Within the tall stone walls of the Iron Arena, sparks flew.

Not literal sparks from the clashing of blade upon shield, but figurative ones, sizzling and crackling at the conflicting tempers of the two people trying very hard to be polite.

To one side was the captain of a certain outlawed company, to the other, a veteran who'd helped hone the skills of the soldiers of Kinallen.

"I step into the city at the crack of dawn, and the first thing I hear is that my soldiers, whom I spent all my life training, are being...trained. Again. By a battlemage," said Second Lieutenant Audryn. Her knapsack and travelling cloak lay thrown aside. "Is that right?"

"It would appear so," said Captain Walric. She stood on her tiptoes, primly looking down, and Farren had the most ridiculous notion that she did this to appear...larger. "Iron Arena is not known for a banquet hall, so evidently we are not here to hold a feast."

Second lieutenant coughed politely. "I have trained them for years. And you think you can instill some phenomenal improvement in their tactics of combat. In one day."

Captain Walric looked around, found a little rock studded on the dusty ground and stood on it. She spoke, in a politer tone: "I don't think, I aim to instill that improvement. I do appreciate you calling them phenomenal, thank you very much."

When Audryn only glared in response, she smirked. "Admit it, Second Lieutenant. I have the higher ground. Her Highness has approved of this."

"Are these two for real?" Farren asked Klo who stood by her side, looking defeated. When the captain and the second lieutenant started bickering, the majority had turned to the sergeant for settling things, only for her to get yelled at and dismissed with a "the elders are speaking." A few paces away sat Rendarr, half-asleep and drooling on Gray's shoulder without a care in the world.

As the voices rose, Klo pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sweet Draedona."

Farren patted her on the shoulder. "I'll make sure you do not spiral into a caffeine addiction."

Xenro on the other hand was having a rather grand time at the stands, watching the argument as spectators enjoyed vicious fights. At least someone was happy about being dragged into Iron Arena so early in the morning. Hilda was perched near the foot of the seat Princess Lysandra occupied, a notebook open in her lap, likely scribbling down the bickering for a ballad, if the sheer glee in the bard's face was any indication. The princess would occasionally point at a spot in the writing, likely adding her own spice into it.

"Now see here," said Captain Walric, "I'll need some of your soldiers to join me in search of the burial sites of the Chosen Warriors--way north in Drisia. The mountain pass is treacherous, and Draedona knows what we might run into when we're down on the plains. I'll need them sharp, so just one session to get down the basics of sorcery. So that they can hold their own. I ain't hauling arses all the way back home."

"We can hold our own perfectly well without sorcery involved, thank you very much." Audryn's face was stern, but the captain's softened.

"I do not doubt that for one moment, trust me," she said gently. "You are a noble lot. You play by the rules and play fair. But those ones beyond the hills don't."

Second Lieutenant Audryn shook her head, brows furrowed. "That, I'm well aware of. It's the Council that I want nowhere near my folk. Everyone knows how much trouble those fools gave to the girl--" she gestured to Farren, "--and she only used sorcery for once. If they get even so much as an inkling of this, the entire division will be thrown behind bars, and the minister won't be able to help our cause."

The captain's eyes brightened. "Ah, so you are conflicted about the legal consequences, and not the training itself. You do agree with it otherwise, do you not?"

For a moment, Second Lieutenant Audryn looked as though she would ask two of her soldiers to bring a crate or something similar for her to stand on and have the high ground, in the captain's way. But then she groaned and shook her head. "If you can ensure this will be conducted safely, right in the middle of the capital city in broad daylight-- I suppose I'll have no more objections."

Captain Walric seemed to have been waiting for this exact response. She bowed deeply to the audience of soldiers and mercenaries at the stands and gave a raucous, triumphant laugh. "Then I got you covered, my friend!"

She barked a command. The crowd of the stands thinned as the battlemages filed out in a neat row and descended to the fighting ground. Spreading out far, they stood in even gaps, encircling the open area. The air warmed with their collective magic, and there rose a low hum. A thin column of pale gold light rose from the centre of the arena to diverge and spread all above them like a canopy, its surface ever glittering and swirling and roiling like the sea.

"Simply put: this is masking. A method us battlemages use to hide our sorcery from the Council dogs," explained the captain.

Farren remembered this--and also being told that she stank of magic because she'd never learnt masking, back at the hideout in Kinallen. Gotta scrub off that stink now and learn this shite.

"With their powers joined together, my lads can cover an area as big as this--and not even Rhilio would get a sniff."

Audryn glanced around, looked at the princess who gave an affirmative nod. She balked, at long last. "...Very well."

