With his warped sword, Liarus picked at the remains of a crumbling Pernus. His sheath dug into the ground, half-heartedly, kicking up soot, dust, and dirt. The jaw collapsed, and all that survived was a glowing husk of brown and red. He gave up.

After a few days of burning, the smoke and fire finally disappeared. The palepowder had finally run out of fuel. In the ashes, they found very few survivors. They incinerated those they caught. Those who escaped had already slinked away into the woods.

Liarus killed time by sauntering around the village. The pain from his hand was receding, though not as fast as he'd hoped. With him was Kalathon, a Medicaler with arms as thick as tree trunks and a beard like a wild bush. “What’s the count?” Liarus leaned on the sheath of his sword like a cane. “How many did we catch?”

“Fewer than twenty.” Kalathon scanned the vellum. His brassy baritone felt more like a growl than words. “We don’t know how many were here.”

“She likely doesn’t have much here in the first place.” Liarus scanned the area. Occasionally, a surfeit of wind would hit him and the tents, drowning out his voice. “Less than twenty. Less than half of what we’ve seen before.”

“Do you think the Emlot is the reason?” Kalathon asked with his magical meter out, the jewel lifelessly dangling between his fingers. "I've no readings on it being nearby if this damn trinket can read."

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Liarus paced around the bodies, looking into the remains of the huts, the hovels, and the hall. Everything was wooden, so everything had fallen in the wake of the attack. The village was covered in a blanket of deathly soot. Few pylons from the wall still stood, singed at the tips. Deep, black wells and lines on the hovels hid deeper and blacker bodies, curled like insects. A slight touch, and they'd crumble like coal. At moments, glints of flesh still peeked through the cracks of now-chitinous, charred skin. Trees warped, leaves loud. For the first time in days, the forest was thin and bare enough that he could see Mount Ilma.

His fingers danced from the town into the woods, tracing their steps. It led him in the direction of the mountain. “She summons the Emlot from the Elder gate and brings him down. Runs across the Xeno, she gets away, and they make a course for this village.” Something was off about it; was it that simple?

“How could the dog-woman have gotten away? Couldn’t the blood mages have killed her immediately?” Kalathon tried to follow Liarus’ line of sight. "She flees, but we've all seen your sister's unnatural blade. I can scarcely believe that demon twine would let unmajicked prey escape."

Liarus’ finger and thumb rubbed against each other as he thought. “She might’ve outrun them, or Imradir might’ve let her go.”

“Imradir?” Kalathon rolled up the vellum and crossed his arms.

Liarus chuckled. “My sister." He continued walking, and Kalathon continued to follow. "Sometimes I forget that you came from the north, sir Kalathon. She changes names and appearances so often it's easier to call her Imradir. It’s elven,” Liarus said, recognizing and interrupting Kalathon’s next question, “it means ‘mimic.’”

Imradir. Imradir. The syllables rang through Kalathon’s head. What a beautiful name, and what a beautiful sound. He always had a fancy for the Salah language, but to tell that to Medicalers, their sworn enemies? Perish the thought; he would not bother his brothers and sisters in the fold and cloak. Imradir. It was a shame that with the eventual loss of the Salah, they'd also lose such words.

“So Imradir, she’s the one in charge? The one that took Princess Anaxales?”

He shook his head, and in a whisper, “Rumoured to have taken princess Anaxales. And a rumour as foul as any other, I must say. My father’s only daughter and family favourite turning out to be a parasitic blood mage? Well, we can’t have that. Not while the Ardals still maintain power in the Sunlit Chamber.”

“Of course, captain. I understand. But is this not a strange place to bring the Emlot? They were so close to the mountain.”

Liarus pointed at Pernus’ body with his sword. “She wouldn’t have given him up without some training, and that fool blade would be the only person who could’ve possibly trained him. Though, unfortunately…”

“He wasn’t as capable as he seemed.”

Liarus nodded. “Assume I’m her. Either I knew that and left Pernus to die, or I didn’t and overestimated his capability.”

“But you bested him in battle. We stopped the blood mage.”

“And that old hound used none of his swordsmanship,” Liarus sighed and spat. “The fool either underestimated me or something about his apostate brain made him forget how to fight.” The two of them passed the piling rubble and entered a small clearing.

The Medicalers had set up a ring of beds and chairs after the palepowder finally stopped burning. In the center was the palanquin, the dust inside its chambers asleep. Liarus pulled up a stool beside it, dug his sheathed sword into the ground, and turned to Kalathon. “Bring me Arlan. You are free to resume your duties.”

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“At once.” Kalathon pounded his fist on his and darted off. It wasn't long before Arlan showed up to a quiet Liarus, whose jaw was twitching.

His arms crossed, he scanned the ruins with a hawk-like vigilance. “Blood-bags still smell like meat.” He wiped the sweat and grease off his face and then fashioned the kerchief into a mask around his mouth.

Liarus gave a soft smile, though it hardly seemed like amusement. In fact, it seemed forced. His eyes stayed half-open, far off, unfocused, and glazed over. His remaining hand gripped his sword handle harder by the second. The bottom was drilling into the cracked earth. “Tell me, Arlan. How long will this bothersome smoke last to keep us away from finding the rest of them?”

“Powder’s not perfect, gave a good burn, but…well, we don’t have wind mages to move it, so it’s not a surprise it’s a little messy.” Arlan paced back and forth, back and forth, hands on his own sheet, eyes darting from ruin to ruin. “Got most of ‘em - that’s gotta count for something, yeah?”

