CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FATES OF THE NIGHT

“*Pant*...*Pant*.”

It was all a buzz to him. The fall of sweat off his brow. The rush of blood in his ears. Even the gentle hum of the static world: the slur of wind, and the *caw* of distant crows. It was all buzzing. A numbing force of justice and blood, and the white pile before him was proof of it. By his hands, and all those who lived with him in his heart of flames, he had slayed a wicked beast.

And the first step had been mounted.

“Bella!”

Leon hovered over his kin, brushing the woman’s auburn hair away from her face. She laid with distant eyes and great plump pupils, with small streams of blood running from her nose down her cheeks. But she was breathing, and life was within her, though dazed and weary. A few yells from the swordsman stirred her to it.

“Leon?” She croaked out. Her gloved hand reached her face. Her leather fingers swept the blood from it. But it only smeared it further, and now her face wore running circles of red.

“Would you mind… getting off my face?”

“Pardon me,” the man stepped back. With enough room, the woman found the strength to sit up and shake her head free of demons. A few churns of her jaw stopped the ringing in her ears, and with cautious movements, she made her feet.

“...Oh, gods. Ander!”

The two Lones caught sight of the standing boy. As did they catch the sight of his wounds and bruises, red and purple, born from trial. And they heard the course rasp of his breath. In, and out, like the gurgle of pitch and tar. They spent scarce time marveling at it before they ran, now at his side. When they came to him, Ander dropped to his knees, and the red glow of his flames died there. He shut his eyes, and in his mind, he found that place that flowed with honey and milk. But only could he look upon it, no matter how close to that world he came.

“Are you strong enough for healing?” Leon asked the woman.

“I-I… Gods, I don’t know,” she managed.

“Well, can you do something?”

“I don’t know what I would do, even if I could. Ander, Ander? Do you hear me?”

“Leave him.”

The hard pad of footsteps emerged from around the pile of white, as did a set of purple hatchets and a flowing black garb. Just by his voice alone, Ander could tell what tide of rage burned within Sylas. Though he had lent little mind to what his leader thought. Not even as he left last daybreak. He did not wish for their presence in any manner, though they had spared him a tragic death. As if all deaths were not tragic to start.

“But we must help him!” Called Leon, who too was ragged for breath.

“You will do no such thing,” Sylas’ voice gave no sympathy. “Let him to his wishes. Let him bear what he has sowed.”

“What was the point of saving him, if we are to let him die!”

“If he were to survive this, only to die from bruises and splitter cuts, it would be equal recompense. But he won’t die from it, won’t you, boy?”

“Do as he says…” Ander’s voice was low and pained. His eyes opened to stare up at his master. “Leave me, I am fine.”

“A lie in whole!”

“Leave. Me… You have saved me once, and that is once more than I have asked, and once more than you should have...”

“Yet we came here nonetheless-”

“-Enough, dammit!” Roared Sylas. Thaddeus appeared from off an elevated scaffold fixed to the remains of a fallen group home. Out of them all, the senior archer looked in the sharpest shape. “I ordered you to get away from the boy, and you will do just that!”

The two masters shared glances between their student and their leader, ones of uncertainty, but at last, they broke from Ander’s side. When the quaking of the burned man's body stopped, he made his feet, having taken up his blades. A run across his garb rendered them clean for the sheath, and before him in the Inagnivorr’s cinders was Nina’s knife. That too did he holster. The broadsword and the knife were his deliverance. They were the hands of the lost, and in the end, they were the ones who slayed the beast. The young Idris held hope that in the world beyond his own, the two were looking down with grins, and he hoped they were full of glee. Someone had to be. He did not revel in the Inagnivorr’s death. It was Calvan’s vow - though made his own - but his vengeance was made for another.

“Look at me, boy.”

Ander did as he was told. He turned, standing firm in the gaze of his leader. The harshness of his black hair and slanted brows was clear even in the low starglow. But they were not grim to him. He did not fear his leader, and the boy stood, resolute.

Sylas levied a finger, his tongue strained for words. When he made his speech, it was slow and stagnant, with the hints of tamed anger buried in his gums.