With a rumble and a thud that shook the entire stadium, the giant iron doors swung shut. The Velan twins stood guard near it.

The Iron Arena was thus sealed.

At the next command, came the turn of the soldiers to set foot into the central area and arrange in rows, ten in depth and five abreast. Farren, Klo, Rendarr and Gray brought up the second row while Karles joined the archers in the first.

Captain Walric swaggered forward, and took a good look at each of the young faces. She stood tall, one boot still on that little rock.

"Are you ready to break the law?" she cried.

A murmur rose among them, some looking hesitant while others already began to mutter colorful phrases about the Council and exactly where the mages could shove those laws.

"Oy!" Gray shook Rendarr who had once again begun to doze off where he stood.

"Mrrrgh?"

"Wake up, damn you!"

"I said, are you ready to break the law?"

"Yeah!" yelled Rendarr. "I'm awake--"

"Yeah!" The next moment, shouts of agreement shook the stands as the soldiers raised their fists as one.

"Great," said captain Walric as the chorus died down. She rubbed her hands, a mischievous look twinkling about her dark eyes. "Without further ado, here's your first lesson: Hold Your Horses."

✦✧✦✧

"Hold your horses?" muttered Farren.

"Aye, it means holding back before doing something rash. One of the things you suck at," said Gray.

"Ah, understood," said Farren, and turned back again to face the captain. Then a moment later: "hey!"

"Why do we need to hold our horses anyway?" Rendarr wondered out loud.

"I suppose the captain aims to teach us how to practice restraint on sorcery first," explained Gray with a great scholarly air.

Captain Walric pointed to him with her sheathed blade. "Wrong. I mean it literally. The first lesson you shall learn on this ground is about holding your horses."

She nodded her head and one of the mercenaries came forward to undo the latch at the wide wooden doors set underneath the gallery--the place where animals were kept during the tournaments. Inside, unsurprisingly, stood horses. Each of the soldiers were assigned one. Most of them were the ones they'd ridden on the way here from Kinallen. Farren got the infamous chestnut mare, who had previously tripped her right into Linder's arms. and kicked one vasaen without hesitation, and successfully carried the monstrous volume of 'Potion Brewer's Guide to Alchemical Theories, Vol 13'. Currently, she busied herself in nibbling on Farren's cloak.

"Listen closely," said the captain. "The thing about being a battlemage is that you do not depend upon magic solely."

"So I'm not going to shoot fireballs out of my hands?" interrupted Rendarr looking rather downcast beneath his helm.

"'Course you can, my boy," said the captain patiently. "But you'll need years of practice to bring your sorcery into control. Although I'll advise you against it. Chucking balls of fire may look great, but it's also a surefire way to give yourself away as a mage in a battlefield. And lo, before you know it, all the enemies are closing in on you in scores because they perceive you as the bigger threat. Thus you must always be subtle."

Her long cape fluttered behind her as she paced to and fro, tall frame erect and arms folded. Her voice, even though not much loud, was strong and reached to the stands above. Even the second lieutenant listened intently.

"Those who are relatively new to the idea of sorcery in combat go for the flashy things. Balls of fire, spikes of ice. Lovely. But a seasoned battlemage takes the covert approach. They won't dazzle you with their powers-- no. They'll melt your sword while it's still in the scabbard, instead. They'll freeze your armour so it goes stiff, they'll paralyze your muscles until you can barely move."

Farnen grinned at that last bit. "I like subtlety."

"I've heard you wield a huge double-bladed axe, dear. Ain't nothing subtle about that."

"But can we master these subtle arts in a day?" asked Klo.

"The offensive part--no. But as for protecting yourself against assault spells--indeed, for there are a number of age-old, effective techniques requiring little sorcery," said Captain Walric. "And here today I'll endeavour to teach you how to better protect yourself. Which brings me to--"

She took the reins of her own dun stallion. "The most effective way to dodge sorcerous attacks is to hide behind your steed. They are your best friends on the field. Common magic don't work on animals--as you know. Higher magic is a different tale, but no mage can master enough energy to use it in the middle of a battle--not unless they want to get drained for the rest of the fight. So the next time you sense your opponent is trying to magick ya, hold your horses."

It was simple.

Or rather, sounded simple.

Captain Walric donned her helm and mounted her horse, urging it into a slow trot. "Watch."

Off she went, running a circle around the arena, plumes of dust rising in her wake. The group of soldiers turned as one, watching her go from a trot to canter, and pick up speed. Golden light from the sorcerous canopy above glinted on her helm and chainmail, gauntleted hands grasping the reins firmly; she was a sight to behold.

