Nara (I)

“Whereabouts are you folks from?” The wagon-driver glanced at Irwin, whose fever was getting worse. “It’s rare to see just an elf and a priest out here. Most adventurers take the way’s pass over to East Siral. I can imagine it has something to do with the Burrows? Hello?”

Nara didn’t respond. Her usually deft fingers were somewhat clumsy; cold rushes of air escaped them, pitiful healing magic spluttering from her hands.

Irwin wasn’t getting better. Snot was running down his nose, his eyes blood-red, sputum as yellow as butter spraying the boards of the wagon.

“Please, Irwin, please.” She whispered. Sweat was running down her brow. Her body was beginning to feel light and airy. Her head was stinging. No matter how she moved, it felt like pins digging into her skull.

“Never seen Medicalers treat miasma, though - ”

“Quiet!” She snapped back. He shut up. “I’m sorry, but I need to concentrate.”

He cast a dirty look. “Wood-witches, not a lick of courtesy.” He whispered.

Nara and Irwin encountered the wagon-driver on his way out of the Burrows. He was a merchant who relented to Nara’s request. He didn’t come cheap; Nara, who had the foresight to pick Alan and Kadan’s armour, nearly had to pawn off both. She offered one. He balked, barked, and bartered, but then accepted.

But that was a while now. Now, it was getting dark, and his horses were getting tired. Irwin was getting worse.

Through Thora, Nara left a message to Seneschal Leanne, and she hoped that Leanne would act with haste, perhaps meet them at the gates. Word, before they left, was that a Medicaler outpost was established at Aura, so she had hoped that by the time they got there, the famed healers of the Ardalian Empire would be willing to help.

The keyword, of course, was ‘hoped.’ She would need to hide her ears.

Perhaps the wagon-driver or the Seneschal would have been a better option if all things failed. Regardless, what mattered - what really mattered - was getting Irwin to them and having them stay this corruption. The foul air was still inside him, making it harder and harder for him to reinforce himself with magic. Whatever was going on in his body was stifling and hampering the flow of magic. As an elf, Nara was protected from such bad air that even the filthiest stench would deign respect to one who protected and guided the children of the world. Yet, unfortunately, she was no healer, and she knew very little healing magic.

His frantic response was showing that whatever Nara was doing wasn’t working.

“I’m cold. I’m cold.” He said. It was another hot day, and even then, she had wrapped him in a thick wool shawl, a present from Alan. “Miss Nara, I’m cold.”

“I know, but hush, Irwin dear,” She said, “don’t talk. Just hang on.”

"I am, I am. But...I can't breathe."

"Try to, okay? I need you to breathe."

“I know you want silence, but I’ve heard that some of it can be because the poison has already mingled with the blood. You can drain the body of the poisoned blood, use healing magic, and then his body will make more blood. Seen it used in Northrow.”

She was about to shoot a nasty glare, but it was no time for nasty glares. “How much do you reckon?”

“I don’t know, but we’re still a good bit away from Aura. Can the young priest handle camp? Might be the best time to do it then.”

Irwin's teeth were chattering. Regardless of how much or little he moved, fluid spilled out of his nostrils. Nara’s head screamed in pain, but she knew she couldn’t stop. Her fingers were shaking, her eyes fluttering. This could be the only thing keeping him together. “Get as far as you can, and then we’ll make camp.”

----------------------------------------

Leanne (II)

Leanne’s pace was brisk and impatient, her steps swift and heavy. Strands of long, golden hair were flying in her face, the loud clanging of her emblem banging against her hastily strapped plate. Her sword by her side, the sheath tapped on her chainmail waist with every step, heralding her presence in front of a gazing crowd.

The first wave had come, and Aura’s town square was already lined with beds. Curious onlookers peeked from windows, and children gawked through the hands of concerned parents. Soldiers maintained a makeshift wall of splintered-shields, rotten boards, dirt mounds, sandbags, foul hide and curled leather, though it was hardly enough to stop people from getting through.

They let her through. Nobody got in the way of Seneschal Leanne. “What’s the situation here?” She walked from bed to bed, scanning the shaking, jolting, coughing travellers. “Did we accept this many from the Burrows?” She asked. Many of them didn’t seem to be farmers.

