Disappointment. Regret. Hopelessness.

In the dim firelight, they all glimmered as one in the dull eyes of Alastair Henris as he was brought before him.

Linder was familiar with such emotions a little too much for his liking, having seen them time and again in people he cared for. Gradually, he'd learnt to look for subtle changes, seen how one's eyes sunk, drained of life, heard how breaths came in long, heaving sighs and shoulders went limp, words sounded hollow.

Disappointment-- he'd seen on his parents' faces when Linder had finally mustered up courage to tell them he did not wish to spend the entirety of his life within the confines of their village, looking after the family farm and estate.

Regret, the purest form of it, he had witnessed in Gray's eyes-- and it had shaped everything the corporal did, from the decision to accompany him to Brittlerock, to the tinge of guilt in his every generous gesture.

And hopelessness in a fatally wounded old veteran's smile, whose life Linder had desperately tried to save when Brittlerock had been under siege years ago.

Thus, he had gotten better at reading people. Yet that was not an ability he was glad to possess, for he did not wish to empathize with the entitled noble-born archer before him, who was stricken by an onslaught of all the aforementioned emotions at once.

After his capture, Alastair had been taken down to the patroller's quarters underground where he could not escape the firm vigilance of the vampires-- although he hardly was in a state to flee.

"Kill me, I beg you." His voice was hoarse, throat parched. "Please."

The entirety of Kinallen's encampment wanted the same-- and so it had proven challenging to bring him down here alive after Klo's squad and a dozen patrollers had found him cowering behind a hut down at the village.

And Linder could see why they were riled up. To the soldiers-- most of them peasant-born, Alastair represented everything they despised in the nobility-- him potentially being an assassin was naught but an excuse.

Even Linder himself was not free of that bias, for Sir Troth's face came into his mind, as the soldiers cruelly dragged the archer across the camp grounds.

But he could not let Alastair die... yet. He needed answers.

The furious crowd had somehow been pacified-- or rather, distracted, when Linder and Wolturs presented to them the commander's silver cloak clasp found in the woods, and shown them a possibility of the commander's abduction-- although that discussion had been anything but peaceful; a brain-racking headache hammered behind Linder's eyes as he now faced Alastair.

His matted hair was like a haystack, his whole demeanor devoid of his dignified, pure blood status-- he looked starved and parched, and his captors had not been quite civil, if the bruises and broken teeth were any indication. Alastair lay gasping and in chains before them on the cold stone floor of the small room, patrollers standing guard outside the door.

Beside Linder, Farren cursed under her breath.

"Oh, I'd love to see that highborn in shackles, even for once," she'd said on her way here, full of pure malice just like everyone else. But now it seemed to have been replaced with shock instead.

Linder took his seat in a chair. "Very well. Why do you think you should be killed?"

Alastair wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand. "Because I killed Commander Karyk."

Farren and Linder exchanged glances. Commander Karyk was anything but dead, and the Drisian soldiers they faced in the woods had only confirmed that.

However, Linder pressed on. "And how did you kill him?"

Alastair grinned widely, revealing crimson-stained teeth. "Why, shot him dead of course. Aimed at him and released the arrow. Very easy."

He was lying-- having one last laugh because he knew he was doomed, because he wanted this ordeal to end. Little did his innocence matter to the enraged soldiers outside.

Even though Linder and Farren managed to keep their calm, Dorin Farler of the night-archers was having none of it. The vampire seized him by the collars, lifting him off his feet.

"Stop fucking lying, you highborn bastard!" he bellowed, "you killed one of our brethren, when he and Dion caught you aiming at the commander."

"Dion saw me?" Alastair giggled. "Oh no..."

"We believed Commander Karyk died in the fire, but now it seems he has been abducted by Drisians, instead," Dorin said, with forced calm, "where is he?"

"If the Drisians took him... then he must be in Drisia," Alastair slumped in his grip. "Hey, that's easy to figure out. Now just finish me and be done with it, damn you!"

Dorin looked ready to knock out the rest of his teeth, but Linder stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Leave it, there's no point in forcing him," he said, "he's in delirium."

True to his words, as soon as Dorin released his grip, Alastair slumped on the floor with a clatter of chains, unconscious. Days spent in the woods, out in the cold without food and water did not go well with a beating.

"Rhilio's mercy," said Farren, tearing her eyes away from Alastair's huddled form, "as much as I'd love to be proven wrong, this bastard's anything but an assassin."

Linder's eyes flicked to her. "And the reason behind your conviction?"

Farren's eyes narrowed, watching Alastair. "If he were an assassin, he would've been made to return to the guild at Byton and face his superiors. After botched jobs, that's what they do-- and if you think you can get away with it, you're mistaken," she said, "your guild members will hunt you down and drag you back to face the consequences. And trust me, I have reliable sources to affirm this is how the guild works."

"I'm assuming your source is the Countess."

Farren gave a solemn nod. "Alastair had no reason to hide in the woods all these days-- if he were truly an assassin."

