Oh, the things one does for friendship.

Especially when said friend is the heiress to the throne.

Indeed, in the history of humankind there had always been brave souls who moved mountains for their friends, mighty heroes who sacrificed their lives for loyalty.

Alas, it turned out, Ellanher Marches, youngest Royal Sorcerer of Midaelia, was not one of them. He couldn't bear so much as a few sore limbs.

But he was currently in the middle of the woods of Kinallen, already too far into the plan to pull back. Besides, the high-speed, sorcery-run Dark Saints carriage moved too fast for him to simply step out, dig his own grave into the freshly fallen snow and end his own misery.

He wondered if Princess Lysandra would give him a royal funeral if he indeed died today.

As the carriage thundered down the rocky dirt road, the sorcerer struggled to read the grimoire sprawled across his lap. The book shook and pitched and danced much like its reader, the words upon the yellow pages blurring into incomprehensible, wiggly lines.

This carriage, stolen-- or rather, borrowed in Her Highness's words-- from a Dark Saints warehouse was perhaps one of the most ridiculously impractical works of sorcery Marches had ever seen. The wheels were powered by energy crystals mined from the volcanic plains of the south Midaelian peninsula-- which was not so bad in itself.

But the lack of necessary horse gear to help adjust the steeds against the high-speed wheels, and minimal upholstery on the interior to cushion the blows made for a bone-breaking, teeth-shattering ride. The morning's snowfall made the road a solid blanket of powdery white, so the carriage hit a bump every now and then.

By now Marches was sore in at least ten places, strained three tendons and after a particularly rough turn-- became a begrudging owner of a lump on his forehead the size of a small potato. The fact that his luxurious desk-job had made him stiff as an eighty-year-old man did not help his case.

When Princess Lysandra burst into his tower this morning, saying she would whisk him off to a grand adventure, Marches should not have complied. Ah well, too late now.

✦✧✦✧

"You alright back there, Your Magicality?" called Princess Lysandra from behind the wooden panels that separated the front seat. She was seated beside her black-clad spy who was driving this godforsaken vehicle.

"Wretched," said Marches. "Absolutely miserable."

"Good. We're almost there."

"Uh, Your Highness?" His shoulder slammed painfully into the wall of the carriage.

"Speak your mind, sir."

"If I die here today, do me the honor of putting red Dahlias upon my grave."

The spy driving the carriage choked. Lysandra sounded confused. "Odd request, but one that can be arranged. What does that signify? Unrequited love?"

"No. Betrayal. You tempted me with the prospect of adventure and tossed me into this death trap!" he said. "I was working on something important, you know?"

"Tracking down crows with your magic. Very important work indeed."

"Ravens," corrected Marches. "In their hundreds and thousands, are heading towards Midaelia."

The top of the wood panelling slid to one side. Princess Lysandra's sharp, dark eyes looked back at him, shapely eyebrows raised.

"Trust me, Your Highness. Sorcery is my forte as espionage is yours. I have sensed a sorcerous turbulence in Drisia. Kept well-masked for years, it seems, but now I have managed to track it down. Its source is a cemetery near Calbridge Castle."

"First, these corpse demons showing up in Kinallen. And now you say literal death omens are flying this way. For the love of Rhilio, give me some good news, sorcerer."

Abandoning his attempts to focus on the grimoire, he set it aside and looked out of the window, where scenes of snowy woods flashed past. With a gloved hand, he wiped the fogged up glass, but to little avail. Ice had frosted over it from the outside, intricate patterns, almost floral, gleamed across its surface.

"I wouldn't call this particularly bad news," he said. "Given the reports about necromancy, I'm led to believe the reason for this odd behavior of the ravens must be disturbance in Draedona's realm. They cannot reach their mistress, or perhaps she is unable to command them. As of now, they are without a proper master."

Princess Lysandra drummed her fingers across the boards in thought. "What do you think the ravens seek then?"

That was the very question he'd been up all night finding the answer to. It had not been easy to figure out.

Besides administrative work, Marches was somewhat a problem-solver for all the sorcery related trouble across Midaelia. Magical mechanisms malfunctioning, weathercock spinning in never-ending circles upon the roof of the Foreseer's office, even a mysterious blight in a hundred acre vineyard-- he'd worked out a solution, for jobs such as these were much more concrete than predicting avian behavior, where he had little material to work with.

