The shelf beside her bunk bed where the package had once been, was empty.

Farren uttered a wail and was about to fall to her knees and collapse, the day's pent up misery ready to escape into a proper hair-gripping, fists-pounding bout of sobbing. Good thing too, because there was no one except them in the dormitory at this hour.

But that dramatic descent into despair was stopped abruptly by Klo, who yanked her back to her feet with one firm hand.

"But--"

"You knocked the things off the shelf, remember? When you lit a candle and it nearly set the bed on fire that night," said Klo, always the level-headed one, "now look in the gap between the bed and the wall, will you?"

"Oh," said Farren, and felt like a fool. Then she shook herself. "Oh, I was just going to do that."

She levelled Farren with a smug look, then a nod. "Of course you were."

Farren crawled underneath the bed, mostly to hide her embarrassment. She wedged one hand into the narrow gap between the wall and the bed.

An assortment of her possessions-- a coin purse, an empty inkwell, a spare Quarleen mask wrapped in paper and a revolting amount of dust and cobwebs came into reach. Then finally she retrieved a rectangular object from the mess and emerged from under the bunk bed.

When on its front, it was hardly differentiable from the package Farren had received from her brother that day, but as she turned it over, the small seal in one corner came into view.

'Rodormann' it read, the letters in a circle around a dagger.

This was when Linder rushed in through the doors of the dormitory, Rendarr and Corporal Gray in tow.

"Who screamed?" asked Linder, looking worried and rather confused.

"That'd be me." Farren sat cross-legged on the floor, the parcel in her lap. "Here, this is the package we told you about."

Linder's frown only deepened, and Rendarr beside him did a passable imitation.

"How come you have it?" Linder glanced at Klo, "I was under the impression the package got destroyed with the commander's office, Sergeant Wolturs."

Gray gave Farren a narrow-eyed stare. "I'm pretty sure you have a hand in this."

"This may surprise you," said Farren, "but I did not steal it."

She gestured to the burnt remains of the box of cookies from Finnian on one side. "This explains everything."

To Linder and Gray, without context, an incinerated box of cookies sadly did not explain anything. And the next moment, everyone was talking over everyone.

"Shut up, all of you!"

Everyone looked at Klo, who pinched the bridge of her nose tiredly, brows crinkled. With the commander's sudden death, the camp had fallen into disarray, and both Lieutenant Evander and Second Lieutenant Audryn had leaned upon Klo for keeping things in order.

"Ah, forgive my outburst," she sighed.

"It's quite alright," said Linder, who looked equally as tired, "I understand the pressure you must be under."

She thanked him, then turned to the others. "Let me clear things up."

After she explained and cleared up the confusion with the two similar packages, the chaos resolved, however grudgingly, as Corporal Gray seemed set upon proving Farren a thief, and Linder, surprisingly, defended her. At last, they gathered around the package on the floor.

✦✧✦✧

"So this is what all this hassle is about," Gray said, "shall we have a look, Sarge?"

Linder nodded, then turned to Klo. "Well, Sergeant Wolturs?"

That, and under Farren and Rendarr's pleading looks, she gave in.

"Please don't tell me we have to ask the lieutenant for permission again," said Rendarr.

"Well, it's about time we open it. Last time we delayed it and it sure as hell didn't end well. And Lieutenant Evander has put my squad in charge of the encampment," Klo said, "so I believe he'll understand. Go ahead."

Before anyone further delayed the much awaited moment, Farren unwrapped it, revealing a rectangular packing box, the standard sort the Dark Saints manufactured. Inside was a polished wooden case the size of a book.

A letter was enclosed with it, in which Linder took immediate interest, while others poured over the wooden case. The lid clicked open to reveal a --

"Knife?" said Rendarr blankly. "All this fuss for a--"

"It's a dagger, you blithering--," Gray cut in, but stopped as Linder cast him a cold glare, looking up from the letter.

So it was, a dagger. A very old one too, with worn leather strips wrapped around the handle, its blade encased in a plain leather sheath. Dozens of such daggers, even better ones Farren had seen at the Kilford Smithy in Silver Knife Square. Hardly anything noteworthy about it.

That was until she unsheathed it.

