"Tell me, Peregrine, what do you think of this fell monster than we hunt?" Arthic asked me.

The blonde was handsome, almost as broad as Garron but shorter than the earth mage was. His iron-plate armor fit him well and was battle-scarred while being obviously well-maintained.

Rosaria rode behind Arthic, filling the remaining space on his white stallion's saddle. The horse clearly loved its rider; I'd asked the stallion to confirm it, actually. As far as anyone was telling me, the squire-captain was a respectable and trustworthy person—and that was why Rosaria had suggested bringing him along when I'd asked her to hunt a bronze-tier monster with me. It had worked out because Kara had been otherwise occupied.

"The quest dossier didn't give us much to go on, just what I've already told you," I replied from atop my father's horse, Happenstance. "But it sounds like a spirit of some kind. Not many normal monsters appear and disappear into the night like that."

"An elemental, do you think?"

"Elementals do not hunt children," Garron said from where he rode beside me. "That is the realm of daemons and other darker geists."

Arthic's countenance darkened. "And yet no paladins or knights have been sent, just us. A daemon, I would hope it is not, or many have failed in the dispatching of this quest."

"I agree," I said. "The guild isn't allowed to hunt daemons without the Duke's permission."

"Unless I am mistaken, there has been little sight of an incarnated greater daemon for some time regardless," Arthic said. "But we should not dwell on them, lest we gather their attention. The lesser of their miscreated ilk exist all around us. What do you mages think this monster really is?"

I didn't correct Arthic by telling him that I'd personally seen a body-bound daemon. Not if Bastion and the other knights hadn't deigned to. I didn't desire to dwell on those wrong-things anymore more than any of us did. I was secretly glad, however, that Rosaria hadn't told the squire-captain of our experience on the Blue Peaks.

"I think it might be a wild spirit," I admitted.

"Why do you think it's one of those?" Rosaria asked me.

"Do you remember what dad told us about telling stories of faerie, sprites, and boogeymen?" I asked her. "How we shouldn't do it, because they tend to exist more closely to us when we do?" I said and then regarded Arthic momentarily. "Arthic, it's like how you didn't want to talk about daemons for longer than we needed to. Except daemons are always around us, in one way or another. Other spirits aren't necessarily, but we can maybe make them be if we court them with our mentions or fears."

"I remember," Rosaria said. "He never told us scary stories, unless it was about something he knew was dead for good."

"But everyone does that," Arthic said. "I certainly remember my grandmother telling me tales of gaunts and ghosts when I was a child. The stories always had a moral, though, something more easily understood in a story to us when we are young."

"But spirits do exist, Arthic," Rosaria said.

"Ghouls and spirits are real, surely, but I was never plucked from my bed by something hiding under it simply because I feared it might be there."

"I believe I may know of what Pery is speaking of," Garron interjected. "Mages in this era refer to the land of the dead as the grey ethereal. But my people once called it Erlum's Reach. It was named after the first of our kings. He tapped the Reach, and found the numina who were neither once-living or daemonic. They were spirits who became his soldiers and the fuel for his powers."

"You speak of the sorcerer-kings and the same powers that created the Sea of Monsters?" Arthic asked. "Garron, I truly mean no insult to your traditions if you hold the same as your ancestors, but I have been told that their beliefs caused cataclysm precisely because they were so ill-informed and flawed."

I'd learned of the Sea of Monsters, the huge abomination-spawning inland sea in the middle of the continent, in a specific treatise on arcane history. Master Elrica had off-handedly suggested the tome during one of her lectures when speaking on the origins of arcane traditions. It was pleasure-reading for me, since it didn't teach any magic specifically, but it relaxed me all the same enough to be worth paging through. My father told few fables or tales of horror, but it was histories and legends that had instead filled the before-bed tales of mine and Rosaria's youths. And I still loved the histories, even more now that my father was gone and could no longer tell us of them.

