One of Alastair's earliest memories of his brother was of him saying that the woman in the portrait down at the parlour was not his mother.

Nor should he address her as such.

"Only I and Tassie get to call her that," Alfred said. "Not you."

There they stood before said portrait, holding a candle in their little fists. Midsummer's heat was still warm in the air, and afternoons stretched long, redolent with the scent of flowers. The day was Mother's death anniversary. They'd only just returned home with Father and Tassya after visiting her grave and having placed offerings at the shrine of Draedona. Tassya left to fetch a tinderbox to light the candles, telling her brothers to wait.

Alastair looked up with amazement in his big, bright eyes. "Why? What should I call her then?"

Above him loomed the silhouette of his big brother. Big he was indeed, and tall enough to ride a horse. Soon he would be fourteen, big enough to be a soldier, Father used to say. But Alfred didn't want that. On his left cheek was a big, purple bruise. His red nose ran and tears leaked out as he stared at the portrait.

"You'll call her nothing, because she is not your mother," Alfred said with an angry sniffle, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"What?"

It couldn't be true. The lady in the painting looked just like Tassya; the same gentle eyes and soft smile. And Tassya was his sister, was she not? Alfred must be so stupid to say that.

"Your mother left you to die. My father found you in a gutter and brought you home, and now we've got to put up with you!" Alfred snapped, nursing his bruised face.

An aching lump formed at the back of his throat. Father or Tassya never spoke to him like this.

Alfred then reached down to snatch the wax candle from his hands. "Give it here, filthy bastard!"

Alastair didn't know what that was supposed to mean. But they seemed to be Alfred's favourite words for him, because he said them a lot.

"You lie!" screamed Alastair, punching at his knees with his feeble, tiny hands. He recalled hearing their father and Alfred quarrel and fight last night. Something about inheritance and property, too boring for Alastair to care. But he did hear a mighty scuffle.

"You're just angry because Father shouted at you, isn't it?" he said in defiance.

That was the first time Alfred hit him. It would not be the last.

He'd no clue why Alfred spoke such nonsense. Yet that nonsense would unravel to him in later years when Tassya would sit him down one day and tell him the truth he had the right to know. He was but the child of a maid employed long ago in the manor, whom their widower father had fallen in love with. He was not left in a gutter by his mother, if that was any consolation. She'd died not long after his birth.

━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━

Alastair slipped his hood on and pulled the bowstring taut. The ring of the ship bells and chattering pigeons up at the rooftops of warehouses snapped him back to the matter at hand.

There, only a few paces afar stood his half-brother, all grown up and still continuing to tear down his life despite never laying hand upon a weapon.

"Bait and switch," Linder was saying, "you must be familiar with games as such in your line of work."

Alfred stood rooted to his spot for a long moment before he spoke, a cold smile mirroring Linder's.

"I am indeed," he said, then spread his arms apart in an air of defiance. His rich, embroidered cloak billowed in the wind and he stood nearly as tall as the sergeant. "But my previous statement stands. I do not know what 'papers' you're talking about."

"In which case you will not mind a thorough search of your ship." Linder's expression darkened as he raised an arm to gesture to his soldiers. They stepped forward at the silent command.

Alfred's next words caught them off guard.

Even Linder.

"Why, of course not!" he said. "You, the protectors of this city, may do whatever is deemed fit to ensure our safety. Come, I'll lead the way."

But the papers were fabricated, and were they to be found on board, Alfred would be proven guilty. Why is he still playing this mad game where he's already lost?

The silent crew set down the gangway, and up he went aboard the Conquestador, soldiers in tow. Linder brought up the rear, forehead set in a deep, hard frown and gloved hands clenched in fists.

Alastair made to follow him, but found his way blocked by a cloaked arm thrust forward.

"Stay back," said Linder.

"Why? I'll be out of sight."

"I said no!" he snapped, then struggled to find his composure. "I...will take it from here, Alastair. You have helped me much, and I'm thankful for that. But your job ends here now. Do as I say."

But Alastair had not come all this way to be tossed off track.

"This is related to my family, Sarge. My sister lays on her deathbed because of that scum of a man. I've been through every step of this investigation alongside your squad. Why exclude me now? At least let me see his arse be thrown into the dungeons. He is trapped and has no way out, whatever theatrics he puts up now. "

"Exactly," said Linder. "He is a cornered beast. He may attack in any direction, and I can no longer predict his next moves. Why do you think I asked a host of armed soldiers to search the cargo?"