“Some of them are from the quarters. The workers set up a tent to shield them from the wind, but it’s slow work. Every hour we’re finding more, and we’re moving more, but there’s no end in sight.” The loud crinkling of parchment could still be heard amidst the moaning and coughing as Medicaler Ridaras, a greasy black-haired man with a scar that ran from his brow to his neck, took stride to her.

His small, black, and beady eyes surveyed the name list as he flipped the pages with his large chainmail gloves. Like every Medicaler, they were hot to the touch. In fact, he was Aura’s Chief Medicaler, the one tasked with maintaining the health of the town, and in case of an elven attack, its first defender.

“Where did they come from?” Leanne asked. The hum of soft green light was everywhere, the shouting of frustrated men and women who, for so many years, saw such calamities as simply inconveniences that a select magical few could fix. “From the South Gate?”

“No. Many are from the South Gate, but many of them are from Aura. Here." He pulled Leanne aside. Faces close, he whispered, "Something is fouling their bodies. Whatever this poison is, it’s spreading, but we don’t know how.” Rows upon rows of beds, men and women packed tightly together. It seemed that every time she turned her head, it was getting even tighter.

She noticed the sweat and huffing from the Medicalers, each healer swarmed by their own company of labourers. Here, it was an auxiliary army of torn shirts, sharp shouts, and deep, sunburnt skins. “Where are the rest of your team? Is Aura so low on Medicalers?”

“About that,” Ridaras led her to a constructed tent tucked away in an alleyway, “we’re low now.”

Leanne’s heart sank. Even more tightly than the square, the sick in the Medicaler tent began from the ground, some of them weakly shooing off rats. Armorless, sigiled men and women chattered their teeth through locking jaws, growing rashes, and bubbling pustules. Their eyes were glazed over, their complexions pale, leathery, and swollen.

To many of them, their skin was turning blue, as if all the blood had transformed into sea-poison. Some were already as stiff as corpses. Others were. “What’s going on? None of them were at the Burrows, right?”

“Not a single one. Some are surviving, some have survived, but anyone with the disease finds themselves on the floor, without energy, delirious.” Ridaras kept a distance. “The air is invisible, and there is no difference in the stench.”

“And what of the magic? Can they not self-heal?” Self-heal was a Medicaler ability, taught at the College in Ardalsalam, the greatest healing academy in the west. It was no surprise that the Ardalian mage was a mage of perfect flame and perfect health. Self-healing fixed all manner of fatigue, delirium, misalignment - any chaos within the body was righted with the power of self-healing. It was the ability that separated Medicalers, true healers and soldiers, from mere priests. It was what gave the Ardalian Empire its mobile and unshakeable flexibility, its insurmountable offensive capability. Mobility, heat, and unrelenting logistical flexibility gave the Ardalian empire its world-renowned military doctrine. The elves knew full well the strength of such a doctrine.

“Some can, but self-heal compromises their ability to maintain magic pools.” Ridaras pulled out a necklace with a paling emerald jewel. It danced towards him and nobody else. A magic detector. “This foul air eats up their magic. All afflicted have been losing their magical potency. Seneschal, this miasma is a mage-killer.”

"Does it not just weaken mages? We can heal the lot with time."

"No, it is a mage-killer, and Aura has no facility to handle this. We must pull back the group."

Leanne knew what was coming. “Ridaras, you cannot - ”

“As the Head Brother of the Auran Medicalers, I cannot let my people die on foreign soil. You must understand, Ardalsalam is so close, the College can find a way out of this, we can fix this before I lose more.”

“You leave, and we don’t have enough support for this.” Everyone was hustling around the area, coming out in droves to see the cordoned-off sections of bodies. They were climbing, and fast. Coughing was becoming louder than chatter, retching louder than screaming. “You have to understand that you took an oath to maintain the sanctity of this place, and we have given you the utmost respect and ability. So I implore you, Sir Ridaras, you must not - ”

“I am sorry. I have already sent word. Seneschal Leanne, the Medicalers of Aura must return home; we are leaving this city.”

Leanne clenched her fists. Her eyes darted left to right, body to body, eyes to eyes. “What can I do to make you stay?”

“The decision has already been made, Seneschal. I cannot - ”

Leanne’s grip on Ridaras stopped him. He hadn't expected it: a grip like a vice of steel and stone. Could've sworn he heard the plates of his armor begin to creak from her fingers.

