"Squire!"

Squire Christie, a small-statured man who had only been born into royalty, not fought for it, was slumped against his bed, eyes glazed. One of his servants, a lanky woman with scarred skin, stared in horror. She rushed over, tripping over her feet as she slowly moved to kneel. Shaking, her fingers reached to check for a pulse.

She got none.

"G-Get Brice!" She called down the hallway, stumbling back. "Th-There's been a death..."

A younger boy, probably around sixteen or seventeen, poked his head around the corner. "Brice? Are you sure you don't want to fetch Jason from Xavek?"

"N-No, he's definitely d-dead... As if Jason would come anyways-s."

The boy nodded, then turned and dashed off to fetch the warlock. There were no more words.

Someone needed to know how he died.

+

Lachlan had no choice.

Mors threw his head, raising up into a crow-hop. Once Preston leaped off, landing neatly, Lachlan followed him down with a tad less grace.

Reaching for his sheathed longsword, he saw Jerome turn and lunge, fingers closing around his axe. Preston grit his teeth but broke into a grin, meeting the warrior halfway with his dueling sword.

Barely avoiding Mors' flying hooves, Lachlan ducked off to the side, sprinting to Vik's side. He was closest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rob leading Mors away by the bridal, leaning off Enfer's withers. Running or just gaining distance for range?

There wasn't time to think about it. Suddenly, Vik was hand-to-hand with the black-haired woman as they grappled on the ground. Deadly teeth flashed, lunging for the thief's throat.

Nerves making him tremble, Lachlan shoved away his fear and raised his blade, bringing it down in an arc. It buried itself deep in the Asuméns shoulder, and she roared with pain. He lost his sword for the moment, but the warrior was off Vik.

In an instant, the thief was back on his feet, shurikans in hand. Of course, their moment of victory didn't last long. She was already charging them again, this time snagging her double hatchets from the ground.

So it isn't just Jerome who bears an axe.

Lachlan's sword was on the ground behind her. He darted to the side as Vik twisted his wrist and through, lodging a throwing star in her shoulder. Snatching the sword from the ground, Lachlan whirled and cut into her ribcage - managing to keep his sword this time.

Dripping blood, the woman turned back clawed at his face. He couldn't duck quite fast enough, and pain split across his cheek as her nails hit home.

His eyes opened right as a bolt speared her head.

Almost like she was unaware to the arrow through her brain, she took a couple staggering steps closer before slumping to the ground. Lachlan's eyes flicked back to where the arrow had come from, seeing Rob with a crossbow - something he had noticed but not really thought about earlier.

"R-Retreat!" The call came up in the form of a scream, the unknown man having seen the woman fall. His face was riddled with small cuts from knives Mitch had produced from seemingly nowhere.

With a snarl, the other girl stumbled back with him, blood dripping from her lips. The corpse of the dead girl waited at Lachlan's feet.

Jerome did not go with them, it seemed, though the shadows cast by the setting moon stirred with three people.

As Rob trotted over, the warrior slunk up to them, his head lowered. "I..."

"Hush it," Mitch snapped. He stormed up to Jerome - who was surprisingly free of blood - and pinned his hands behind his back. Producing twine from the belt he wore around his waist (alongside vials of dark liquids and a few empty sheaths, Lachlan noticed), he bound Jerome's wrists. He tore a large piece of fabric from his undershirt and covered the Asuméns hands with it, making it harder for him to free himself with his nails.

"You're lucky you're as important to the group as you are. Where I come from, traitors are trapped in cages with raging kodos, or rats, or they're starved, or their throat is slit one inch at a time until they finally bleed out," Mitch snarled.

"That's enough," Rob barked, watching as Preston mounted Mors. "Have him walk in front of us."

Mitch did.

With Rob and Preston taking up the rear, Mitch and Lachlan on either side of their prisoner, and Vik leading them to Xavek, they traveled. The waraxe was now clamped in Lachlan's offhand, and carrying the heavy weapon was making his arm hurt.

His mind was too busy wandering, though. Jerome was speaking, sure, with begs of how he was sorry, how he hadn't meant it. The unusual attitude had set them all off, but Lachlan guessed they had overall brushed it off. He, however, tried over-thinking it.

Now, Jerome almost seemed to reflect the others moods. Where Lachlan came from, they called that an "empath."

Before, Jerome had not been an "empath." He hadn't even been remotely emotive.

The others probably are right, though. We can't trust him. He's smart, we all know that - except maybe Preston. He might be trying to trick us.