Garron remained as level-headed as ever when he addressed Arthic, but he did correct the use of the term 'sorcerer-kings'. "The magic of the Aetherlords was not sorcerous. It was learned and taught, but I do not practice it. I do not know if any still do, but if these spirits Pery speaks of are real then they sound much like the Numina. Entities that are too varied to be broadly defined as either benevolent or sinister."

"Perhaps these beings do live, outside of the Saints, our ancestors, and the creatures of the Gnawing Other," Arthic said to Garron, referring with his law statement to where it was believed daemons originated from. "It is your people's history, Garron. I will defer to your knowledge of it. It is good for us to be trying to understand what our enemy may be."

"I know there are at least neutral spirits," I said. "I've met one. Garron, have you seen the librarian on the first floor of the Tower's library."

"I have," Garron replied. "I very nearly fell out of my seat when it tapped me on my shoulder. Once I recovered, it handed me a tome that better suited my needs than the one I was studying."

"Why are you calling it an it?" Rosaria asked us.

"Because he's an automaton," I said. "Or a golem, and he's pretty amazing, but he's not driven just by magic. The mother of a friend of mine created his body, but it's possessed by a spirit of imagination and neutrality. She said the spirit was called a eudaemon."

"And what makes these beings neutral?" Arthic asked me, seeming genuinely curious and good-intentioned.

"Well, I was told they're solely obsessed with whatever sort of imagination that they're aligned with. Alistair is a minor eudaemon of knowledge, so he's perfectly happy with tending the Tower's library. I don't think he's good or evil; he just does what he enjoys and understands."

"Alistair?" Rosaria chipped in.

"That's what Mina calls the golem," I smiled. "I guess I've just started to do it too."

"Oh, I did notice you called him a he then," Rosaria replied.

"And what if a eudaemon represented tactical knowledge?" Alistair mused, returning to our previous topic. "Would it not then be a spirit of war? How can you be neutral in a war if you are a being who is obsessed with something that will help to kill one side or the other?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't even know if there could be a eudaemon of war. I can ask Mina later. Maybe it would just help to inspire both sides?"

Arthic seemed to chew mentally on what I'd said. "If you do find out, would you tell me Pery? I find the concept that there might be spirits inclined toward the more imaginative parts of humanity, in contrast to the fell daemons we know are all around us, to be comforting. I'd like to know if they exist unseen next to us."

That request made me revaluate Arthic somewhat. He may have been a deep thinker despite his imposing stature, like Garron, but he also seemed to respect others and honestly cherish the thought that there might be as much imagination and innovation in the world as there was bad. Honestly, though, whereas Garron's introspective nature might conflict somewhat with his appearance, Arthic's somewhat enhanced his. As the squire-captain expressed his thoughts, I noticed there was a chivalry to the light behind his intelligent eyes that fit perfectly with his charming features.

"I can do that," I told him. "I honestly want to know more about them too."

"Wonderful," Arthic said. "I will look forward to it. After all this is done, we could meet to talk theology once you do. You live with Rosaria so it won't be too hard for you to get word to me whenever you find yourself free to do so."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Rosaria was staring at us both a little oddly, but she was ever so slightly smiling.

"That sounds fun," I said, and, after talking with the knight-to-be as we had been, I honestly meant it.

"Then it shall happen, my friend," Arthic said and then glanced to Garron. "So, we have decided this thing may be a Numina then? Garron, you have read the dossier; is there any hint as to what kind specifically it may be?"

"I am afraid I do not know," Garron said. "They were known to be as likely to welcome as to condemn a man. There may be some clue in that it comes on the rain. And that it takes children."

Arthic frowned. "Yes, that part is concerning. To take a child? That is what made me think at first that it could be darker than the guild might believe."

"They wouldn't let us challenge it if it was," Rosaria reiterated. "It's been scared off by normal people multiple times too."

"And by their blessed ancestors," Arthic added. "I hope if that's true then we can do more than ward it off. It must be slain, the abducted children recovered, or laid to rest Saints forbid it."

"Right, we can't let it keep hurting people," Rosaria said. "Someone has to be there to stop things like that. Monsters like that don't have a place in the world."

"Well said," Arthic agreed with her and smiled.