Rumours of Seneschal Leanne was that she was a mage, a powerful practitioner of some strange secret art, for she never showed any inkling of magic. And yet, it was in these moments, where her strength displayed a somewhat supernatural might, where people and their rumours flourished without contest. She couldn't have been a mage, the detector showed her no favour. At the same time, this strength she showed was no illusion; he really couldn't move.

“Let. Me. Go.” He said. His soft expression was melting away, his brows furrowing. “I know your reputation, but even the Maiden of the Mark would not risk detaining one of Ardal’s children.”

It seemed to take forever, but her grip loosened. Her hand fell. Heavy. Swinging. Sullen. A warhammer pretending to be a hatchet.

“I will try and cure as many as I can, but my brothers and sisters are leaving tomorrow morning.”

----------------------------------------

Eli, Pernus, and Ormoc (I)

“Before you begin, a lesson.” Pernus was circling Eli, his hands raised and somewhat placed as if he had planned this a few times but was nervous anyways. “How does magic work in your world?”

“My world? There’s no magic there.”

“No magic?” Pernus stopped in his tracks. “How have your people survived? Against Vermites and Elves and Owm and Urven? What do you do?”

“We…I don’t know what those are, but we make things. To stop them.”

“Men of strange machinery. Like the dog-men.” Pernus put his hands to his head, tapping it, swaying and scratching and wandering. “Well, here, magic is…a thing that exists around us. Those who are blessed with the ability to hear its call can shape it and morph it. But to the rest, magic exists in the blood, untapped and untouched. Now isn’t that wonderful?”

“What do you mean?”

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“Magic has no concept in his world, Pernus.” Ormoc emerged with a pipe in his mouth. “It is as foreign as any other thing in here, and I assume anything from his would be as foreign to us.”

Ormoc opened his hand, revealing the ball lodged in his palm. “Imagine it moving, like a limb.” The ball began to whirl, sliding around like an eyeball, though as it spun, it picked up streaks of blood from Ormoc's flesh. “This is in every living thing, but not everyone has the capacity or ability to command it.”

The ball stopped, and as fast as it had spun, small droplets shook and danced on its smooth, silken surface. They turned into small crystalline shards with a soft crimson hue. “But if anyone can harness it, use it, then it makes us no different than the ones gifted with it from birth.”

Eli frowned. “You’re using your blood reserves.” He looked back at the dancing particles. “You’ve turned your blood into objects. Into weapons.”

“Not only weapons. Blood becomes the only thing you need - it carries magic throughout your body, and as long as you have it, you have power.”

“Can I do that? That blood knife thing?”

Ormoc smiled. “This is the beauty of blood magic; every person is free, free to fight, free to practice, free to express. Now, my boy, what do you see yourself as?” He hovered his hand over Eli’s orb.

Eli felt a pulling sensation, like two magnets. His skin felt a light tug, but nothing painful. And then, the spinning. The whirring was silent, but he could feel it as it bristled up against his flesh. Warm, he knew what to expect. “Come on, think about it. What do you want to see? Imagine it. Let it well up inside you, and then imagine it, command it!”

A smooth stream of blood formed a pauldron on his shoulder. “Oh my god, I’m - ” and then it was gone, dried and useless, flaked up like a stain. “What?! I could have sworn I did it!”

Pernus guffawed. “To control your magic is like exercise. You can’t do it all at once!” He learned over with a mischievous grin, “Magic is the great equalizer, the maker of free men and women. You might have Elder reserves, but that wild magic in your veins is still demanding of a worthy wielder, and you are not yet worthy!”

----------------------------------------

Liassus and the Priest (I)

The priest finished pouring Liassus her tea. The smell wafted around the longhouse, the two of them sitting on the second floor overlooking the hamlet from an alcove. “He is a walking time bomb, General. He does not believe in you, nor the cause.”

“I don’t want belief. I want action.”

“But how will he act once you’ve freed him? Once you’ve freed us all? He does not believe, and if he does not believe, then he will act, yes, but against us.” The priest paused. “Perhaps, against us. Can we handle an Elder vessel against us? That monstrous mess of might?”

"I'm not concerned with a trustworthy being, just a useful one."

"Then shackle him! He's been implanted, make him a true thrall!" The Priest's hands fell. "He is not some chick stumbling around in the world; he is a weapon of olden times, and they are not dogs who wag their tails."

