On Sarge's command, the crossbow-wielding vampire from the watchtower, whose name they learned was Rohana, found them a place to rest in one of the quarters of the garrison and thankfully, some breakfast.

Ah yes. Bread.

Rendarr crashed on a bench immediately afterwards and woke up around midday, not knowing what year it was or why they were in Brittlerock to begin with. While Karles filled him in with the details of their discussion with Linder, Farren swaggered out the door.

"Where're you waltzing off to?" Karles called out.

"Why, for a walk, of course," she said, "places to be and people to see." Things to reclaim.

"Don't end up in prison," said Rendarr.

"Roger that," said Farren. Then waved her unmarked arm, "Though I can probably take another branding. I think."

"Farren!"

She stepped out into the weak sun. Around her, Brittlerock bustled with activity-- miners in grey tunics on their way to and from their shifts, hooves clattering, wagons of coal wheeling past, sending plumes of dust rolling onto the air.

✦✧✦✧

The walk back from commander Del's office was not a peaceful one for Valerius Linder for two reasons. One, after seven years of being stuck in a mining settlement and with the responsibilities that came with it, he'd finally got something that piqued his interest, but the attack wasn't particularly good news. Two, the sudden re-entry of Clearstrike in his life; that had troubled him from the moment he spotted her outside the window.

Oh, and three, he'd nearly run out of coffee.

Now came the fourth-- someone collided right into him.

"Oh, I'm so, so sorry, Sarge," said Farren, disentangling herself from his cloak, then taking a step back. She was clearly not sorry, if the cheeky grin on her face was any indication. "Almost didn't see you there."

Why, of course, the one figure swathed in black among this pale sea of grey would be almost unnoticeable.

He grinned back. "I'll make sure to hang a plaque from my neck next time, dear Corporal."

"Much obliged, good sir."

"What're you doing out here, anyway?" He frowned.

"Looking around. That much is allowed, yeah?" she said, looking up at him. When he still kept squinting at her, she shook her head, coppery waves swinging.

"Frown any more and your face will get stuck that way. Or perhaps it already has," said Farren, "but I have more pressing concerns than your face. How did you end up in Brittlerock, for instance? You were in the Byton City Watch."

He fought back another frown.

The nineteen year old, fiercely righteous city guard he once was, who had chased her down all those years ago would never engage in conversation with such a crook. That version of Linder believed he was cleansing the city from the illegal magical dealings that went down in the dark alleys of the Silver Knife Square.

And that the act would bring him glory, recognition -- a chance to be chosen among the finest warriors of the king's very own Royal Guard.

He'd been ever so wrong.

His eyes found hers again. Though she looked every bit as swindling and cheeky she was back then, things were not quite the same. Nor was he nineteen anymore, and the years at the mine had diminished the edge from his foolish idealism, leaving only questions. Many of them.

The way Clearstrike had let herself get arrested that day was anything but natural.

Linder reached out to gently take her arm and steered her out of a wagon's way. "Perhaps this is not the best place to clear out seven years worth of doubts, is it? Now, if you'll follow me."

The surprise on her face was most amusing. Clearstrike had clearly expected some conflict. Who knows, perhaps she even had some lines prepared to counter me?

He began to lead her beneath a shed of some sort of warehouse beside the crowded, narrow path, but it was not an easy task, for everyone in Brittlerock seemed to need Linder to help them with their troubles.

A recruit ran up to him with a letter asking for a week's leave. After that was approved and granted, there came a harried looking old miner, and clasped his hands.

"It's my brother, sir! Been down with a nasty cough for the week past. Help him please," said the man.

Black lung, suspected the sergeant, and called upon a passing guard to find the man a healer from the garrison.

Next, he had to break up a brawl between two drunken workers outside an inn. A small crowd had gathered there.

--"Hush, you two. Sarge's coming this way!"

He didn't have to do much this time; they shook each other off with a salute.

"It shan't happen again, sir!" said the miners in unison even as they swayed on their feet.