His nails dug into his bow, eyes boring into the back of Alfred up on the deck. Muttering a curse, Alastair drew back. "Very well. Have it your way."

Linder gave him a grim nod and strode up the gangway, old wood creaking below his muddy boots.

Yet there was no holding back Alastair. As soon as he was gone, he crept up tracing his steps. He slipped into the shade beneath a tall pile of empty crates, within earshot of where Linder walked up to stand beside Alfred.

Some soldiers from Brittlerock and a few from the City Watch went belowdecks to search the cabins, while others checked the goods on board. It seemed as though Linder half expected a troop of Vasaeni from Drisia to emerge, swords bared. Yet nothing of that sort happened. Neither did they find the plans, forged or otherwise.

Many a minute passed in which on the other side Alastair could only hear the sounds of crates being pried open, their contents sifted through and cast aside. He peered up to see a soldier dash up to Linder. His dejected look was enough to tell that the report was a negative one. Linder strode back to speak with Alfred.

Alastair's head was reeling.

Where did it all go wrong? Where on earth have you stowed the plans, Fred?

As though in answer, Alfred spoke on the other side. Alastair crouched low, pressed his palms against the dusty deck and...listened.

"Maybe you're searching the wrong ship, sir?" He said to Linder, his voice dropped to a faint whisper, his knowing smile almost audible. "The ship you should be searching left the harbour weeks ago, while you were busy watching me. Though I don't mind. Having an armed force to stand guard over me in these dangerous times is a wonderful thing indeed. I felt safe."

Silence on Linder's end. Alastair sucked in a harsh breath.

"You won't prove anything, Sergeant. Go out there and tell those guards that they have wasted their precious time."

After a long minute which dragged on as though for an eternity, Linder spoke.

"Perhaps I could do just that. I could simply walk out there and tell them it was a false alarm, and the worst I'd receive would be a curse or two."

A deafening pause.

"But ask yourself, Alfred Henris. What awaits you, when the Drisian general arrives, only to realise you have sent him the wrong plans? That in his eyes would be betrayal."

Now on Alfred's end the silence rang, and all Alastair could hear over the clamor of the soldiers was the erratic beating of his own heart pounding in his chest.

"Perhaps you think you've won, and I'm in for a walk of shame?" said Linder. "But a fate worse than death awaits you. Maybe Byton city would fall indeed, when that man arrives with his legions of the undead, for even the cleverest of strategies may yield to huge numbers. Yet he will recognize in no time that you have sent him the wrong plans. You'd wish you were in our dungeons instead. Remember what became of our dear friend, Dion Edsley?"

A deathly quiet.

"Surrender, Henris. While you still can."

Fists slammed onto rails, Alfred being stubborn as ever. That sound alone evoked memories in Alastair he didn't wish to ever recall.

"I've done nothing wrong, and you have no proof to show otherwise!" he heard his brother shout. "You know that very well, Sergeant. All this talk-- that's because you know you have failed. You have nothing to prove against anyone!"

A low, chilling laugh rose from Linder-- a dreadful sound Alastair didn't imagine the man was capable of. Chosen by Death herself, this fellow. Gods!

"Nothing to prove, you say?" Linder said, "oh, don't make me dig up the skeletons you've buried. In your own home."

"Wh-what in Rhilio's name are you talking about?"

"Ah, you don't remember, do you? Those special medicines, spiked with deadly poison? The City Watch has them now. The only reason you are not behind the bars yet is because I asked them to hold. Good old colleagues, you know? You are headed for the dungeons now, whether for treason or attempt to murder-- your next words will decide."

"That piece of scum, filth of the gutter-- it's all his doing!" Alfred snarled, and Alastair knew all too well who he was talking about.

All eyes were upon Alfred now, the truth finally out and clear like daylight. Linder heaved a sigh, as though he were tired of this all.

"Would you come willingly and have a chance to save your dignity, or would you rather be dragged across the streets?" he asked Alfred.

Losing his patience at last, Alastair peered up to look.

A cold smile stretched across his half-brother's lips.

"Neither," he said.

He is a cornered beast.