“Let this field be our parting, boy… I made you our own, as you asked that night, so long ago… And your promise told me lies, and now I see the truth… Think twice before coming to my home… You know what we do to witnesses.”

“Bella! Bella!”

Damien called from afar, his voice torn with concern. A hint of brown mane shined in the distance, and the muffled moans of a woman backed them. The tension was broken at once as Nallia’s battered body was shown in full. The Nyx was reclined against a rock with the archer at her side. A line of red sprang from her leg, which flowed into a sea of crimson. It becked this way and that with every groan from the wounded lady. All hostility was dropped as the group dashed for the two. Bella sank to her knees in a slide, her eyes sharp with focus. Her hand began their examination, and they were quick to find the great wound left in her thigh. With every pump of the Nyx’s heart, a fresh layer of blood would come, and never did it seem to weaken. Bella turned to Damien, “Quick! Your belt!”

Damien stripped his belt off in a flash, with his empty quiver falling by the wayside as he did. She made another request as she fitted the belt to the lady’s thigh. “I need a stick! Something strong, something I can torque with.”

“We are in a town,” growled Thaddeus. “Not a forest.”

“Then make due, you dunce!”

*Split*

Ander drew his falchion back to slide into his scabbard. The chunk of wood fell to his feet, freshly cut from a fallen post. He paced with silent soles to offer it up, and when Bella took it, she fitted the wooden slab between Nallia’s thigh and the belt. The Nyx was conscious all the while, and in a loud voice, Bella said, “Bit down on your shirt. The turn-belt hurts worse than the wound. But it will only hurt for a moment.”

The short woman followed the command, yet as Bella turned the wood, her cries were still deafening. But the blood stopped, and the sea went still. As did Nallia’s cries vanish when her consciousness fled. Her eyes fell closed.

“We must take her home. And fast!” Came Bella, her hands pressed upon the Nyx’s crimson thigh. “I stopped the bleeding to the best of my ability. I can further mend the flesh at home. If I were to do it here, it could fall infected.”

Leon nodded, taking her form in his arms with gentle care. The swordsman called out, “Gullen! Gullen, here, boy!”

A rush of hooves and a dash of gold flew into the town, backed by horses of black and brown. A silver mane was missing among them, for they were only six strong. But when the horses came upon their masters, Nallia was taken out of Leon’s hold and into Damiens. The shift was a surprise for the blonde swordsman, but he had little retort for it when Cross tranced forth. The young archer mounted his mare, with his bow strapped across his chest, and his quiver hung from the dip of his shoulder. Lilyshade made her displeasure known, neighing with a clop of her hoove at the sight of her wounded master. But with a silent whip, Damien was off, riding home without another word spoken.

“Well, then. On mount!”

Sylas found his black steer, Vyce, and dug a shoe hold into his stirrup. The saddle shifted, but no later was the axeman tall upon the horse’s back. Thaddeus took up his ride as well, as did Bella. Though the ladymagii did so with apprehension, and a few glances back at her wounded apprentice. It was Leon who lingered, even as Sylas called out, “To home”, and all the rest rode off. It was only master and apprentice then.

Ander saw clear the pain in the man’s eyes. Leon had his order, but his will was equally strong. It was a cruel thing forcing the man to choose between family and family, but in all honesty, the young Idris yearned for him to leave. If he had learned one thing that night, it was that death comes for everyone. All are prey. All are mortal. And his burden was to be shouldered alone. It was a foolish enough thing for them to save him, and it would be a horrid thing for them to stay.

“It is your time to part, Leon,” Ander said with blunt.

“How can I?” He replied. His face was downward tilted, and in his eyes did the firelight glimmer. But his stoic front did not shatter. “What man would I be if I were to leave you? When I took you as my apprentice-”

“-You swore an oath to guide me,” Ander took hold of his sentence before he could finish. “And guide me, you did. Your work is finished, my master. I am made to wear, and I have been built to win. This pile of ash and soot and fallen beast is proof of it.”

“This pile of ash and soot would have killed you if it were not for us… Sylas wanted you to go alone, but I deterred him. You would have died.”