Then finally, he stood beside Farren under the shed, heaving a long sigh.

"Where'd Brittlerock be without you?" This time, Farren's smile was soft and genuine. Linder found it very hard to look away.

Farren, on the other hand, knew exactly what she was doing. Leaning with one arm against the wall, she placed the other on her hip. This close, he could see the freckles dotting her cheeks.

"You know, I'm sure I woulda remembered that face, if only you had your helmet off that day."

He felt his face heat up despite all his efforts. He cleared his throat. "I'm glad I had it on. You put up quite a fight with that metal pipe you found in the alley."

"Aye. One of the best fights I've ever had." She smiled, dimples blossoming deep on both cheeks.

By the Gods, that damned smile.

"So, Brittlerock. How do you end up here, while you were so set upon cleaning the corrupted streets of Byton from illegal trading of magic?" she said, "I would have thought His Majesty would appreciate such an effort."

While she perhaps did not mean that as a jab, it still stung like a fresh wound. "His Majesty does not have time for idealistic fools such as I. After we captured you, we never got to see him. Didn't even make it to the courtroom."

She let out a small sigh. "Let me guess. Sir Troth rounded you up?"

Linder's eyes snapped to her, the hard line of his jaws set. "That's right."

Farren let out a hollow laugh. "All that goes down the Silver Knife Square, Sir Troth is the one who pulls the strings from the shadows. With the help of the Countess, of course. Every merchant there needs his approval to open their stalls, every wizardfolk-- his permission to barter their skills. Hell, he even charges the floating shops in the canal," she said, "the gold swelling up his coffers reek of blood."

Linder gritted his teeth. "Nobleborn bastard."

"Perhaps literally, too. Who knows?" Smirked Farren.

"Sir Troth didn't let me off easily. I was the one to suggest the idea after all," said Linder, "next thing I knew, I was on my way to this mine with a transfer order to boot. He ensured I don't further trouble him, or the king for that matter."

He leaned back on the wall beside Farren, and raised a hand to his face. Linder had truly believed, playing the role of a hero would get the king to notice him and grant him a place among the revered Royal Guards, the King's own most trusted protectors.

But she doesn't need to know more about my foolish deeds. In her presence, he'd spoken much more than he intended to.

"And? What's your side of the story, Corporal?" he said, "it is only fair, for I answered your question."

"An equal exchange, eh?" She hummed, then looked at the passing people, looked at taut ropes of the headframes in the distance. Then she swung her gaze back to him.

"For now, just know this: we're a lot more alike than you imagine," she said, then pushed herself off the wall. "Wouldn't want to spill it all, would I? For I'd love to keep our business unfinished for a while."

Linder had never been caught so off guard. Sergeant Valerius Linder, letting a mere smooth-talker sway him? He moved away from the wall, as though to shake off whatever it was Clearstrike was doing to him.

Sorcery, no doubt.

"My mistake." He fixed her with an indignant stare. "Shouldn't have expected a crook to hold up her end of the bargain."

"Playing with fire here, am I?" She tilted her head.

"No." He turned away. Just an ordinary fool who drank too much coffee and put up theatrics with a mask for no good reason.

Anger pulsing through him, Linder drew his black and silver cloak about himself, and began to stride away, wanting no more of what he'd thought would be a fair conversation; he hated how he was behaving very much like his old self again.

"I've better things to do than chat up a petty thief," he said, and stalked down the crowded road.

"Damn right, I'm pretty," Farren called out from behind. "And so are you, Sarge!"

"I said petty," he shouted over his shoulder as another wagon pulled up, kicking up dust. He raised one cloaked arm to shield his eyes.

Then it hit.

Something was missing. He plunged one hand into his cloak, shook it about. Where was--

"Looking for this, sir?"

He turned. There she was on the bustling street, her mussed up hair a smudge of red against the grey crowd and dusty air. She waved the Quarleen mask about, a radiant smile painted on her face.

And by the Gods, that damned smile.