Liassus shook her head. “I won’t free him until I can trust him,” Liassus assured her. “Which, on that note, have you heard about the letter from Mercyfang? Leanne sent word that something was happening in the Burrows, and this could be a way for us to prepare to move inland.”

“I do not talk to Mercyfang, nor his kind.”

“His kind is my kind; we are all bound by the sameness of our blood.”

The priest bit her lip. “I understand, but I will not entertain that Vermite, even without his presence, more than I have to.”

Liassus shrugged. “Fine, fine. I understand. But I need his supplies for our people on the eastern coast.”

“Send Ormoc. He would love to see his old friend again.”

“Ormoc will soon be too busy. I’ll have to figure out someone else." She sighed loudly, obnoxiously loudly. "Well, let’s talk about that later. How is Ilma? The village?”

“It’s steady, though something worries me.” The priest said. Pulling some linen bundles from a pouch on her table, she revealed a small set of jars. “Animals are becoming wary. After all, we may need to farm as some of our members are running deeper and deeper into the forest, hunting for more. I worry that we may have to move Ilma again.”

“Then we’ll move it, no problem,” Liassus reassured her.

“But for how long, General? I know that we’re not fighters or spies, but I feel like we’re a second thought. What are we supposed to do? To be? To sit here and play pretend?” She didn’t take her eyes off Liassus, who at first seemed to cast a dirty glare, though soon softened. “What are we?”

Liassus put down her tea. “We need to keep waiting. It takes time to move everything, and I - “ A pigeon flew to the ledge, carrying a small note wrapped on its leg.

Its short red string made it clear; Leanne had sent something. Liassus removed the note, unfurling it with a matter-of-factly swiftness. The small note turned out to be quite large - it unfolded from a long strand into a fuller sheet, and it was paper this time.

“Fancy sheets.” The priest murmured. “Must be important.”

At first, Liassus didn’t respond. Her eyes scanned the paper, her face becoming grimmer and grimmer as she absorbed every sentence.

“What’s wrong?” The priest asked, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Have the Medicalers made a move against Aura?”

Her fingers were running along the sheet, crinkling it. “They’re leaving Aura. There’s miasma coming down from the farmlands out of the forest. Ridaras is pulling out of Siral. But…miasma from the farmlands? Out of the forest? What would…” She paused, and then her head jerked in Eli’s direction. “The homestead.”

She shot up and rushed down the steps to Eli. After a brief skip, she found him with Pernus and Ormoc, tired and sweating.

Ormoc had a wide grin, with Pernus trying to keep him up. “The boy sees how much magic he has, and he’s about to run out. He’ll need to drink blood eventually.” Ormoc chuckled at the sight. The ground was wet and deep brown, smelling of copper.

“I…I…I have something I’m working on.” Eli said to Liassus, his eyes half-closed, his face covered in sweat, his body limp. “It’s like a shield - ”

“Eli, listen to me carefully. In your world, was there miasma?” She knelt, her hands on his cheeks, the cold fingers from her greaves gently patting him to keep him awake. “Does miasma exist in your world?”

“Miasma? What’s that?”

“Foul air, things that cause sickness, disease.”

“We have pollution, and it can make you sick, but why? What’s going on?”

“Does pollution spread from person to person?”

“No, that sounds like a virus.”

Liassus' eyes narrowed at the words. “What is a virus?”

----------------------------------------

The Headmistress (I)

The main auditorium at the College of Medicalers was abuzz with life. Young men and women with starry eyes and eager hands surrounded the table. The smell of blood permeated the entire room, the sound of coughs and deep breaths magnified by the huge concave dome.

As two assistants held the skin, she made a little more room by forcing back the ribs. “Tucked inside here are two stomachs. As we can see from this elf, their body comprises of two stomachs, but exactly why we are not yet sure.”

Some of them winced at the sight of blood, but most stayed close, pointing and gawking at the intestinal mess, the fresh blood seeping out and draining at the recesses on the table. “The elven Xeno is capable of harnessing exceptional wind magic with the paltry diet it feeds off in the forests, so we think there’s some sort of secret in here. But that’s the end of the class. I’ll clean up.”

Shuffling away, the students filed out of the room, leaving only her and her assistants.