"From what I gleaned of this current situation, it seems they might be looking for a ...guardian. One who would lead them in Draedona's stead."

In Lysandra's voice there was disbelief. "In these lands? Think the ravens would obey a mortal master?"

"The Gods have operated this way since long past, Your Highness. Legends speak of many such mortals being bestowed powers to fulfill a greater task. The Chosen Warriors raised by the Nameless One, whom this Captain Walric's lot claims to have descended from, would be an example."

She turned away with a chuckle. "I worry for the poor soul the ravens are going to choose. Imagine having those dreadful things following you around. Enough to make one soil their breeches."

Marches drew up his hood against the chill. "I'm sure they would not choose just any witless wimp. The nature of the Chosen One depends largely on the deity concerned. Had this been Edis, some exceptionally powerful ice mage may have been chosen. An architect, or a skilled blacksmith, if it were Migdros. And so on."

"And what for Draedona? A corpse?"

He laughed. "I doubt it. Likely it'll be someone who has had a near-death experience, or faced mortal danger without fear. Here's another condition-- the ravens must consider them kin. Owning some artefact related to them increases the possibility."

"I appreciate the effort you have put into this deduction," said Lysandra, "Although I'm led to believe the ravens are in for a ceaseless search. Highly doubt there's anyone among these lands who would meet that criteria. Folk are superstitious. Who would willingly keep such things knowing it'll bring them naught but bad luck? And kin with the ravens? That's simply bizarre."

Marches smiled as he slipped the grimoire into a leather case. "You never know. The world is full of wonderfully bizarre people, my friend."

✦✧✦✧

"We're there," announced the spy.

The carriage clattered to a halt, causing Marches to smack face-first into the wood panelling. When he painstakingly extricated his aching limbs out the door, Princess Lysandra had gotten down too, nursing a fresh bruise on one cheekbone.

Clad in heavy wools and furs, she had a dark cowl shielding most of her face.

They had gotten down seemingly in the middle of nowhere, in an unassuming little clearing amidst wintry woods the shade of steel and frost. Marches shivered beneath his fur-lined cloak, numb fingers encased in fine, woolen gloves. The spy stood guard behind them.

For the next few moments, the three waited, breaths steaming into the air. Ashen sunlight dappled the forest floor.

"Who goes there?" barked a voice out of the shadows. A soft click indicated a crossbow being loaded.

Marches threw himself before Lysandra at once, muttering a shielding spell. She dissuaded him with a hand on his shoulder.

"They ask for the password, Your Highness," said the spy quietly.

"I asked, who goes there?" snarled the voice again, Velan accent becoming more pronounced.

"Hail the Nameless One!" shouted the princess, her strong, husky voice carrying over the woods. "Eager is my blade to cleanse filthy blood!"

A moment of tense silence passed. Though it was worth mentioning that only Marches was tense. The other two looked relaxed enough.

Two large, heavily muscled Velan warriors strode into the clearing. Cloaks dyed azure and gold, they had silver chains around their necks. The men looked identical.

The Silverhaart Warriors.

One of them cracked a large grin, offering Lysandra a quaint little bow.

"Pardon me, Your Highness, but isn't this a rather rash decision on your part?" said the mercenary, "we could have captured you and held you as leverage over the king."

She returned his smile. "That's considering you are ready to deal with my cadre of spies who are currently well-informed of my location, as well as of your secret hideout. But before that, dear Gunvald, my fierce Royal Sorcerer would eviscerate you all." She threw Marches a knowing wink.

Fierce? Much obliged, Your Highness, but reconsider!

Nevertheless, he took his place beside her, squaring his shoulders. "Aye, that's right," he told the Velan twins he couldn't possibly 'eviscerate'. But he'd die trying, at least.

"Now, now, we're all friends here, sorcerer sir," said the other twin. "Let's get going. The others are waiting."

✦✧✦✧

Through a hollowed out tree trunk, and down a spiralling staircase went the party.

And disbelief hit him like a poorly driven carriage, much like the one he'd ridden on the way here.