Until one battlemage attacked her.

One of the mercenaries stepped out from the ring of those maintaining the mask, aiming for the captain.

A flurry of shards of ice sliced through the air, spinning in deadly circles as they flew toward her.

Cries rose as the captain was on the saddle no more.

The shards dissolved into air and landed no damage on the horse. But--

"Where did she--" began Gray.

As the horse rounded the corner, she could be seen effortlessly clinging to its side, one leg deftly slung into the stirrup, hand on the reins. The captain remained like that for another full lap before swinging herself upright on the saddle again.

She reined in, with a wave toward the stands. "Your turn," said Captain Walric with a grin.

In the following hour, Iron Arena erupted into orderly chaos.

Klo was the first to go. She dodged a gust of flames in much the same way, heels digging into the dust as she pulled her mount into a stop rather abruptly. A frown wrinkled her brows.

"Perfect for a first timer!" said Captain as she returned.

"Again, please," she said.

The battlemage readied a bigger fire as she rode off again.

"Those...flames," asked Farren, "they don't actually burn you, do they? We're only practicing."

Captain turned to her with a devilish smile. "Why don't you step out there and find out?"

Farren turned to the arena, eyes twitching. The rows on either side moved as more and more soldiers rode into the open area, ready to test their mettle against sorcerous forces. Come bandits or magic, Kinallen's folk backed down at nothing. The second lieutenant had come down from the stands now, standing with the captain to see how they performed.

Colors danced in the air, not only the red of the flames, but the white of frost, and blinding flashes of thunderbolt as the ring of battlemages hurled the assault spells at the riders.

One injury, thought Farren. One burn. And it could land her in bed for days.

A gentle hand landed on her shoulder. She turned to find Rendarr looking at her.

"Don't you go lecturing me too," groaned Farren. "Heard a couple hours of it from Sarge."

"Ain't lecturing you. Just take your time, I say," he said, "I know rushing into training right after you've broken that deal can be daunting. But you have to try."

She paused, face illuminated as another flash of fire went off.

"Do you think this is a mistake? Renouncing that power when we've got a battle to face?" The answer she knew, for the Royal Sorcerer had stressed that it would be hard enough for her to recover from those seven years alone. "Would another year be so bad? Just until this is all over?"

Rendarr's face went solemn. "Just until this once-- that's what you're saying now. What if another disaster strikes after that? What if Kinallen is under attack again? Would you face every battle dependent on that deal?"

"No, I suppose I can't."

His hold on her shoulder loosened. "Good. Think about--"

Not that again. "My family," she finished for him. "I know."

"No," he said. "Think about what'll happen to you. Would you subject yourself to such punishment all over again? Revert back to the old ways you've worked hard to grow out of?"

Farren looked at his angry eyes. How he rebuked her. She looked at those freckles, dark hair sticking out in odd angles. The familiarity struck painfully in her chest. She'd come to associate those features with playful jibes, merry drinking games at the Olde Weasel. To the simpler times. To home.

And today here they stood at the arena, training with forces they'd barely known, preparing for a journey to enemy lands she may not return from. With her deal undone...

"You idiot," murmured Farren. "I love you to bits, you know that?"

Rendarr sputtered. "Where'd that come from?"

Farren shoved his visor down with a snap and looked ahead. "Why, I've always been an appreciative friend. The ideal kind."

"You made me smoke Dragontail once."

"And you liked it."

"That doesn't mean--"

She didn't let him finish. "Let's grab a drink sometime, before we're off to the Plains. Us, Kinallen's lot."

Rendarr raised his visor and peered at her suspiciously. "This is a prank, isn't it? I'm not on board if you go arm-wrestling folks again and cheat them out of their coin--nope."

"As a matter of fact," said Farren, "I do have money. The God of Despair's money, to be precise. It hasn't turned back into a goblet of poison yet, so I say we spend it before it happens."

Rendarr took a deep breath, before staring out at the chaos of the arena. "Why are you like this?"

Farren could probably draw him a chart on that, had it not been for her tragic handwriting and art skills. But before any of that, an uproar rose from the crowd of the stands.

Gray had already rushed into the thick of everything, galloping high as he went. A sizzling breath of fire came at him from his left, which he sidestepped.

But the mages seemed to have grown competitive, for gusts of icy wind struck him from the right.

Farren did not see how he did it, yet it happened. In a blur of fluidic movements, Gray leapt into the air, and both ice and fire collided in a flurry of steam beneath him. The next moment, boots once again firmly planted on the saddle, he gave in Rendarr's direction what clearly was a cheeky wave and a grin. Iron Arena's champion was back.