“...We all must die. No one leaves this place alive.” Ander did not look away from his master. He had to give his words a second thought. Steering away from Leon - letting him go - was his foremost goal. This path he walked was one made for solo. Perchance it would kill him before his vengeance was made, but even in the maw of death, he knew he would not yield. “But this is your chance to leave alive, Leon. What I do, I must do alone.”

“And what is it you must do?” His master looked up, his brow crossed and heavy, and his eyes pointed like the tip of a glaive. “What is this path you walk? Why did you leave to slay this beast? What is it you saw that night at the Vaughstock home? Don’t act me a fool, tell me plain.”

“...I will tell you. But not here. Not alone.”

The boy’s voice was a crawling growl. Not one of aggression, but one of grim decision. If tonight would be the night to start his journey, then he owed his kin an explanation. And he owed them one at mass, not in part. He would tell them all his burdens, and then he would leave.

“So you will return to the Stronghold? Even though Sylas bid you out?”

“Yes. For there is something I do not have on my person there. A scrap of parchment… A world lost to me. I shall come in time, take my world, and share my word. And then…”

“And then what?”

“You will know when I come. And I shall come in short order, my master.” Ander reached out to grab Gullen by his lead. The horse was steered to his master, and soon Leon was planted in its stirrups. His soiled longsword hung by his belt, and his worn plate male was dashed with mud and purple ichor. The reach of the moon painted his face an alabaster white, and with a simple nod, the pair of golden manes dashed away into the forest of crumbling stone and rising.

When the striking of hooves vanished into the stream of warm air, all fell quiet. And Ander was alone.

“I need no other hands,” he whispered, tugging at the broadsword hung at his side. “I carry enough will to suffice it all. Though close to death I was, I did not yield. Nor will I ever. Let that be another vow to join the lot.”

There was no one left to reply to him, and beneath the ruin of a merchant isle, Ander found a felled beam to recline upon. He sourced a bladder from his belt to drain the last of its water. Even as he swallowed the final drop, he found his mouth no less dry than before. His form… ached. That was the only plain way of describing it now. It started as a buzz, but now it was an ache. And it was a good ache, moreover. The groan of tired muscles and the cry of torn skin. The bleeding had stopped now, and whatever broken bones he walked with were subdued with adrenaline. But that did not negate them.

A man he was, and a man he would remain. And men were breakable.

“Sort out! Search for the living! Ride, ride!”

Voices boomed in the distance, and a stampede of hooves rode upon the gravel walks of the village. The commotion rose with the might of nearly fifty souls - a full pact of men. And when the stone walls gave way to sight, Ander made clear the gold and black bolts and ribbons of mounted soldiers. The first to arrive were the Sellmounts, dashed without fabrics. And then the footed Markmen who were plain with boiled leather and metal drapes. And then the main company rode in with colors worn. They were the Oathbound, clad officers, and the stagers, and to Ander’s shock, a fully mounted Ironvaurd, cape and steer and all. They came upon the square, and no sooner did a great *Guffaw* come about.

Some of the Sellmounts fell from their horses at the sight of the mountain of ash. Though none of the Inagnivorr lived on, they all knew well what the remains heralded. The Ironvaurd in front, clothed in a surcoat of his lord’s colors, lept down with a drawn greatsword, and an officer, also clad in colors, sounded a curved horn. Another boom of hoove strikes was made, and even more men filled the lot. They had failed to notice Ander waiting in the wings of the square.

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“It is the Inagnivorr!”

“The Inagnivorr!”

“Halt! The beast is slain!”

“Slain?”

“Slain?”

“Hold yourselves!” The Ironvaurd called through his grated helm. He made his approach upon the pile, both of his hands gripped hard on his jagged blade. The piece towered over him in height and looked more like a steel halberd than a cutting sword. When his metal hoof graced the white, he became planted and called to behind him.

“It is dead! There is no harm to be found here!”

At that, the pack of men swarmed the square, covering every portion with mudded tracks and varied banter. The soldiers were likely belonging to the brazen garrisoned at Vimbaultir, and by their bare heads and full manes, Ander could scarcely find a man who seemed an elder veteran. It was not uncommon for soldiers to march into their fifty, with some legends going strong in their sixties. This was a young band of men, and by their craven reactions, such a thought was cemented as truth.