The air here was overflowing with Ancient Sorcery, and this magic, Marches knew well from the libraries of the academy where he would sit for hours, simply because Ryffin Wellis was on the opposite table, drowned in some sorceress's research papers, sometimes even trying out a spell or two.

Once Marches had braved it and taken a seat right beside him, only to be left unnoticed. The fault was mostly his, due to his inability to start a coherent conversation with him.

Ryffin's magic, here?

The Ryffin Wellis who's been missing for four years?

But then again, who else possessed the talent to construct a place such as this, quite literally a fortress beneath the ground?

His head swam, thoughts clouded from a sorcerous high. The magic was simply intoxicating, making him almost forget the painful journey he had to go through to get here. Too many memories came burgeoning in his frayed mind. Beside him, Princess Lysandra was saying something, the mercenary, Gunvald answering her-- but Marches wasn't listening.

The aura was getting stronger. The owner of this magic was nearby.

Yes!

No.This can't be. I must be dreaming.

But even if this is a dream, it's a damned good one.

He stepped past them, boots thundering down the stairs. His already sore body protested violently against the exertion, but he cared little for trivial things as such right now. And the steps seemed to go on and on. Breath catching, throat parched, he chased the magic like a mirage.

"Oy, sorcerer!" cried one of the mercenary twins. "What's bitten you all of a sudden?"

Four years of worth of waiting, countless trips to the academy only to find a certain room unoccupied, gallons of wine downed, inkwells emptied on parchments to scrawl silly poetry which later ended up in the fireplace-- and the answer to all his longings was right here within his reach.

Or was it?

If this turned out to be a mistake, if this was not the person he was looking for, his heart was sure to explode and this would be his end. With that in mind, a panting and wheezing Marches burst through a pair of double doors into the large main hall, eyes searching for a flaming red head.

Several heads turned to him, many red ones at that. Both Velans and Midaelians crowded the hall. He could no longer sense the magic, mingled with the several other sorcerous presences of this room. It seemed many of them were skilled mages.

Was his mad pursuit a failure after all?

He was still looking bemusedly among them when the mercenaries got to their feet in alarm, weapons sliding out of their sheathes. He did not-- could not-- protest when they began to surround him on all sides, throwing inquisitive phrases around. All that running had taken a toll on his weary body. He found it hard to breathe, the floor swaying under his feet.

"Stop!" cried a voice somewhere amongst them.

The crowd parted to give way to a figure, who was but a tall silhouette in Marches' blurring vision. A ruby brooch glinted at their chest, awfully similar to the one he had once sent to a certain alchemist as a gift.

"Calm down, you lot," said Ryffin Wellis to the mercenaries. "I...I think I know him."

His hair had grown much longer, gathered behind his head in a half-up. His complexion was bronzed, skin sprinkled with freckles, light stubble lining his jaws. He was no longer the quiet scholar, but someone who had become used to roughing it in the wild.

Marches remembered those deep forest-green eyes. They held the same softness in them.

His legs nearly gave away, but Ryffin strode closer to him, large hands closing around his shoulders to prevent him from falling.

"Ellanher, was it? Of course! You were one of the first years, always hanging out in the library." He gave him a gentle smile Marches hadn't the strength to return. Shock stole the words from his tongue.

The Ryffin Wellis remembered his first name.

"..Yes," said Marches stiffly, all poetry in his soul fleeing to oblivion when he needed them the most. "That's my name," he said stupidly.

Ryffin frowned. "You're shaking. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," said Marches before he collapsed on the floor.

✦✧✦✧

Sergeant Valerius Linder wondered if he should be concerned about the raven tailing him all the way from Kinallen to Brittlerock.

Even as he led his horse through the front entrance, the bird watched him intently. Perched upon a signpost, glossy wings folded, its beady eyes regarded him with almost scholarly attentiveness.

He didn't think much of it. All that talk about them being omens of death was superstitious rubbish, anyway. Everyone dies sooner or later.

All around him, Brittlerock bustled with life today, the mines teeming with workers, guards overseeing work and maintaining order, soldiers from the garrison busy at the newly built checkpoint.

Trade wagons, carts from surrounding villages carrying crops and headed for Byton city, pilgrims and common peasants seemed to have all their papers in order and passed along smoothly, while the lavish, gilded carriage set with four majestic white stallions stood halted to one side.