One that may attack in any direction.

Alastair's bow was ready before he heard the sound of a cutlass leaping out of its sheath behind Linder.

✦✧✦✧

The arrow shot forth with a whirr and plunged between the collarbones of the crewmate about to attack the sergeant.

A flurry of blood rose to sully the cool breeze of the Lockefell, and the sailor's severed head rolled across the deck with a wet thud.

Linder's claymore was not a second later than his arrow.

Alfred stood petrified against the rails, eyes bulging grotesquely. Linder's sword thrust to hover beneath his chin the next moment, still steaming with the crewmate's blood.

"I tried being civil, but you fucking asked for it," he said, then threw a glare around the surrounding folk. "Tell them to drop their weapons, Alfred. Or we might have to slaughter the entire crew to know which ones are your dogs."

No slaughter was needed, however, for cutlasses and scimitars clattered to the deck and hands shot up in surrender when the squad of Brittlerock reached for their blades.

Alfred followed suit. He knelt, hands underneath his heavy cloak bunched across the filthy floor of the deck. Then his eyes landed on Alastair.

His fingers fumbled inside his cloak for a moment before he smiled, the toothy grin of a cold blooded murderer. "Hey, Al."

"I told you to stay back!" Linder snapped at Alastair, before kicking Alfred down as he tried to rise up. A great black boot slammed to his side, keeping him pinned down. He then gestured to the City Watch. "Bring the handcuffs!"

Footsteps thundered and the Conquestador bustled with a sudden hurry to heed his command. His fury today seemed unparalleled.

But all this while Alfred's eyes never left Alastair's. His arms were folded under his cloak and he shivered, as though the weight of his sins finally pressed down upon him. A thin trickle of blood ran down his split lip.

"Are you finally happy, Al? Isn't this just what you wanted? Me and Tassya out of your way and all the money to yourself?" he muttered, then spat at his feet. "Traitor!"

I'm a traitor?

Blood boiled in Alastair's veins-- the filthy blood of a bastard, as his brother liked to call it. He made to lunge at him, tear his throat apart with his bare hands, but several arms shot out to hold him back. Linder's soldiers leapt to restrain him.

"Enough!" A blue vein stood protruding on Linder's forehead, his usual, calm composure finally breaking. "Do not take the law into your own hands."

"Allow me to speak with my brother, for Rhilio's sake!" Alastair tore himself away from the grip of the soldiers to stand against the starboard side rails. "After your soldiers take him, you'll have all the time in the world to interrogate him as you wish. A few minutes is all I ask!"

Alastair stood to face him, albeit from a good distance, bow in hand. He had but only one question, whatever Alfred chose to prattle about. But before he could speak, Alfred cut him off.

"I may be the one being dragged away in chains, but this is all your fault," said Alfred. "This day never would have come if not for you. I swear to the Gods above, you were a beacon of ill omen the day you stepped into my home."

"Look at you, pointing the blame at me even as your hands are sullied with the poison you gave to our sister." Alastair hated how his voice began to choke up, no matter how hard he tried to muster a cold disdain. "Why her? You should have killed me when you had the chance. Drowned me in a canal, as you so loved to say."

Even the creaks and groans of the masts and the lapping of water against the sides of the ships could be heard, for the soldiers listened intently, the scandal of a noble family scattered out in the open. Alastair did not care, for he had little to lose.

"Tassya raised us. She took the reins of the business where you struggled to strike a deal. After Father passed, she was all we had. What did she ever do to you to deserve that?"

Alfred hung his head low, his smile no longer cold and snickering, but of a man laughing at his misfortune.

"What would you know, Al?" he said, "what did you ever care to know about the things that went on in the councils Father used to hold? You were out drinking with those fair weather friends of yours. And when he was no more, off you went to make a name for yourself in the army, knowing Tassya was sick."

Alastair had nothing to defend himself with, for every word was true, however vile the mouth uttering them might be.

"Where were you when the losses we took led us to the brink of ruin? When we had to consider selling the manor?"

Alastair had no idea what had gone on back home in the months he'd been gone.

"What on earth are you talking about? Tassya never wrote to me about that," he said, anger momentarily replaced by bewilderment.

Alfred's face darkened to a scowl. "She never did quit her awful habit of sheltering you, did she? I knew that would be the death of her."