One of them fidgeted, her eyes downcast and worried. At moments, she'd stare at the Headmistress, who was hard at work disposing and dismembering the body. “I know you’re looking at me. What’s wrong, Orana?” She stopped.

“I left a letter for you, Headmistress, on your desk.” She whispered.

The Headmistress’ fingers became slower and slower but then stopped. “I know. I read it.” Mustering a smile, she locked eyes. “It takes a lot of courage to let me know, and I will always have a place for you here.” Her fingers started up again, and she turned her attention back to the body. “A death in the family is always a terrible thing, but your father? How are your brothers handling it?”

“They’re coming back for the funeral from Ardalowmeren, but they’re heartbroken that they’re missing father’s passing without his words. We need to settle the affairs…as little as it is.”

“An unfortunate sickness and so terrifying that he perished so quick. How cruel. A terrible fog must be coming from the south, but I don’t think it’s wise to leave the King’s Shield. Ardalsalam can protect you from any fog, even one as putrid as this.” A twitch of the muscle. The Headmistress’ eyes lit up. “This elf can still move. Is it alive, I wonder? Fascinating.”

----------------------------------------

Nara (II)

“Lay him down on his side, bring out his arms,” The wagon-driver instructed. Nara did as he instructed, gently placing him down on the cold ground. She pulled out his arms. “We drain a bit. Let the bad air that’s infested his body out, and then we heal him up.”

“How much?” Nara asked. She pulled out a small knife from her waist.

“A bit, not much, to pale a touch,” He stammered, “To remove the blue from his face.”

“Do you want to do this?” Nara asked.

“This needs to be done.” The wagon-driver pleaded.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“He’s right. Please, lady Nara. Every breath stings.” Irwin wheezed. “Please - ack!”

Without hesitation, she knicked a small wound. She lifted his arm, a short height above the ground, and let it flow. Blood flowed from his arm, the sound of the bonfire not enough to drown out the shuffling sand as Irwin’s body turned lax and loose. His eyelids drooped, his laboured breathing growing sharp.

A headache searing through her mind, Nara cast what little magic she had left. Tiny folds of skin crawled together. The wound began to close. However, it didn’t close completely. A small knick was still visible. “Get something to wrap it up!” She barked at the wagon-driver, who rushed over to his cart.

Moments later, he came out with a handful of sleeves, dirty but useable. Nara grabbed one without a moment’s notice and wrapped it tight around his arm. She breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t bleeding fast enough for his wound to penetrate the cloth.

With what little energy she had left, she clasped her hands together and prayed in the direction of home, in the shadow of Ilma. She prayed where they had buried Alan. “Dear Mother, Spirit Mother, give Irwin the strength he needs to continue, to fight this. Give him the strength to emerge from this healthy and whole. Please, I beg of you.”

After that, she collapsed on the spot.

----------------------------------------

Nara woke to a hot, rainy morning. The wagon, which had been parked around the bonfire, had crashed into a tree along the road. Footsteps led away from it, at first a stride but then a saunter.

She stumbled up, trying to steady herself, but she had lost too much magic last night to recover. She slipped and fell, landing on the ground. Her eyes caught his.

Irwin was cold and stiff. He passed away sometime in the night.

Nara didn’t cry; she didn’t know Irwin that long, but a pain in her chest was still there. An emptiness that, when she laid her fingers on his straw-coloured hair and his boyish features, gave weight to the young man before her. A nervous child, by all accounts, seeking glory and wealth, uncertain but kind. She didn't know him that well, but she knew she failed him.

However, there was something else. Where was the wagon-driver?

Slipping, she pursued the footsteps. They didn’t go far. Winding off the roads into a tiny patch of tall grass, the wagon-driver was shivering violently. His skin was becoming blue. Fluid poured from his nostrils. His eyes - deep and red as blood - locked with hers.

“You wild wood-witch, you poisoned me.” He shuddered. His hand was grasping on her crossbow. “You p-poisoned me.”

Nara stopped, though it was becoming hard to stand still. She was still groggy, tired, and without magic. Her head was better but still in deep pain. “Sir, please understand, I am not -”

“It burns, wood-witch. It burns, oh my, how it burns!” His arm was getting weaker. The crossbow was swaying left and right. “I am not long for this world, but I know something: I can seek revenge.”