For the last two days.

A Council Mage stood sullenly, throwing scathing looks at the common folk passing by, and occasionally barking sharp words of warning at the poor driver, who had little means to resolve their current problem of not having necessary documents and having to wait for some bloke named Lieutenant Evander from Kinallen to arrive and grant them approval.

So far, the plan of stalling the mages had been going well. Linder smiled to himself from where he sat astride his stallion near the queue of the checkpoint. The decision of coming here instead of accompanying Sergeant Wolturs to Captain Walric's council was not one easily made, for his heart yearned-- rather unprofessionally-- to catch a single glimpse of Farren, to hear her voice again and perhaps partake in yet another game of tossing crooked remarks back and forth: her favourite sport. But someone had to ensure things in Brittlerock remained in order, especially after his absence for the last few days.

As he cut through the line, a young recruit began to protest, until he saw his face.

"Sarge! You're back?" His face lit up.

He recognized the boy. He himself had granted his request for leave, the day when Farren, Rendarr and Karles had first arrived at Brittlerock. It seemed ages ago.

Linder chuckled. "So are you. Help me clear a way to the mages' carriage, will you?"

"Absolutely, sir," said the recruit and held his spear aloft so fast, the crowd around him retreated in alarm. Once they had waded their way through the rows and reached their destination, he took Linder's horse by the reins and led it to the stables.

Attached to the back of the carriage, top covered and secured by heavy chains and locks, there stood a smaller wagon-- possibly for the prisoner the mages were travelling with. Inside, crouched someone, handcuffed and feet shackled in fetters.

If what Helmer reported was right, the prisoner was none other than Lord Atruer in disguise of Farren.

A shiver went down his spine.

When he'd gotten the news, he'd sat there with his head in his hands for nearly an hour.

A part of Linder did not want to believe Farren was somehow associated with the deity. Yet another part was not even surprised. Of course she was the one to make deals with Atruer, for who else would make such poor decisions? Gods, I need to sit her down and have a talk, after this is all over.

But now, curiosity overpowered everything else, and all he wanted was a single glimpse of the mages' prisoner. He was nearing the cart when a harsh cry cut him off.

"Hey, you! Away from the cart, at once. No snooping around," yelled the mage perched beside the driver's seat.

Linder looked up with a raised eyebrow. "The very purpose of this checkpoint is to ensure security. We'll have to stall you if you are in possession of suspicious items."

The mage was taken aback, and a little unnerved. "Lieutenant Evander sent you?"

He didn't. "...Aye," said Linder. "That he did. What about it?"

"Good. Do we have leave to pass through here now? Has he given us approval?"

Linder made a great show of being too busy to deal with them. "Well, depends on who or what's in there. I'll have to check."

The mage's face twisted into a snarl. "Think you're smart, lad? You just want a look inside."

"Oh, very well. I'll have to report this, then. I can hear a person inside. What with the reports of a group of Drisian slave-traders running business undercover, I can't let this go. Lieutenant Evander will send troops--"

"Alright, fine!" The mage leapt down from his seat, and made for the wagon. "Check it for yourself. Gods, these damned soldiers..."

The clickety-clack of a key turning and lock flicking open, followed by a clatter of chains. The mage slid open a narrow, slit-like window set into the side of the wagon.

"What now, ye witless meatbags?" snarled a familiar voice from inside, sending jolts through his chest.

Nearly shoving the mage aside, Linder peered through the gap. An uncanny feeling gripping him, he hissed a sharp breath. There in the cramped confines of the prison wagon sat a young woman who looked exactly like Farren, yet not quite. She was awfully familiar, but a complete stranger at the same time. Blue veins lined her arms, long, black nails like talons. Shadows lined her eyes like kohl, her skin, an ashen pallor. He had seen the real Farren from far too close to be mistaken.

Her lips twisted in a grimace as she caught his eyes. "Who the hell are you to disturb my rest at this hour, pretty boy?"

Relief washed over Linder and a grin spread across his face. This is not Farren. "Apologies, miss. We gotta do what we gotta do," he told her with a shrug.

"Well?" The mage was holding up the wanted poster with Farren's face on it. "Does this wanted criminal look like a slave to you, sir?"