"You may dwell in that delusion for as long as you live, my brother. But it was none other than you, killing her slowly."

"I tried to help her!" he spat, eyes glaring and glistening. Both enraged and saddened, just the way he used to look at Mother's portrait.

"By giving her poison? Granting her the sweet release of death?" It was the first time in his life Alastair had ever dared to raise his voice before his elder brother, and it sounded deafening to his own ears.

Alfred lowered his head, shoulders shaking. But he was having none of this soppy theatric. "Answer me!"

"If you really wish to know, I'd spent nearly everything the two of us had to cure her. Nothing worked. As if things couldn't get any worse, one of our ships was lost to the sea, fallen prey-- looted by the Drisian Marine fleet. Yet still Tassya would not let me have your share of the inheritance," he said, then looked up at Linder. "Here's where General Reylan comes in, offering to spare my ships and get rid of my good for nothing half-brother. For a price."

Had it been other times, perhaps a triumphant look would have graced Linder's face, having finally forced out the confession. Yet in his eyes was nothing but pure disgust. "And so you hired Dion, a high born killer to befriend him."

"So I did. But you got lucky, Al! As you always have been. From there, I had only the choice of saving myself, or her. For once in my life, I chose...me. Is that so bad?"

Alastair sank to his knees, wishing with all his heart that Dion had succeeded in his mission. That he did not have to hear the wretched words of this raving madman before him.

One arrow, poison-tipped and well-aimed was all it could have taken to save Alastair from this miserable existence. His money would have been better spent healing Tassya. He would not have to see her wither away.

She could live. The Henris manor could become a happy place again, someday.

If only he were dead.

A handful of guards from the City Watch came striding up the gangway now, footsteps follwed with a tinkle of heavy chains. Alastair did not bother to look.

"Up!" he heard Linder say. There issued a scuffle as he roughly pulled Alfred to his feet and dragged him across the deck to stow him in the hands of the City Watch.

A hand landed on his shoulder. It was Karles.

"You've done well, Al," he said. These were indeed the first gentle words spoken to him since his arrival among the soldiers of Kinallen. He did not slap away that reassuring hand, nor did he scoff and claim he was fine. He was not.

"I know this is little consolation, but your help has proven invaluable in this investigation. Even Linder told me so. It was brave of you to tamper with the poisoned medicines and replace them, for Draedona knows what Alfred could have done if you got caught. It is for you that Lady Tassya's last days would be spent in peace."

He looked up to see Karles give an awkward attempt at grinning. "Ain't saying this to flatter you. Heaven knows there have been times when I've genuinely wanted to kick your arse."

"I probably deserved it."

Alastair got up with a great effort, sliding his arrow back to its quiver and slinging his bow across one shoulder.

"Aye, that you did," said Karles and patted him on the back. "Let's get going. With this out of the way, we've much to discuss. See if we can get tidings of what's going on beyond the hills."

"A last word to my little brother, if you'd please."

Alastair and Karles looked up at the voice.

There in the middle of an armed circle of soldiers and guards, stood Alfred, ready to be taken away. Shackles were around his wrists, thick, heavy chains dragged right down to the fetters to his feet. He had not given up his cloak though, still clinging onto that last piece of highborn dignity.

"No," said Linder simply. "You have spoken enough, more than I would have liked." He gave a tug at the chains and he went staggering forward.

"Al?" he said, ignoring all else as he stood rooted to his spot, struggling against the force.

A strange calm had settled about Alfred now, nothing like the agitation that gripped him but moments earlier. He did not look like a man about to be thrown into the palace dungeons, accused of heinous charges. He was...smiling.

Alastair sighed and turned to him. "Just be done with it. Have you any more sick confessions to make?"

Alfred's face turned solemn. "No. Rather, I've something to give you."

Something other than this endless torment?

"And what would that be, pray tell?" he asked.

Alfred took a deep breath and straightened to face him, swaying on his feet a little as though drunk. But his expression was firm as steel.

The next moment would be when Alastair would realise what a fool he had been to slip his arrow back into his quiver.

Yet then it would be too late.

Too late for Linder's sword to swing, for Karles to pull his bowstring, and for the guards to plunge their spears into his elder brother's body.

