenger started out in the customary greeting that acknowledged the recipients of the summons and who was doing the summoning. As soon as Draken heard the sentence, the trouble they were in started to become clearer. Much too clear. 

Unfurling a scroll that was stiff and sharp and paper-white, with a red wax seal on it of all things, the messenger continued to speak. He read out the document - just the first part. But it was enough. After he was done, it was Draken's turn to gasp, to grind his teeth and understand the doom he had seen in the eyes of Rapier and Rowan. 

"Give me it," Draken commanded, holding out his hand for the godsforsaken parchment. He took it delicately, and was careful not to crush it, though his hands wanted to tremble and shake and rip the stupid scroll up. At the sight of the loopy, blue-black ink and the words it spelled out, he felt like succumbing to the darkness again. Biting his lip did the trick, and he stayed firmly on his feet, though his mind and soul were now tumbling through an open void. 

"Is it true?" he finally said, addressing Rapier, who always seemed to know the right thing to say about this world of orders through paper and written words. 

"Yes, it is," said Rapier, voice bleak for the situation itself and the role that Draken would have to play. "I am afraid that Terren of the House of Kerr has requested our aid to wage battle against men possessed of the evil gods, and to rescue his stolen heir from within their stronghold. We do not even have the choice to refuse. We must engage in deadly war with no help from the treaties."

Still feeling light-headed, with anger growing inside him with every breath he took, Draken hated the part of himself that had wished a change from routine. Because now they were entered into a death warrant.

***

Gasping, shivering with cold and heartbreak and of sickness, the sopping man crawled up the high stone wall. The terrible waves full of hatred and darkness and the rotted souls of those who had been possessed had washed him over to this forsaken place. Somewhere he had no wish to ever see again. 

Fate is a cruel bitch, he thought to himself with absolute hatred as his entire body protested his movements. Finally having breached the low wall that protected those with better lineages from the slums and the higher threats of rampaging beasts, the man collapsed onto the ground. He coughed and coughed and hacked up possessed water and spat out blood, until his entire throat was aching and raw. He lay there for a bit, no will left in him.

It was only the thought of patrols finding him in such a state that prompted him to get his arse moving. Whatever came, he would not let the guards of this place see him weakened in any form. Never. 

Excruciating step after excruciating step, he made his way up a wide stone walkway, and lurched into alleys he barely remembered from suppressed memories he had sworn to never relive. 

"Down two, left three," he muttered to himself, trying to get the right directions. Soon he was in front of a battered door, with no more strength left in his body. But he had made it to the right place, and he was still in an upright position. Breathing deeply, he set about cleaning his sword, which had stayed with him through the journey. His cane had not been so lucky, and already he felt its absence. He'd find it somehow, but now more pressing matters were on his mind. 

When he had cleaned himself up the best he could, and composed himself with the vestiges of his famed iron will, he knocked at the bright-red door. 

"Tis me," he croaked. The lady opening the door did not take well to his appearance, nor to his words. Her hollow, gaunt face turned into an expression of pure hatred and defiance, and her gnarled hands turned into deadly claws. He knew from experience how well the frail-looking, unkempt woman could fight. Before he was turned into roadkill for the crows and the creatures who fed on carrion, he held up his hands and said the words that would guarantee him safety, and enormous guilt.

"I am of yon family, of yon blood, and ask for safe harbor as the world around me thirsts for my blood. I invoke the name of my soul-brother, and his blood and his assets, and I invoke what which yon had given me years and years and years before. I invoke the deeds yon forced me into, and I invoke the consequences of those actions that were brought against me." He kept on going, the words burning in his throat. How despicable he was, doing this, ruining these persons once again.

The words had the expected effect. The woman hissed at him in a language that was purely emotion, and motioned him to come into the tiny abode. She gave him dry clothes that were shabby and blood-stained, and a tiny closet in which to sleep in. After changing, which took a long while considering the current situation, he followed the smell of cheap fare that the woman had set out.

Wiping her hands on her greasy, tattered dress, she went out. He sat himself and waited, knowing not to touch the moldy bread and cheese. Soon enough, footsteps that echoed his memories came towards the tiny, damp room, and out came the one person that he never wished to see again.

"You." 

He nodded, knowing nothing he said would many any of this right. 

"You have invoked it. You know what that means. I am at you service once more." The words, bitter, tore at him, but still he said nothing.

"You always did get what you wanted, Zachariah Evillier."

Zachariah kept his face blank, hating this, hating all of this. However, he had places to be, a person to find. However much this hurt, Draken was his only priority.