Sure enough, this imposter matched up with the crude drawing on the poster, much better than the real Farren did.

"Criminal? Slave! Oh, damnation, I'll curse your entire bloodline, you fools! Not you-- the lad in black-- at least you have the common decency to apologise." She nodded to Linder before turning back to the mage. "You dare demean me, the God of Despair?"

'Farren' struggled against the chains with almost demonic strength, enough to break the links. Yet the wards holding her in place resisted her efforts.

The mage shook his head, exasperated. "We had to sedate her a little to put up the wards. Ever since waking up she's convinced that she is Lord Atruer. Think she's not right in the head no more," said the mage. "Ploughing nonsense. The Lord has better things to do than go masquerading as some random peasant-born."

"Woe is me, I cannot return to my true form! This mortal form is so limiting," wailed she.

Linder agreed. "True. I cannot even consume the amount of coffee I would like without it proving lethal for my system."

He pretended to look around the wagon and inspect, gave the chains a tug just for show. Gods, what a crook I have become.

"So we're good to go?" asked the mage after he was done.

Linder gave him a polite smile.

"I don't have the authority to say that, I'm afraid," said the man whose nod would make all Brittlerock bow. "Lieutenant sent me to check the goods only. I'll report to him and then he makes the decision."

"And..." asked the mage through gritted teeth, "when are you going to deliver said report?"

"Oh, as soon as I'm done checking..." Linder waved a hand around at the endless row of carriages. "...All of these."

The prisoner shouted some more threats and divine profanity, and the mage joined in as Linder strode away with his cloak billowing in the wind. The raven swooped in seemingly out of nowhere and followed.

Peace like he had never known flooded his senses, despite the smoke and dusty air. A quick round about the place told him things were in order, mine-workers were duly paid, the sick cared for, the tunnels below ground were well-maintained and in excellent working condition.

The old worker who had been down with Black Lung greeted him near the gate, now all healed up. A few more paces later, two others gave him enthusiastic salutes-- Linder had once resolved a brawl between them.

He found Commander Del on the porch of the mess halls, smoking a pipe. He beckoned Linder closer.

"I see you're doing well now, Valerius. That's a relief," he said jovially.

"And everything here seems to be in order too, sir."

"What did you think? That we'd be all staggering blindly without you?"

"No, that's not what I--"

The commander laughed, thumping him on the back. "We near well were, ain't gonna lie. Didn't realise how much we'd come to rely on you until you were gone."

When he looked at Linder, his expression was soft. "For years, you have taken care of this place. What used to be a bunch of drunken louts, you've made them into hard-working folk. Restored order. Taking the reins in your stead for a few days is the least I can do, son."

Pride swelled in Linder's heart, mellowed by a dash of bashfulness. The people around him, these wooden, sooty buildings, grey-clad workers felt no longer a place where he'd been cast away, but one where he was respected, loved, his efforts appreciated.

Father had told him this dust-clogged mine was where he belonged, not the elite ranks of the Royal Guards. He had been ever so right.

For a moment, he simply stood there as the commander puffed out rings of smoke.

"There's something I'd like you to check out," said Commander Del after a while.

"Of course. What is it, sir?"

The commander hesitated, then began to stride away. "Follow me. Better I show you, because I dunno what to make of this."

He led him to the two-storey building where on the upper floor stood Linder's office.

The sight which greeted him would have scared most folk away, and it clearly had, for the surrounding lanes were deserted. Everyone except the guards gave the building a wide berth.

On the gabled roof, along the eaves in a neat row there sat a score of ravens, judging them in silence. The one following Linder glided down to join its kin.

"Been like this for the last few days. One or two showed up, at first. But now a whole bunch of them," explained Commander Del, a reasonable trepidation in his voice.

Linder was not too perturbed.

"Tell folk to take it easy. Nothing to fear from just a flock of birds," he told a flabbergasted Commander Del.

He strode into his office, and threw open the windows. Glittering little judgemental eyes studied his moves from the windowsill, some trilling softly and others pruning their midnight feathers. Linder rummaged around, remembering he had a tin of biscuits lying around there somewhere.

If he offered the ravens a little snack, surely they'll fly away after they had eaten their fill?

Worth a shot.