“There is a man!”

“A man? Where by?”

“By the rubble! A man, plain!”

The Ironvaurd turned, the black behind his helm staring Ander down. The sea of horse and man parted for the tank of metal to trance forward. His soles boomed with great weight, and his longsword found a respite upon his plated shoulder. The man came to an abrupt stop before Ander, looming over the boy as he shouted.

“State your name, and rank, soldier!”

“Soldier,” Ander shook his head. “I am no soldier.”

“A Markmen, then. To whom do you owe allegiance?”

“Myself, and my tidings.”

The man’s blade stayed in the air, but after a second in thought, its tip found the loop upon his belt, and it was hung in an open holster. The man’s armor was clunky, and cut in large. Ander could only imagine how poor it was to move in such a piece. Yet the man carried himself well and showed none of his burden. The Ironvaurd let his left hand rise, and with it, he peeled back the rim of his helm. The mantle came off, and beneath it, a short-cut head of brown hair was revealed.

The man’s eyes were discolored - One blue, and one brown - and the lines of his face were as sharp as the sides of his blade. He looked no older than thirty, if not younger by some years. The sides of his lips were curled in a stern frown, and authority shined off every inch of his metal skin. But still, it did nothing to scare Ander.

“My name is Theran Vaughstock, son of lord Maren Vaughstock, and Ironvaurd of his majesty, King Eeyan Northkote.”

“...”

“Now is the time where you introduce yourself, boy.”

“Pardon,” Ander sighed. “My name is Ander Lone. Lord of nothing, heir to nothing, borne of nothing, and cursed by ash.”

“...”

“Now is the time where you tell me why we are conversing, man.”

“You will not take that tone with a lord!” A mounted officer roared from proximity. Ander did not yield the man a look and instead focused his gaze on the Vaughtsock before him. He saw traces of the Lord Scholar in his eyes and face. They had the same sharp chin and cheekbones. And with some half-century of age, they would look a mirror image.

“There is no need,” Theran raised his clad hand. “Lone. You are an orphan, I take it?”

“I have been made one, yes.”

“And by whose hand did this beast fall?”

Ander shifted his feet, pulling his legs together to let the scabbards on his hip show better from the shadows. “By mine.”

“...” Where Ander expected a laugh or a roar, he only met a curious look. The man’s mismatched eyes scoured his form. All of the scrapes, all of the blots of red and purple, and tears of fabric, and singes from flames. There was no denying that he looked like a victim of battle. But looks were not concrete.

“How did you accomplish this?”

“With grit, fire, and blood.”

“Surely, you did not kill it with platitudes and poetic prose. Did it fall by your hand alone? Are you by yourself?”

“I am now,” the blonde man mouthed.

Theran’s eyes widened, if only by a hair's length. He nodded his head in deep thought as his eyes went about all of the scene. It was the same look the lord scholar would give him whenever in contemplation. It took a minute, or two, but when the young Ironvaurd came around, he found a horn at his waist to blow into. The howl of it was deep and all-encompassing. It was a sound that could surely reach all of the Brux Basin.

“What was that for?”

“It was a call,” Theran replied, locking the horn upon his belt. “To my lord master.”

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

“Oh, you poor boy.”

“What terrible things have befallen you.”

“Lay still, we will make it right.”

“Pardon?”

“They are my charities,” came the short man, draped in gold and black. “Royal charities, moreover. They are versed in the depths of Mávē, and there are no finer ladies to care for wounds, I may assure you of such, young Ander Lone.”

“Shall I take my leave, Lord Seroxs?”

“Yes, out with you, out!” Shouted the man from his grand chair. “Go make yourself useful, boy. I have… Much to speak about with this young man. Much indeed.”

“As you command,” Theran bowed low before making his exit from the furnishcart. It would be foul to call such a thing a wagon. It was far beyond that, more like a mobile court, fit for a grand noble. And before him was such a noble. Reclined and no taller than five feet, and weighing no less than twenty stone, Lord Jannes Seroxs was balder than a desert dune. His head shined with beeswax and perfume, and the air was thick and heavy with rich scents. It was to the point of putridness, but Ander bit his tongue. His time in the gutter had shown him things much worse.