"Perhaps," Garron vaguely agreed.

I, on the other hand, sided with Rosaria and Arthic more strongly than Garron seemed to. I may have been young myself. But this spirit, or numina, or whatever it was, was hurting people. I wanted a bronze core for my scrolls so I could grow strong enough to protect those close to me, but if I could protect other normal, hard-working families as well? Then I would.

***

We descended the mountain roads until we saw the edges of the village of Forbas peaking out from behind the evergreen trees of the Midean Forrest; trees that had seemed especially vibrant for at least the last hour of our travels.

It was a number of well-built, warm-looking houses nestled cozily and built on a descending slope that came into our gaze at first. I spotted an inn right off of the village edge proper that had a sign emblazoned with an stag's horns flanked on either side by sprigs of flowering heather.

It had taken us two days to reach Forbes from Highmount. Garron and I were allowed to miss up to a week's classes since we had an official Adventurer's Guild writ of questing. We'd learned that the Towers allowed this from one of Master Steelvein's infrequent moments of commentary. It was Master Renalt who I had brought the writ to, however, and he had told me he'd handle letting Master Elrica and Steelvein know of it.

This all meant that we had a little under a fortnight to find and kill the creature harassing the villagers.

Other than the larger than usual trees and foliage, we saw very little that was strange on our way to the village. The mist was thicker than I thought it might should've been as far down the mountain as we were. What had disturbed me slightly, however, was that the trees seemed ominously silent and hardly spoke to one another as we passed between their canopies. I thought I almost heard one try to speak to me of something in the druidic tongue, but it was quickly hushed by a sound so quiet it could've just been a breeze as surely as a reprimand.

"We should find the man who petitioned the guild for aid," Garron suggested. "He will be the one who has paid the fees and who we are working on behalf of."

"We should," Arthic agreed. "The keeper of that inn there will likely be able to point us to this Anderson who hired us. I would also like to find the custodian of this village. They may know something of use to us, if this is truly a spirit that we face."

Arthic did have a point. The custodian of a village was the writ-master for all things regarding interceding with the ancestors and Saints. The custodian of Streambrook had also held and told the tales of local heroes, along with doing the work of enshrining the honored dead under the homes of their families in the proper way. If anyone knew if something beyond just the physical world was going on, then it would be the local talespeaker.

"That sounds like a good plan," I agreed.

"Agreed," Garron said.

After tying our horses up to the posts outside the stone inn in question, we entered the Horn and Heather. Mile followed beside me; we'd kept our riding slow enough that he could trot beside the horses on our journey.

The inside of the inn was warmly lit by a number of candles. Most of the main floor was surprisingly empty of people, however. A few bodies sat in chairs and along benches, huddled by an especially large fire burning in the hearth at the establishment's far wall. Otherwise, there was very little life in the building.

"Does it seem colder in here than it was in the forest?" Rosaria asked.

I breathed out and saw a faint cloud form from my own breath. "It does. It's a lot chillier."

I scanned the inn. The deep winter was almost upon us, and it would be snowing by the end of the month if I had to guess; that much was certain. But the cold of the inn was contrasting to the forest, as Rosaria had said, and that was odd considering we were indoors.

I reached up and touched a bundle of hanging lavender by the door. The flowers of the plant were only partially purple; I could tell it was fresh enough, but... it was dying sooner than it should've been. There were similar sprigs of wilting lavender hanging across all four walls of the inn.

"What are you thinking about, Pery?" Arthic asked me.

"Lavender wards off bad spirits," I said to the group. "These flowers are dying faster than they should."

"It smells like stale earth in here," Garron commented. "Under the oils and wood."

"Somethings not right," Rosaria agreed, and her face seemed like it was growing in focused concern.

"We should find Anderson and the custodian sooner rather than later," Arthic suggested, while regarding the sprig of lavender I'd drawn his attention to.

"That man may be the inkeeper," Garron suggested.