“Most is no different from all when it comes to blood mages. We didn’t even get the queen, and she knows that we haven’t changed our tactics since the last time we ran into them.” Liarus unbuckled the pauldron on his lame arm and let it fall on the palanquin. It clanged loudly and shifted everything on top: bent playing cards, wrapped parchment, curling vellum, and snapped twine of unfurled paper packets. “Well, at least we know this still works.”

“And the powder, been a while since I’ve seen three full canisters. Shoulda brought a bit more.”

Liarus licked his teeth. His feet started tapping like a rocking chair.

“Three is enough for a village this size,” he explained, “otherwise we get into a vortex problem.” He raised his sword. He pointed it at the broken gate and then swung it in the direction of the charred one. His swing was so fast that it seemed like the sheath was going to slip off. Arlan took two steps back. “As the fire burns, it sucks in all the air and spins upwards. Too much of it, and it splutters too quickly. We don’t want a big, fat burn. We want a coat. Three is good. Sophia made the right choice.”

“Right. Shame she went missing in the woods. What you suppose happened to her?” Arlan knew what happened to her. He didn’t want to say it.

Liarus had no such reservations. “She’s gone, along with that nervous tart she brought along.” He stabbed his sword back into the ground.

Arlan’s walk around the remains of Ilma was uneventful.

Given that Pernus was the only one who fought, there wasn't any resistance to note. This was a village, not an outpost. It had only a single watchtower, now half its height, sharp edges jutting from its tops. But everything else? Greasy fur roofs of low hovels, an unfinished two-storied church, and makeshift structures held together by knot, braid, and lock. But of all the places, why did she return here? And what happened to her monstrous man-at-arms? Had she already sent it elsewhere before the attack? And what about Ormoc? He remembered the letter from Radan: find Ormoc. Bring that old sage back.

When Arlan told Liarus that Ormoc wasn't here, the captain laughed. “Too bad, Radan,” he said, “You’re still stuck on that cursed bed.”

Well, at least he found out what was going on: rebels - blood mages, of all things! - were indeed in the forests of Ilma, and the Medicalers, with such skill of form and command, vanquished them!

Still, Liarus seemed not in the celebratory mood. The whole time, he kept his eyes forward, straight, unwilling to look down at the stump of his sword hand.

Arlan shook his head at the sight of the wound, long cauterized and cleaned, but it still seeped blood through the wraps. Oh, how he wished he was a blood mage at that moment to bring back his friend's hand, just for that moment!

“Fetch me more nightswallow.” Liarus turned to Arlan, using his stump to point at the pavilion.

“It still hurts?”

“Of course.” Liarus smiled again. “What kind of man recovers so quick from the loss of his hand? Even by healing and fire, it is the mental toll, Arlan. It makes me hot and sweaty, and I find it difficult to think."

"When the area is clear, we can stop at Aura and fit you with an iron hand, a good one of decent build with a good lock."

Liarus sighed. "Good lock. Good lock. Oh, the sound of that bothers me. I'm never one for holding a shield. But, unfortunately, no magic exists to restore this hand, and I should learn how to block. I cannot let that witch take my other." The last few words carried a venom to it. Then, he shook his head. "But Aura! Good city, good people. I wonder if hastiludes are still planned. Do you know if that fort-city is running any during Fastidous?”

“Aura? The one we re-supplied at?” Arlan asked. “Not sure, but we’d need to resupply anyhow; we’re low on silver and might need help from the Lady Commander. And of course,” he tapped Liarus' stump of an arm, "your new arm. Get her to bring you something from the Medicaler Hall. Ridaras is a good man, and he will help, even if the Siralian may not."

“Aye, that Mira,” Liarus shook his head, “boring wench. And that prissy seneschal of hers, always got her hand on that glutton's blade.” He looked at his stump, his jaw twitching at the sight. “Don’t suppose they’ll fashion me a shield as well? I could come around to a buckler.”

“Do you know how to ward with a boss? I’ve never seen you use one.”

“Never had to, didn’t think I’d need to lop off my own hand because Imradir tried to infect me alive.” His free hand swung his sword back and forth, back and forth. A whip-like scream came from the blade. His feet matched the rhythm, tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Well, then you’re lucky, cause it’s only a hand,” Arlan said.

“It was my sword hand, Arlan! You think I enjoy learning how to swing and write and cast all over again?” He threw the longsword up, but he missed the handle. “It feels off to even move. I’ve not the training to hold it yet in this hand.”

“Swing it with fire, let the heat run through it.”

Liarus laughed at the advice, but his grin turned into a grimace. He raised his stump, poking Arlan in the chest with it. “Where's the nightswallow? Can’t you see me hurting?”

Arlan took a few steps back, hesitating for a second. He remembered the first night. Liarus was a screaming maniac, angry and pox-cursing blood mages for the loss of his sword hand. But now, here, he was different. After a few nights of pain powder, he became softer, gentler, and complained about his hand less and less. But he’d never stop asking for nightswallow. He already had too many packets as it was.

“Well, are you? How will I recover without it?” Liarus asked again. Something felt off about it, like a script. “I am in pain, Arlan, pain! We need good herbs and games! So as you fetch nightswallow, I will tell the group that we will soon make way for good games at Aura.”

Arlan nodded, smiling at Liarus’ good spirits. “Very well. I will send for nightswallow at once. Kalathon!”