“So, Ander Lone… Ander Lone… Ander. Lone.” The lord repeated his name with narrowing eyes. When he spoke, every roll of fat upon his neck was given a voice, and it made a choir of guttural sounds. He would clear his throat every few sentences, making phlegm and other nastiness come up. “Show me… Your arm.”

“My arm?” Ander repeated. The lord nodded - as much as he could, given his mass - and so Ander pulled up the black garbs of his left arm. The highborn man was not pleased.

“Do not play me the fool, boy! Your other arm…”

“How do you know?” The question was posed in a whisper. His burns began to stir him with buzzing pins and needles.

“That is not important, boy. Show me the arm of the cursed wanderer?”

“...” Without argument, Ander stripped his right arm plain. The set black burns and symbols ate up the shallow light of the furnishcart. Their wearer showed no emotion while displaying his markings.

“Hah… Haha, when I had been told that a blonde man with green eyes, and a young face with a burned temple had slayed the Inagnivorr, I could only think back to that quaint village, what was it called… Vor vel? Vor nel?”

“Vor Del?”

“That’s the one!” The man snapped. The gold rings crested on his fingers and the bracelets on his arm jingled as he moved. It was clear that not only was the man rich, but he loved his precious metals. And gemstones. One could not go without noticing the violently bright and shined gemstones. “Vor Del… That baker man and his lot of lunatics rode all their way to my door to complain about some omen. *Cough*, Cough*. They did well remembering your face, I cannot say they made a poor description. You did a good job scaring such simple folks, young Ander Lone.”

“Cursed… Wanderer?”

“That is your name, young Ander Lone!” Roared the man with glee. “At least, that is what they called you. Cursed wanderer. They said you walked into town dressed as a dead-man, and promptly did you call for sacrifice in your name. They said you preached yourself a new god, more powerful than High Lord Aranos… Perchance their recalling of events was shaped beyond reality, was it?”

“I did no such thing,” Ander replied. “I asked for water. And bread!”

“Please, stay still, young man.”

“We must care for you. You must be still.”

The charities swarmed around him, their hands glowing beneath their netted gloves and sleeves. It was nothing like Bella’s healing. His former kin’s aid was painful and often incomplete. Yet this sensation was… relaxing.

“Would you mind staying still for them, young Ander Lone?” Said Jannes. “They only mean to do their duty.”

“I know. Forgive me.”

“Hmph, very well,” The lord took a golden cup to drink from. “You have become quite the folktale in Vor Del, my young Ander Lone. I never followed up on your legend, but I can only imagine such a tale is told to misfit children or daring youths who need a right lesson, hah! A scarred man from a cursed home, chanced with omen…”

“But you must pardon me, young Ander Lone. I mean no offense, not at all, in fact! See, you may assume me to be a gluttonous man - which I am, no doubt - but I am not a cruel one. There are more cruel lords in these lands than fair ones, and it is my duty in life to be of the latter breed. Sylrel was a village beneath my command, and with death there was a tragedy… And yet, there is only one cursed wanderer. There is only one survivor of the ashen place. I wonder why, out of all of the thousands who perished, you were the only soul to survive… Though, there were tales of another. But by report, that young girl ended up enslaved to the Hunen. Such a poor fate, if she even existed, mind you.”

“...”

“What I am trying to convey is that I understand your loss, and I do not see you as an omen. I see you as a very strange individual who managed to slay a monster of the gods… And I am left wondering, ‘How has this come to pass’? What are the odds that the sole survivor of an act of the gods managed to kill a beast belonging to those very same gods… Perhaps you are here for the gold. Well, here it is-”

The lord leaned down low, and from the depths of his chair, he pulled up a great sack of coins, overflowing from its taught rim. It seemed less than the thirty-five hundred silver promised, but with a second glance, Ander saw its contents marked in gold mints, along with ones of Mur, Salandyne, and Shadhrvin all the same. A mass of wealth and none of it interested the boy in the slightest. The Lord saw such passions, and he went on.

“Or maybe it is a title you are after? Is this the case, young Ander Lone? I could swiftly make you lord of some cabincourt, or even a stonehold, if we have one spare. With such history already written, it would be as simple as signing your name!... But you do not want that, do you?”