A collective gasp left them as the many pairs of eyes fell upon it, and finally Linder looked up from the letter. The dagger blade was unlike anything she'd ever seen. It was not iron, nor the more expensive steel, nor any other metal she could name.

In her hands shimmered a translucent, crystal blade, streaks of green spread out like the veins of a leaf within it. It had the look of a fragile, ornamental relic, so beautiful it was. Yet in its solid weight and fine edge it showed the potential to pierce through even chainmail. The weapon seemed to radiate with ancient power.

"This is a thing fit for the Gods," said Klo in awe.

"I think your guess is not far off, actually," said Linder and spread the letter onto the floor for everyone to see.

It read, in elegant cursive:

Commander Brianus Karyk,

Our discourse on the subject of the Great War led me once again to reminisce about the old days, and I found something that I think you will find most useful in dealing with the matter at hand. Also, do pardon me for not bringing this up when you explained to me the situation you face. My memory is not what it used to be, as I am sure you will understand.

I am sending this to you via the Dark Saints mail service, which will surely reach you faster and unimpeded than the regular postal services...

An audible sigh escaped them in unison at this line.

...This dagger, dating back to the time of the Great War, once belonged to a great warrior whose name I never had the chance to know. All I know is that he saved my parents' lives from sure death at the hands of the Vasaeni-- foul beings Drisia had fashioned into an army by ways of Ancient Sorcery. The warrior bestowed this dagger to them as a means to defend themselves.

He was one of the Chosen Warriors who fought against those creatures. They fought valiantly, using special weapons like this dagger, but could not succeed. The northern Autumnwind Plains are witness to the tragedy. Then came The Apocalypse, to destroy the legions of the Vasaeni.

Although the Council, dominated by both Drisian gold and mages has dismissed it all; real life events I have lived through have been reduced to mere ravings of old age.

Still, I appreciate the fact you seeked my assistance against all.

I strongly believe, Pertheran, the Drisian Marine you speak of, who seemingly has come back from the dead, might be one of those Vasaeni. They yet again arise among the Drisian ranks. If that is indeed the case, you will need special weapons to deal with them.

This dagger is a family heirloom of sorts, and holds such a time old memory, it pains me to send it away. But such personal matters become insignificant before the future of an entire Kingdom. I therefore give you this dagger, with hopes you and your soldiers will use it well to save Midaelia from impending danger.

Sincerely,
Lucian Rodormann.

For a few moments, silence prevailed. So many questions, yet all of them could be answered, were Commander Karyk with them. No one said anything, eyes glued to the letter.

Uncomfortable in that stifling silence, Farren pulled forth the ruined box of cookies. After a thorough scrutiny, she concluded the clumps of ash inside were not edible. Then she gave up, mostly because Klo glared daggers at her for trying to eat ash.

"The hell is a Vasaeni?" Rendarr asked finally.

"It's a word originating from an ancient Drisian dialect, if I'm not mistaken. Plural for Vasaen," Linder said, "I once came across that word in the writings of an alchemist from the Byton's academy of magic, though I can't quite recall what it meant. Give me time. I'll look it up.”

"You practice alchemy, Sarge?" Farren asked excitedly, "but the law of restriction--"

"I know the law, Corporal. I don't practice it. Just picked up the book," he said, "for some light reading."

That's what the rows upon rows of books she'd seen at his office in Brittlerock was for--light reading.

However, Farren rather liked the idea of him being a practitioner of magic in secret, like a member of the fabled mercenary company of rogue mages led by the mysterious Captain Walric. Too bad he's is too upright to break the rules and be a rebel. She swung her gaze off him with an effort.

"The purpose of the dagger is clear, though. It's our only means to fight against those like Pertheran, the Vasaeni," said Klo, "and so we must find a way to forge more weapons like this. One dagger is not enough to arm entire legions."

"I agree. Meanwhile I'll try to gather more information on that particular term. Another thing, Sergeant Wolturs..." he turned to her. "Have you any news about Alastair Henris?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I've sent squads searching for him in the woods, but they haven't reported anything."

"For now," Klo said, getting to her feet with a note of finality in her voice, "we must wait."

Outside, darkness descended upon the ravaged encampment like a shroud.