Blue eyes nervously shifted over to watch their now deflated traitor. His head was hung low, eyes glazed over. It looked like he had given up.

He probably had.

"There!"

Lachlan jumped. Vik was pointing to the shadows of a city, illuminated in the rising sun. It wasn't very big, but that wasn't an issue. It was Xavek, still standing.

That's what mattered.

The group picked up their pace as they headed into town. Vik's face broke into a grin, and Rob smiled a bit.

"Nerö isn't far from here," he explained, seeing Lachlan's confused expression.

"And the rest of us should be able to get horses now," Vik added.

The feeling of relief seemed to wash over them as a whole. Even Mitch's scowl had dropped. Jerome's head perked up a bit, eyes brightening as their feet hit the cobble roads.

And that's when Preston noticed it.

Couy primitives rushed back and forth between the streets. Some wore collars, but most were free, genuine civilians of this little town.

The necromancer's face screwed up. "No! That's... Uck. It's wrong. You wouldn't have a woman do a man's job, would you?" He snarled.

Lachlan tensed up, glancing back. Rob's eyes had narrowed, his grip tightening on the reins.

"Preston... You're going to get us in trouble," he rebuked.

"No, I'm not. I'm sure they all know it. Don't you?! Know just how fucking terrible you are? Scum of the ear--"

A bolt of electricity met Preston's head. He slumped forward over Mors' neck as the Arabian cried out, tossing his head.

Lachlan reached for his sword, noticing Rob quietly load a bolt as Preston was pulled into the air, a soft blue aura around him. Before the others could react, a mage in a black cloak, intricately designed with indigo and white swirls, dropped from the roof of the buildings. Glowing eyes glanced up at them, one hand raised to keep the spell above.

"You are lucky I do not kill your friend."

The mage set down Preston, leaning him against the house he had leaped off of. Slowly, he stood.

Black hair curled into his face, the glow dimming from his eyes and revealing them to be a baby blue. His skin was decorated in heavy runes, some of them Lachlan recognized as Nguŷen ritual marks, though pale underneath. There were two piercings in his lip, both different hooks. The mage glanced over them.

"You are injured. Come."

He turned, walking back towards a hut on the edge of the town.

Mitch hesitantly moved to pick up Preston, cradling him in his arms as not to hurt him. Swallowing his fear, Lachlan grabbed Mors' reins and slowly, with Vik prodding along Jerome, they followed the mage.

Upon reaching the hut, their leader wordlessly gestured for them to tie their horses, which Rob did for both his and Preston's mount.

Inside, it was a sight to behold. The main room was decorated with Nguŷen ritual masks as well as Asumén war weapons, with a few Couy potteries scattered.

And as Jerome stepped inside, his skin seemed to melt away.

With a shriek, Lachlan scrambled away. Vik rushed to the doorway. Mitch jumped, nearly dropping Preston's sleeping form. Rob was just coming in, his expression dropping.

In Jerome's place stood a very pissed-off sorcerer, violet eyes glaring at the mage.

"A shape shifter." The mage smiled a bit. "I should have known the others did not see you as you are."

"Who do you think you are? Not just everyone can put that kind of curse." The sorcerer demanded, leaping forward. His hood was knocked down, white robes swamping his movements. Fingers reached as if to strangle the mage, but he was gone in a flash. The sorcerer crashed to the ground.

"What curse? The incantation that prevents shape-shifters from deceiving?" The mage blinked.

Lachlan just stared, heart pounding. Mitch slowly moved to set Preston down, slipping back towards the door.

"Yes!" The sorcerer slowly picked himself up, Vik edging closer to Mitch as he did so. "What's your name?"

The mage just kept his calm smile. "My name is Jason Probst. Perhaps you've heard of me, Seto Mijyu?"

Even Lachlan recognized that name. Jason was somewhat of a living legend, though very few knew his face. He was a half-Primitive, half-Superior mix, divinated to healing at a young age to ensure his magic. However, instead of creating a priest as his parents believed it would, the divination created a warped form of magic that blended pure arcane with a healing touch. It had often been said he was a breathing representation of good and evil, heaven and earth.

"I-I..." Seto broke into sputters. Slowly, Jason turned to Preston, his fingers snapping. The necromancer's eyes flew open as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Who are you? Where am I? I--"

"Hush," Lachlan snapped, glaring down at him.

Preston hushed.

"So." Jason glanced at them and grinned. "Who is worst off?"