Rhys growled as he lunged, the alley whizzing past his periphery. Almost by instinct, his fingers closed around the dagger he tied against his leg. The blade glinted in the faint sunlight covered by thick gray clouds. The rain turned the ground slipper but that's the least of his concern now. This woman might be working for Ilphar and has come to take them back to the mines. Not on his watch.

He slashed in the direction of the woman's neck, sure to be a deadly spot. Instead, the woman sidestepped and gripped his wrist. What—

Water splashed around him as his form landed hard on the muddy soil. Pain cracked in his arm. The woman's hood fell off her face to reveal a head covered in thick red hair. Bright, aquamarine eyes shone like crystals against the dark sky. He couldn't remember seeing someone like her in the mines. But then again, he hasn't seen Lenthe around either and his sister had managed to make her a friend.

Rhys rolled and shot up. He lunged again, using a different footing style as Korr had taught him. This time, he switched hands and moved to strike with his other hand, while keeping his other arm swinging for the woman's face. He had her now.

Then, as fluid as a whip, she stepped between his two attacks, splayed her hand to block his punch, and used her other hand to grip his dagger hand. An almost amused smile played in her lips as she stared him down. Rhys's mouth parted and his cry died in his throat as the woman twisted his wrist, forcing him to drop the dagger. Then, she twisted Rhys around using the arm she blocked and rammed him face-first into a side wall of some house.

He squirmed but the woman's grip was strong. His cheek dug against the wall's rough surface. It was nowhere near as unpleasant as the walls in the mines but it still hurt. It would no doubt leave an impression on his skin for at least a few minutes.

How was she able to stop that? Korr said it was unstoppable and guaranteed a sure win. It's like...

It's like she's seeing through him.

That's impossible, right? They haven't even met. She couldn't have read him that easily.

"I'm going to let go now," the woman said, her voice a mixture of jovial and serious. It was impossible to tell at this point. "You are free to attack me but you don't want to hurt yourself, do you?"

Rhys gritted his teeth. He could totally take on this woman. Then again, she wasn't the one being pressed against a wall like a pathetic slug. "Fine," he said. "Let me go."

The woman did, setting him gently into the slippery road. "As for your sister..."

He stepped in her way and spread his arms in a frail attempt to block the woman from reaching his sister. She's not going to touch Reeca. "What about her?" he narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"

"Names are arbitrary," the woman answered. Then, she tilted her head to one side. "Your sister did seem like she needed help. An expert's help."

Rhys scowled. "I can take care of her."

"Not from the way I see it," the woman raised her eyebrow. "One cannot treat wounds from dwarven metal especially if they don't know what hit them."

The resolve in his arms waned. "What dwarven metal?"

The woman pushed past him and knelt beside Reeca's unconscious form. "Take a good look at your dagger again," she said without turning to him. He watched her run her fingers down the wound Rhys had just finished patching up. Then, seeing as he still hadn't moved, she glanced at him. "Well?"

That jarred Rhys. With an apprehensive frown, he turned and retrieved his fallen dagger. Mud had already begun clinging in its leather-bound hilt. He cringed and dried it on his trousers. Then, he examined it. Up close, it looked like the crudely-smithed blade he was used to seeing in his days of sneaking into the traders' market in Arcole. There was nothing special in it, down to the wait the metal was shaped into the guard, the hilt, and the pommel. The only redeeming quality was the crest of Ilphar's mine stamped in the middle, just where the blade's flat side started.

He hated it. Still, he forced himself to see what's so different. The leather around the hilt was worn with use, torn at the edges and brittle in some parts. All kinds of dents and scrapes were present in the guard. Then, he noticed the blade. Not one inch of the blade was nicked despite the number of times it fell, flew, and slashed through things. When he looked carefully, he noticed an almost different shade from most normal metals he had come across. How come he hadn't noticed that before?