“...No, I do not.”

“Exactly,” the man snapped again. His goblet of wine was drained now. “You do not wish for gold, nor do you chase a title. Once a victim of the gods, now a hunter against the odds. I see no coincidence in a thief slaying a monster without good cause…”

Lord Jannes Seroxs leaned closer. His mass spilled onto the small table between them, and the charities moved away from Ander. The man found at last the truth in the boy’s eyes, and he spoke.

“You seek vengeance, do you not? Young Ander Lone.”

“Is there anything your eyes cannot see?”

“Often, there is not. A curse, in honest,” the lord leaned back. “I meet my kin in gardens and courts, and they’re all so sneaky and foul. So disturbing, I tell you. I care much more for the company and opinions of the simple folks. You see, your lot in life is born without serpentine tongues! You need not withhold your true opinions, and so speaking with you, is like speaking into a mirror. Truly amazing, that is… Speaking of speaking plain, do away with this ‘Lone’ nonsense. Tell me your true surname, Ander of the Ashen City.”

“It was Idris, and maybe it still is. But I have spilled much blood - My own, and not my own. Mayhaps there is no Idris blood left to flow in me… Mayhaps I am the last of my blood, be that blood tainted with wrath. I am not the same boy who died in that blaze. The gutters have thinned me, the forest has hardened me, and the flames have tempered me in boiling purpose… But that purpose is vengeance. Vengeance for my fallen kin, the kin of love… I am an Idris, I have always been an Idris. And as I have changed, so has my name.”

“My name is Ander Idris, son of the ashen city, and I will be the bane of the god who took from me my home.”

Lord Jannes Seroxs leaned back, a fat smile painted on his plump lips. “The truth travels faster than Tallon’s hand. A swift shade from the corner of the eye. Never in sight, but always nearby, and present… Tell me, cursed wanderer, do you know of the second reward for slaying the Inagnivorr?”

Ander cocked his head. The charities had long receded from the furnishcart. His wounds were dressed, and a layer of silk had been laid upon his ripped garbs. It left him with the warmth of waking in the morning. His muscles were sore, but weariness was not known to him. To come across other magii was a surreal event. With how little was privy to the lord’s eyes, Ander had little doubt he knew of his magic connection. But about his question, the young Idris knew not of the second reward.

“I cannot say I do,” he replied.

“Perfection,” the lord hissed. “You have no eye for gold, nor titles. But rather, you yearn for your cup of debted blood. And if it is blood you seek, I shall make it rain upon you in a thousand-year monsoon… Do you know of lord Veçeryn Thornfeld, young Ander Idris?”

“I know but tales.”

“Oh, and there are many tales, are there not? The battle of Forc Nomis. The Wrath of Redwhine. Those poor, poor Saxxes… If there is anything one could learn from these tales, it is that lord Thornfeld is a man of war. The very war we wage against those devout in the name of Asterí… You too, are a man of war, young Ander Idris. There is a reason we held this hunt as a public endeavor. We are seeking capable hands to aid us in the war, by the command of the lord of Norsjin himself. As the slayer of the Inagnivorr, you are the very soul we have been searching for.”

“Am I?” Ander leaned forward. His face spelled unease. “But to you, am I a soul, or a tool?”

“Why not both? Every great warrior is a tool for some greater purpose. Even Faerthor the God-Killer was a tool. Though his passions ran hot and true, Crassion was destined to die a wicked soul. Such is the curse for the gods of strength, mind you… So, yes, a tool you would be in our war, as would our war be a tool for you. What better way is there to approach the gods than on the front lines.”

“This war has lasted a thousand years,” the boy mouthed. “What is it other than a place for slaughter? For what purpose do you fight for? I fight for my vengeance, I fight for my wrongs. What do you fight for?”

The question did not sit well with the heavy lord. A flash of despair shot through his eyes, and his nose went wrinkled in heavy thought. The man’s crested finger, stout with fat that rolled beneath the silk of his sleeve, tapped the handrest of his throne. His tongue let out a few clicks, but when his teeth shut, it was silenced. Ander could not tell if he was lost in thought, or lost in a battle to hold his words. Whatever war it was, the siege ended quickly, and the man leaned forward with all of his ability.