We made our way towards the man my friend had indicated. We passed by the darkwood, heavenward beams that supported the inn's low-ceiling. My eyes, turned watchful by the state of the lavender, noticed various fading carvings on the beams that depicted symbols I did not know and faces that seemed as much animal as they did man.

"Excuse us, sir," Arthic said to the portly, apron-wearing, and broom-holding man, whom we assumed to be the owner of the establishment.

The man had been leaning on his broom and standing near the other occupants of the inn, and talking to them.

"What can I do for you?" he asked us and looked us up and down.

I had chosen not to dawn my robes from the Towers. Instead, I wore the leather armor and coat my father had bought for me. Rosaria was dressed much the same. Garron was in traveling gear that was darker hued, nondescript but notably finely made if you looked at it for longer than a moment. Arthic wore his iron armor, only having taken it off to sleep during the nights and only when he was not on shift as the rotating camp guard; he'd left his maul outside with his stallion, however.

"We're looking for a man by the name of Anderson," Arthic said. "I am a squire-captain from the Host of the Stone in Highmount. My two male friends here are mage initiates from the Towers. And the girl you see by my side is a member of my squad."

The innkeeper stopped leaning so hard on his broom. "I don't know where Anderson is at. Ever since... well, you know what's happening then, don't you?"

The other patrons of the inn were looking up at us. A particular woman, especially. She didn't let the inkeeper finish speaking; she stood and stumbled in front of Arthic. "Are you going to find my baby? My Cindi?"

Arthic's face filled with a sad empathy. "Yes ma'am. We are. We were told Cindi was taken recently, after a few other children?"

"We saved her!" the woman slurred. "Anderson's father and grandfather saved her... we... we told her not to leave the house during the night so we could keep her safe. She was sleeping with us every night, but it still got her... We thought the daytime was safe!"

"Michaella," the inkeeper put his hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Why couldn't my baby play in the streets? Was nowhere safe! We warded it off; why did it want her so badly?!"

One of the other patrons looked at her in a spite that was less-drunken, but only barely. "She wasn't the only one who was taken."

Michaella shirked from the innkeeper's touch to drunkingly face the man who had spoken.

"We protected her; we did what we were supposed to do after we knew it was there... I... I did what I was supposed to do after and..."

"And we didn't? It took you almost losing her the first time to stop drinking and sleeping outside your home? It's our own faults what's happened to them," the man stood aggressively. "It's your fault. If we kept our households in order, then the ancestors and Saints would've protected my son and your daughter."

Tears began to run down Michaella's cheeks and she stumbled. "I didn't... I didn't know... I didn't think. I stopped after she almost..."

"Markus," the inkeeper warned the man. "You're drunk. And I've let you stay and drink because of what's happening, but—"

"What are you going to do, Jonathan?" Markus approached the inkeeper.

Arthic stepped between them and put his hand on the angry man's chest. "We will find where your children have been taken. I promise you."

Markus's face turned hateful, but he didn't push against the tall squire's outstretched hand once he'd glanced beside Arthic to see Garron also standing with watchful eyes.

The innkeeper stepped forward to gently grabb and guide Arthic's arm down away from Markus. "Come on, Markus. Go grab a seat at the counter. I'll feed ya, free of charge, and I'll help these folk get on their way to do some good for us."

Markus stared at the inkeeper. His face slackened and his shoulders slumped.

Another of the patrons stood up and guided Markus, who was presumably his friend, to the inn's long counter.

The inkeeper turned back to us after watching Markus and the other man walk away and helping the now sobbing Michaella back down into a chair that'd been pulled up to the fireplace.

"Let me give Markus what I told him I would, and I'll take you to the shrine house," the inkeeper said in a voice that sounded like a tired sigh. "Adler is our custodian; he lives there, and he'll be about to tend to his business. We'll all be there by nightfall anyway. So should Anderson."

"What about—" Rosaria said, and her eyes were looking to the now slumped and still sobbing Michaella.

"No, she's better here. I shouldn't have let her drink, but the last place she needs to go is home," the innkeeper cut my friend off and turned his attention to another woman. "I'm going to bring her some food too. And some water. When I leave, don't let her drink anything else."