"So? Any interesting findings?" the woman quipped. Rhys raised his head from the dagger and his gaze fell on Reeca's bandaged leg. A noticeable tear lay at the hem of the woman's cloak tucked over her legs to avoid falling into the wet ground. It had only registered to him that the rain had stopped and he was soaking wet.

Rhys stuck the dagger into the strip of cloth he tied around his leg specifically to hold it. "The blade's almost new," he said. "It never dulled."

The woman bobbed her head. Not a strand of her hair was wet despite being exposed to the rain when her hood fell off earlier. In fact, now that Rhys was looking at it, she wasn't dressed like the rest of the people milling about in the street beyond this dark corner they were in.

Outside, Rhys counted the number of fur-lined tunics and cloaks adorning passing fairies. They were usually black or gray in color. This woman wore a beige, long-sleeved tunic gilded in geometric patterns down her vest, belt, and hems. A similarly-beige cloak sat around her shoulders, fastened together with a chain clasped in opposite spots near her shoulders. On her feet, a lamp with six faces and glass panes sat. An eerie green fire burned inside, matching the dour and mysterious feel in the air of whichever city they were in.

The woman stood up and walked towards Rhys. "I have wrapped the wound, properly, this time," she said. "Make sure to change the dressing every now and then or if the blood starts seeping through. The weaving you did would have worked for a normal wound but it wouldn't ever close one inflicted by dwarven metal."

"Why?" Rhys's tone was flat.

"Because it's dwarven metal. From the dwarves," the woman answered. "It has magic not from this island so naturally, our magic wouldn't work against it."

Rhys pursed his lips. It made sense. The Dwarves had settled on Umazure during the Hundred Years' War as part of their colonies. They must have left some of their treasures. The real question was...how did the mines get a hold of them?

"You've approached the right path with that thought, kid," the woman said, making Rhys whirl to her with wide eyes. She smiled at him despite the confusion swirling in his gut and no doubt showing on his face. "What do you plan to do now?"

The question threw Rhys off. "Sorry?"

"You heard me," the woman rolled her eyes. "What do you plan to do?"

Nothing came at the top of Rhys's head. What was his plan after this? After Reeca healed and they were truly free for the first time in their lifetime...what then? It's like him being left standing on the sand after spending years wondering what it felt like. "I...don't know," he admitted. "I just don't plan on going back to Narfalk. We'll go anywhere else."

"How about saving the world?" the woman prompted.

Rhys blinked. "What?"

The woman opened her eyes but a piercing scream cut her off. Rhys turned to find Reeca's hand pressed to the side of the lamp. Her mouth was open. The scream was coming from her. He turned to the woman who was clearly the owner of that lamp. "What's going on?!" he demanded. "Get away from her! What are you doing?"

The woman knelt and plucked the lamp away from Reeca's grasp. Rhys pushed past the woman and cradled his sister. She went back to sleeping. "Don't come near us again," he hissed. Whatever that was, it wasn't good.

The woman pursed her lips and disregarded Rhys's warning. She knelt near them and placed a hand in Reeca's forehead. Rhys attempted to push her off but the stern stare she flashed him made him still, for some reason. "You're not going to die," the woman whispered. Her words were too fast for Rhys to understand and analyze fully.

Then, before Rhys could react, she turned to him. Her features fell into a grim expression. "If you want to save the world, start with the oppressed," she said. "Work in the shadows. Find evidence of the things which shouldn't be here for it to be a better place. That should set you on the right path."

Rhys didn't speak. He couldn't anyway. The woman drew up and replaced her hood on her head. The shadows over her face made her eyes glow brighter. The green flame in the lamp burned brighter as she picked it up. "The beginning of the end is here," she said as she turned away. "The island will be changed, whether you play a part in it or not. What could be better than bringing forth that change yourself, eh?"

He tightened his hold on Reeca's unconscious form. By the time he had thought of an answer which wouldn't make him sound like an idiot, the woman was gone from the alley as if she was never there in the first place. He craned his neck here and there. There was no one with them.

Save the world, huh? He couldn't even save his sister and himself properly.

Then again, was there a proper way to save something as big as the world?