It took her but a second to register Rendarr's reaction, face ruddy beneath his helm.

Oh.

A grin climbed her face. "Well well well--"

"A damned showoff, that's what he is!" cried Rendarr, cutting her off and readying his mount. "Been on my tail since day one, this competitive bastard. I'll show him."

He swung one leg over the saddle huffily, and next, he was off like the wind.

"I pray for you both," said Farren. "especially you, Gray."

Dawn stretched to midday as the practice went on. The sorcery they were using turned out to be props after all, when Rendarr, despite everyone telling him not to, rushed in without a helm and caught his hair on fire. After a panicking Gray had smacked him upside his head in an attempt to put it out, it turned out the fire did not burn at all.

Farren could have successfully remained rooted to her spot and not move an inch, had it not been for Klo who dragged her off by the collar. There she emerged from the fighting ground, sweaty and dusty, helmet under one arm, and dark eyes fixed directly on Farren.

"Go," she said briefly.

Farren stammered, looking for a way out. "Actually-"

"It wasn't a request. I am your squad leader."

Farren liked to think she did well, at least in the part where she was supposed to dodge the attacks. The fact that she was left hanging from the belly of her mare was a whole nother issue.

Things looked slightly better when it came to wards. All it required for the soldiers was to focus their own magic, no matter how little, simultaneously--to form a protective shield, not unlike the one directly above them. In this, Second Lieutenant Audryn's relentless training paid off when it came to synchronising their movements at command.

When at last Farren dragged her exhausted limbs up to the gallery, Xenro had a small hill of peanut shells at his feet.

"Having fun from up here?" she asked as he tossed her a water-skin.

"I was," he said, "but then I lost a bet on a certain rider who chose to ride her mare upside down."

"It's a very sophisticated move, actually. I'd like you to try that for yourself and see if you can do half as good as me," she said, then looked at him for a long moment. "Why aren't you joining in, anyway?"

Xenro took a deep breath as he leaned back, chewing on an empty shell. "I think I need some time. New beginnings, you said. But those are...never easy."

Farren couldn't agree more. Even now her hands trembled, from coming too close to those flashes of sorcery, despite knowing they were merely props. Marches had assigned her healers during practice, for starters. Yet they could hardly accompany her into battle.

"Are you alright?" he asked at last.

She tossed her cloak aside and climbed into the seat next to him."I think I will be."

That afternoon she sat with Ryffin, narrating to him all she'd learnt when the immortal soul was in her, about how the Sacred Blades actually worked on a Vasaen as he obsessively scribbled in a near-illegible script. His new book was coming off nicely so far, this one unriddled with strange alchemical formulae involving human hearts.

Even though Farren harboured no delusion about what was to come, a sense of order settled in. As though her life was back on track, for once.

Captain Walric came strolling by, looking curiously over at the manuscript. "I said in my message to bring them all, lass. Where's that serious-looking fella?" she asked. "Don't believe I've seen him in the arena today."

It seemed absolutely nothing escaped this lady's notice. Farren put a paper from the manuscript aside, long since given up trying to decipher Ryffin's scrawl. "Well, about that..."

✦✧✦✧

Half a bell. Perhaps a minute less.

That was all he'd had to get inside the Royal Archives, browse through mountains of documents and get out--and remain undetected by the patrol of the Royal Guards who were on edge ever since the soldiers from a remote outpost gained entry into the palace. The elite guards did not dare express their displeasure before the princess, not after the incident of the first day with the Miveresk brothers, but security had doubled ever since, not for the protection of the royal family, but rather to keep an eye on the soldiers.

Tall shelves of dusty old scrolls surrounded him. Ancient leather-bound records dozing in their peaceful alcoves beneath blankets of dust. Not only mundane records, but also olden books lined the walls, spines emblazoned with gold letters. Quite a few titles caught his eye. The fact that he had only enough time to work with the bland looking palace layout plans was preposterous.

He forced himself to focus on the crooked lines before him. The orginal plans lay spread, of which there were only two copies.

Three modified replicas had sprung to life beneath his lucky quill already. Every stroke that trembled, a drop of ink about to fall out of place sent jolts through his heart, although he'd practiced almost feverishly beforehand.

On scratched his quill. Minutes ticked away. A raven or two stopped by, peeking through the window. One came up to sit upon his shoulder, and Linder was quite sure it was the same one that followed him to Brittlerock. A dear, that sweet bird.