“You must - ” The bolt lacerated her left leg. She slammed into the ground. Teeth clenched, her fingers grabbed fistfuls of wet dirt. He threw the crossbow, and for a delirious, fever-ridden man, he was surprisingly accurate. The handle cut her eye, blinding her left side.

Nara backed off. “My eye…my eye.” She gasped. She didn’t have enough energy to scream.

Rain pelted down, though the sniffling and chattering and moaning of the wagon-driver was all she could hear.

After what seemed like an eternity, it stopped. Silence. Slipping in and out of consciousness, her body ached and screamed.

Then, a warm glow enveloped her. She felt magic return. She heard sounds of boots and wagon wheels. Hooves and coughing, mutters and shudders and shouts. The shuffling of wood and clothing, bags and boxes. “This is Aura’s insignia.” She heard. “Bring her back. They'll want their scout.”

“And the healer, sir Ridaras?”

“A corpse reports nothing. Leave it. The Seneschal will not need it.”

----------------------------------------

Ithul (I)

West Siral was known as the left arm of the pious, a country by the coast whose limited farmland was due to its great rolling plains. Linked by a mesh of catacombs, many of them were still unexplored, though some of them bore the markings of an ancient race whose language was long forgotten. The great ships of West Siral kept it safe, not just from the roving corsairs from Wreathport or the occasional hound from the Redelian League, but also from seemingly insurmountable might of Ardalsalam. After all, it was among the rivers of Ardalsalam that the Siralians could send their frigates deep into deep waters. Ardalsalam was the city wrapped in flame, but the Siralians have never seen a fire they could not extinguish.

However, this could only be possible with the agreement between the West and the East, from Clearfang and its great lights…and from Northrow and its walls.

Some say that Northrow could never be taken by the sea, not even from the sea itself. Tide breakers, many layers tall, kept the waters secure. Roads ran alongside canals that cut deep into its heart. Walls as white as marble and peppered with barnacles stretched from the north to its decaying southern edges. Yet for all its grandiosity, Northrow was hardly a kind place. Shantytowns stretched out beyond its water walls, and in the shadows of these places, terror and hatred festered.

These slums are hardly visible from the safety of the Ordos Canticula, the incense-choked capital of the Canticul, the government and the religious organization of Siral. In one of its many empty halls, two men were waiting around. One was a stout, neckless man, a rotund figure too big to fit into his armour, the leather straps seeming as if they were going to snap at any moment. The other was a strikingly handsome man with sharp features and soft periwinkle eyes.

“Sir Ithul, It’s midday already, and that lout has the gall to keep us waiting!” The fat man snapped. “He is your charge, and I see him nowhere!” He stopped, his hand mid-motion. “Is he lost?”

“Tam isn’t lost. He might be busy with the Sisters at the garden.” Ithul rubbed his brow, pacing back and forth. “Though it is suspiciously late - ” The two of them could hear the thumping of heavy footsteps far away. Both of them clenched their fists. It turned into a sprint, each footstep getting louder and louder and faster and faster.

“By the Canticul, Sir Ithul, this child is summoning a storm!” Emeron whispered. “We’re going to all get caught!”

“Give him time.”

A flash of wool zipped past them, carried by two spindly legs on a thin boy covered by a patchworked wool cloak. “Sorry, sorry. I had to find something. There’s nothing here.” He was out of breath, kneeling. “I’m a little dizzy.”

“This is the boy?” Emeron asked. “What good is this wimp? A knock-kneed twerp whose bones are thicker than his muscles is all I can see.”

Ithul, almost waiting for Emeron to say something of the sort, cast a mischievous and wide grin. “Tam, show them what you are.”

“Again?” He straightened himself, dusted himself off. His skin began to undulate, and his eyes glowed a bright blue. In an instant, the cloak fell, and all that came out was the skitter of a centipede, swirling about. And then, another. Then more. And more. And more.

A legion of them spilled forth, climbing the walls.

Emeron froze. “What sort of entomancy is this?”

“This isn’t entomancy. Tam is a shapeshifter. Tam, come back!” With Ithul’s command, they rushed back under the cloak. Slowly, awkwardly, it bubbled upwards until two human legs and two human arms popped out of the sleeves, followed by a frizzy hair boy with pale freckles.

“You promised, right?” Tam asked. “Ser knight, you promised that if I help you, you’ll help find them, right?”

“I swear it.” Ithul made a bit of a mocking curtsy.