"Remember this?" The chain links clattering together, Alfred reached into his cloak and took out the brass-lined pistol crossbow Father had brought from his travels. A lovely little plaything it was... small enough to carry around in one's cloak. He pointed it to Alastair.

Alfred had never been a skilled marksman. Yet none would miss from such a close range.

A single quarrel was mounted upon it, tip glittering with crystals of Glikayne. "You wanted to play with this so badly, when you were little. But I did not let you. I have not been a good brother to you, all these years. Can you forgive me?"

Time seemed to halt. The billowing sails froze mid-air. The waves of the Lockefell ceased to flow, and a high-pitched ringing deafened their ears.

A warning cry split the still air. Linder's sword sprang out of its sheath and came down in a deadly swerve. Arrows flew and lances thrust forward.

"I'm so sorry that I hit you that day, Al. But won't you play with me now? For one last time?" said Alfred, before his head split in two beneath the steel claymore.

The crossbow went off with a resounding snap.

Time flowed again.

✦✧✦✧

It would be a blatant lie to say Alastair was not ready, for indeed he was, to embrace death when it came at last. Yet when the bolt hit, tearing through his neck, the impact threw him back nonetheless.

The rails behind him slammed into the back of his knees, and then he was falling, deep into the cool, welcoming arms of the river. The wavering image of the sun from beneath the surface was the last he saw before the water reddened.

Lockefell tasted fresh blood, and the war had hardly begun yet.

✦✧✦✧

The cobblestones swayed beneath Linder's feet, his head spinning and a dreadful headache firing up behind his eyes. Dark clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the fast falling dusk. A stormy wind rose to shuffle around the dried leaves strewn across this street upon the upper district. The Henris manor loomed against an overcast sky.

Linder halted. Hopeless exhaustion numbed his limbs. Karles had asked to accompany him, but he'd turned him away.

He was so very sick of it all. He seldom turned to alcohol in times of distress, but tonight-- after this last task was finished, he would drink until he crashed into a comatose sleep.

Is this what it meant to be chosen by Death?

To become her grim messenger?

Here I come to an ailing sister, bearing the news of the death of her brothers.

Although he regretted the death of only one.

Linder had won. Twice had he brought the culprit out into the light, thrown them at the feet of justice and made them spew the truth. Yet at what cost?

When he crossed the main gates of the manor, all was quiet. The flowers growing from the vines around the flanking pillars hung shrivelled and colourless. The old servant of the Henris household sat at the doorstep, feeble knees drawn up to his chest and face buried in his gnarly hands.

Not daring to utter the question for he could guess the answer all too well, Linder simply strode up to him and stood in silence, until the old man raised his tear-stained face.

"I brought the Lady her afternoon tea, sir. But she wouldn't wake up." He sobbed. “She wouldn't wake up!”

Thus perished the Henris family in the matter of a single day.

✦✧✦✧

Over the walls of the upper district, far from the east horizon, storm clouds could be seen raging toward the city, growing larger by the minute.

Linder's cloak whipped this way and that as he made his weary way down the deserted streets. Around him sounded the loud snaps of folk shuttering their windows and bolting their doors, for such an untimely storm would be devastating indeed.

This was when he met the stranger.

In the distance, cloaked in the haze of the rising dust there walked a lone woman, slowly making her way towards him.

Her dark gown dragged long and filthy behind her, thick black hair free and rippling in the wind. In her hand she swung what looked like a strangely misshapen basket, dripping red.

Yet when she came nearer, it turned out to be the severed head of an old man with a long beard. From the mangled neck dangled the gold insignia of the Byton Royal Academy of Magic.

The woman stopped a couple dozen paces far and looked at Linder with a mad glee. She was ethereal, with all her scraggly hair and sunken eyes, almost otherworldly, but hers was a beauty that filled him with terror. She was someone-- something that was not supposed to...be. Something that breached the boundary that separated the mortals from gods, transcended the realms of the living and dead.

With a jolt of his heart, Linder noticed the ravens lining the rooftops all around, their eyes fixed upon her with a cruel intent.

The woman, as though oblivious of the vicious birds, and of the bloody sword strapped to his back, gave him a smile and held up the decapitated head, mutilated beyond recognition.

"Greetings, Chosen One,” she said. “Brace yourself, for you are next."

With a low rumble of thunder, rain came crashing down.