Linder fought against his headache to focus. At this point, proving whether Alastair was innocent was hardly of importance to him-- and the way he was spewing nonsense was not helping his case.

What bothered him the most was the fact that a murderer was still wandering unrestrained among them-- and the soldiers of Kinallen would not believe him unless they saw it with their own eyes.

He rested his chin on his folded hands. Very well. I'll give you concrete evidence, Kinallen-- no matter the cost.

Linder turned to Dorin Farler. "When you found him, was he armed?"

"Well, he was out of arrows."

Linder's eyes flitted to Farren, both thinking the same thing.

"He had his bow, though," Dorin continued. "Damn it all. Thought I'd finally have revenge on behalf of all the night-archers. But he doesn't seem to be the killer. Things just don't add up."

Linder's headache eased a little. "Then who do you think it is?"

"You suspected Dion Edsley, didn't you? Sweet Draedona, all of the camp was ready to beat you to a pulp," Dorin hesitated, looking around, then dropped his voice to a whisper. "They'll all drive a stake through me if I say this out loud. But I think I agree with you. Somewhat."

"Then you'd be the first," Linder said with a tired smile.

"Really, Sarge?" Gray said from the doorway.

Linder coughed. "First among the soldiers of Kinallen, I mean."

"Sure, sure," said Farren. "And our cat Pickle brought you Dion's quiver, I suppose."

"Gods, I need a break," Linder rubbed his heavy eyes, getting to his feet, "and a nice hot cup of coffee. Good thing I brought my own set of cups this time."

"Is sleep ever on your list?" Farren said on the way back up from the patroller's quarters.

His lips quirked up. "Only if it comes by chance." As it did when you were by my side.

"Or perhaps you need someone to help with that." She gave him her signature smirk, before slipping out of the door and into the night.

He mentally slapped himself, blocking the way his thoughts were about to race. Perhaps he should take a walk around the camp.

✦✧✦✧

Although there were quite a few hours left before dawn, the camp did not go back to sleep. News spread faster than a disease through the barracks and the humble huts down at the village. Linder blew on his coffee, seated on the porch of what remained of Commander Karyk's ruined office.

His eyes were on the bustling soldiers, yet his mind remained elsewhere; his argument with Karles earlier that day.

Karles had approached him in front of the entire camp right before he was about to ride back to Brittlerock to bring a healer for Farren.

"I can see now why we drifted apart-- it's because you are insufferable. You just can't change your old ways, can you?” he'd said aloud.

Linder had turned to him with a cold glare. "And the reason behind that revelation of yours?"

"Because you're doing the same thing you did back then, trying to establish yourself as a righteous hero. And so you accuse me of harbouring an assassin in my squad."

Soldiers had stopped in their tracks to watch.

"Well, you better come to your senses, Valerius. Know your place. This is Kinallen-- not Byton, and you aren't a captain of the City Watch off to rid the capital of corruption!" he jeered. "No king is going to reward you for your noble deeds, my friend-- so you better stop."

"All I did was question Dion Edsley as part of the investigation." Linder remained calm, ignoring the resentful glares that assailed him from every direction. "And if that in itself makes you believe, panicked even, that I'm accusing you of hiding a criminal among your soldiers-- then I can see my suspicion is well-placed."

What followed had been a fist slammed into his face. Then another, to his chest.

No one stepped up to break them apart. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dion's face among the crowd, watching with a morbid glee.

I see you. And it's only a matter of time all these soldiers do too.

So far everything had been going according to plan-- the argument, the harsh words flung at each other, the fight.

Now Linder was supposed to fight back. Only, he didn't.

Karles' words rang so true.

He was right.

Linder had truly fooled himself into thinking that the reason he wanted to stop the illegal magical trades of Byton because it was the right thing to do.

No. I only did it to get King Forthwind to notice me.

He had thought it would grant him recognition, fame and a place among the ranks of the esteemed and elite Royal Guards. Fighting for justice had little to do with it, he now realised as another hit from Karles sent him staggering.

Yet what was he supposed to do?

If you really have to go, then don't come back home unless you get yourself a place in the Royal Guards, said Father. Being a former Royal Guard, his father had little regard for any other regiment.

Linder thought he deserved every punch Karles threw at him, and thus let him hit until he bled.

And thus, he promised himself he would track down this assassin even it meant his death-- because it's the right thing to do.

✦✧✦✧

Perched atop a wooded hill not far from the camp in the small cemetery of Kinallen, silence prevailed, broken only by the flapping of wings of some distant night bird and the occasional gust of wind rustling the vines clinging to the weathered stone statue of Draedona.

In front of the statue, Karles got to his feet from his crouch on the withered grass. Before him on the ground was an old, sun-bleached skull, with a candle burning atop its head. Runes glowed bright on the candle's surface and the still air swirled with dark sorcery calling forth murderous minds traceable across the plains. Oh, the things he had had to do to arrange it all.

Why do the assassins of Byton need so much sorcery to summon anyway? They could simply buy their way into the Dark Saints mail service and make it much more convenient for potential clients to communicate with them. Karles was not particularly fond of magic.