A small shadow hovered at the door, footsteps soundless, knife clutched in hands. His lookout whom Farren had handpicked for him.

"Six more minutes--that's all you've got, Sarge," Helmer reminded him, returning from his rounds about the wing. "They're headed this way."

"Just a moment, Helm--"

"A second longer, sir, and there'll be no other way to run except leaping to our deaths from the windows--" said the boy, then looked sadly outside. "Which in my opinion is a better fate than being stuck in a damn tower while everyone else is out on the Iron Arena, having fun."

The raven previously perched on Linder's shoulder swooped up and lightly pecked Helm on the head.

"Language." Linder looked up from the castle layouts sprawled before him.

"Right," said the recruit, grumbling as he dragged a stool over and sat on it with a thump. "Why can't your ravens fetch these plans for you anyway? They seem pretty clever."

"Decide for yourself," said Linder, gesturing toward where another raven was persistently pecking at its own reflection on the glass panes of the window.

"Oh."

"They are not fully under my command," said Linder, dipping his quill into the ink. "Sometimes they are indeed driven by my own reflexes, but it's inconsistent at best. The Royal Sorcerer and the battlemages have offered help, true, but something like this will take time to master. But I can't afford that time, not when Alfred is on the move."

Helmer nodded, watching soberly as the raven feather quill moved along the parchment, dark ink soaking into the scratchy surface, spreading thin swirls along where folds ran through the paper. Each motion was fluid, a flick of his wrist replicating the ancient lines and measurements of the olden layout plans of the palace. In his quill, hallways stretched where there originally stood dead ends. Doorways swung where in reality was naught but stone walls. Stairwells to the battlements shifted directions. The moat shrank a few yards in diameter. On went the quill, swift and relentless, marking down a fabricated layout for the Drisians to lose themselves into.

The parchments provided from the king were new, but Linder had torn it at certain places, dog-eared two of the corners, and matted it with soil Helmer had fetched for him from the garden.

"Think these copies will work?" asked the young recruit.

"They'll have to." Linder put his quill away and looked at the result, lips pressed into a thin line. He was finished with the four copies. The distribution afterwards was the tricky part.

"It's time," said Helmer, getting to his feet quietly. The ravens whisked away, out through the window. Linder cleared up the space, and slid two of the copies back into the ornate scrolls where the original plans belonged.

Next followed a silent, winding journey through the palace. Linder didn't know how Helm did it, but within the span of a few days the boy had learnt his way around the place. He led him along the quietest hallways, hidden passages and shadowed stairwells, emerging at last into the empty courtroom through a panel seamlessly settled into the wall.

King Forthwind sat waiting for him, chin resting upon his folded hands. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. The lavish seats of his courtiers stood empty.

"All went well, I hope?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Linder.

The king let out a weary sigh. "Look at what it has come to. Having to lock myself in my own court, like I'm an intruder in my own home. Lysandra was right."

The king's ancient eyes brightened as he looked at Linder. “But I must thank you, my boy. It has been a long while since I felt as though I had a say in how things should go. It's like a dark shadow has lifted from before my eyes.”

Arms folded, Linder smiled. “Things are not so bleak as they seem, Your Majesty.”

With an approving nod, the king sat upright and composed himself. "Ah, excuse this old man's ramblings. Let's get to what you're here for."

King Forthwind stretched out a bejeweled hand.

✦✧✦✧

Once Linder was back in his room, he stowed the remaining two of the copies safely underneath the mattress. A knock fell on the door a minute later.

He had not expected to come face-to-face with Alastair when he opened the door. Perhaps he had some new information to report about the happenings in the Henris manor.

"Any news?" Linder asked.

Alastair shook his head, then took a deep breath, as though getting ready for something. A deeply troubled look darkened his face. "I need...help."

Linder nodded, stepping aside to let him in. "Your cooperation has proven invaluable. I'll see what I can--"

"Alfred... he's been poisoning my sister. Tassya, I mean."

"What?" What terrified him more than the news itself was the calm expression on Alastair's face. He looked pale, hands shaking, yet strangely collected.

"He told me to go away. There was this carriage, headed for Wickhills. But I've done it at last. I have--I have replaced them all, you know. Sugar, finely ground--" Several folded squares of paper fell on the floor as he removed his hand from his cloak. "But she's still bad."

Linder pointed him to a chair as he slammed the door behind him. "I don't understand a thing you are saying. You need to sit down."

When after a painstaking interrogation Linder figured out what the panicked young man was trying to say, he wasted not a moment and swung his cloak back on.

"This is an alchemist's job, not a soldier's," he said, throwing the door open. "And I know where to go."