Moments passed in stifling quiet, then he caught the soft sound of a breath, of dry leaves crunching under boots, then nothing. A chill ran down his spine, and little of it had to do with the freezing cold of the night.

An arrow zipped through the air and struck the ground inches from his feet.

Karles staggered back, but another arrow cut him short, barely missing his heel. Two more followed on his both sides, now trapping him in a miniscule cage of arrows-- their strength not in numbers, but their deadly aim.

Whoever had fired them did so for the sake of unnerving him. Had they wanted him dead, a single shot would have sufficed-- but there was no reason for an assassin to kill a client who had paid half in advance.

"Part of the payment has been delivered," a sorcery-distorted voice spoke not far away, although Karles couldn't see them.

"Rest of it after the job is done," said Karles, "that's what we agreed upon."

"I must say the man you ask us to kill is not going to be an easy opponent. I'm afraid I must ask a superior in the guild for the job, which will require a bigger payment."

"I don't want any half-assed, messy job," said Karles, feeling cold sweat break out beneath his shirt, "Valerius has always been an excellent swordsman. Do what you must, and the payment will be given."

The voice sighed. "Despite this being my job, it hurts me to see this. A rift between old friends ending with a murder."

"He sullied my dignity in my squad with his baseless accusations," said Karles, "he's no longer a friend, and so I have no remorse.”

“Neither do you have any reason to interfere with my personal affairs," he added, as to fill the deafening silence that had begun settle in his bones.

“Of course,” said the voice. “I'm but a hired killer. Yet it warmed my heart to see how you defended me so fiercely."

The voice became clear as the magic slipped away, and from behind the headstones of the graves, a figure stepped out.

Karles felt his throat go dry, the echo of his heart thrumming painfully in his ears. Damn you, Valerius. What sick game have you thrown me into?

✦✧✦✧

Dion Edsley of the archer squad gave him a curt nod and a smile, an arrow nocked on his bow, ready to be released the moment anything untoward happened. Karles' heart jumped to his throat.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but your friend was right. Except about one thing though," he said, "my involvement in this has nothing to do with the commander. My victim was supposed to be someone else."

Karles licked his dry lips. "And who is that victim?"

Dion's aim shifted to his forehead, and he pulled the bowstring taut. Karles realised he was playing with him, keeping him on edge.

One little movement, and Karles would be journeying to Draedona's realm. With a jolt, it occurred to him that moment that they were at a cemetery-- Dion wouldn't even have to work hard to hide his corpse.

"My dear friend who now lies in chains in the vampire's quarters at the camp. Whom I failed to kill the first time," said Dion.

Alastair. But why?

"So you falsely accused Alastair of trying to kill the commander..." Karles trailed off.

"Had no other choice, I'm afraid. I managed to silence the night-archer for good, but he got lucky and ran."

Karles' heart felt as though about to burst. Dion had killed night-archer with his own hands, carried his victim's body in his arms and pinned it all on Alastair. His stomach churned at the thought.

A thousand questions came to his mind, yet he didn't dare to ask too much, lest Dion should see right through him.

"Alastair's gonna die anyway. He's spitting nonsense like a madman already," said Karles at last.

"A shame too. I had a swift, almost painless death ready for him, far better than the agonizing path he walks now. No matter, my job is done. Sweet Draedona, the things I had to face from the guild because of this job-- I'm glad it's over." He lowered his bow and faced Karles.

"Let's get to the matter at hand, anyway. I won't get myself involved in the death of Sergeant Linder. It's not worth the risk. Someone else will have to do it in my place-- someone who can face a swordsman like him."

"Have anyone in mind?" Karles said, "from what I've heard, the assassins of Byton don't prefer swordfights in broad daylight."

Dion grinned. "But this one I speak of is not from Byton. And Linder's skills with his sword won't matter to an opponent on whom ordinary blades don't work. Much like the Drisian soldier your friends faced in the woods."

So another Vasaen enters the fray now. Just what am I getting myself into?

Karles' cleared his throat. "But the crystal dagger--"

"Your friend Valerius won't have the dagger with him that day. I will make sure of that," said Dion with a grin. "A group of bandits will attempt to raid the village. Your friend, the 'selfless hero' you accuse him of being, will run to their aid-- only to tragically die by the blade of one of them. I will stay with Sergeant Wolturs' squad."

"Ah, so that's why the payment's so huge," Karles said, "you're setting up a whole scene."

Dion tilted his head, brows crinkled in thought. "I have missed once. I don't intend to make that mistake again."

Before retreating back to the shadows, Dion turned, a sick smile playing on his lips. "Sergeant. Do you know the price of double-crossing a member of the guild?"

A pause.

"Aye," said Karles. "Stomach slit open and entrails scattered around for crows to feast on."

"Correct," said Dion before he vanished into the night, "just making sure in case you suddenly decide to reconcile with your friend Linder."

After the footsteps faded against the grassy slopes and eventually vanished, Karles sank to his knees, which were trembling.

The Death Ring had been set up. Only time would tell who would step out of it alive.