“I fight to finish the slaughter,” he said. “Maybe I am not a valiant warrior lord. I have not ridden on horsehide in decades, nor do I yearn to. That is not where my talents reside. Nor is that what my stomach hungers. Every day, noble men die. Not noble as in highborn blood, but noble as in righteousness. The Wicked One steals souls with every hour, and while my kin squabbles for lands and heads and keeps and country homes and vaults of gold and silver… I do my work, and march my men, and wave my bolts so that in future years, our children must not… Young Ander Idris. You say you fight for your fallen family. However big or small they were.”

“I fight for all the families who have fallen in the millennium… So you may be a tool of mine, and Thornfeld’s, but I shall tell you this. If you join us, and if you fight for us, you will fight so that when your work is done, no one else must… That may not be your wish. But Aranos’ head is a heavy one. And it will not fall by your likes, at least, not as you are now. We live in a world of great power. Fight with me, fight with his lord Thornfeld, and in time the wicked lord of flames shall fall, and mayhaps shall this worthless war be done as well.”

“How may I trust you,” Ander shot him a narrow look. The Lord Scholar had taught him that the best of men are often shells for the worst of monsters. Either this lord Seroxs was a very heavy noble man or a very frail demon in a hefty shell. “How may I know you speak the truth?”

“You cannot,” the lord shook his head. “But I do not ask for your trust. I am offering your next step, young Ander Idris. Whatever higher power allowed you to feel that beast, also led you to me. And I shall lead you further to deliverance. You can trust in that. Come to Norsjin. Fight to raze Hela-Kenī and push back the Vesegons! Fight to finish this horrid evil.”

“And you think I will be the one to turn this tide of war?”

“If you have aspirations to become a god-killer, then yes, I do believe you will have quite the impact. Enough with the probes, young Ander Idris. You must join us, you must help me. This is fate!”

Fate, Ander growled in silent thought. If all is fate, if all is predestined from the birth of the first stone till the death of the last star, then we are all but pawns. I am not a pawn. I am a warrior burdened by the corruption to deliver the world of evil… And to fight that evil, I cannot stay here. Be this by fate, or my own conscience, there will be no further step in Vimbaultir.

“Norsjin is a hundred leagues north if not double that,” Ander sighed. He glanced out the stained glass of the furnishcart. The sky was swelling with clouds, and light flashed behind them. “When would I leave?”

“Tomorrow,” replied the lord, a full smile on his lips. “Every day, an hour after daybreak, a caravan goes over Marrencross to march toward Norsjin. Thornfeld is assembling his army, and at sunrise, you shall join them. As shall I. I have done my part in finding the diamond in the ash, and I must move north upon the Ether road.”

“That soon?” Ander asked, concern masked in his tone.

“Why wait?” Replied the lord. “Why delay our work? Every day we waste is a day laid with death, and every hour you hold back is another hour a wicked god draws breath. Your purpose is calling you Ander, from on high. Shall you hear their oration?”

“...Marrencross, at daybreak-”

“-Near an hour after daybreak.”

“Yes… near an hour after daybreak.” Ander looked down at his calluses hands. They were coarse, and turned brown-tan through use, with smears of red and black that masked the valleys of his skin. His nails, bitted back by grip and hardship, were bloodied with sores and tears. For the smallest of seconds, he felt his nerves tighten. The idea of such a sudden step was nauseating, but after that second pass, he found that nausea was not born of fear. But of eagerness. He yearned for the step. No matter how high, and no matter how daunting. It was all he could think about. Images of such conquest flashed in his mind, and the taste of iron swelled in his mouth as he bit too hard upon his tongue. Chief amongst all the glimpses of fate was the bare neck of Aranos, gleaming with golden blood and fresh by his blade.

“Yes,” he said, his hands turned over. “I shall go with you. And I shall go, not with fear-”

He looked up, fire in his eyes. “-But with eagerness. But before that… There is something I must do. A right must be made, and I shall have to take my leave.”

“I understand,” came Lord Seroxs. “Take all the leave you need. And the gold, lest you forget. Do your business, make your mends, and meet me at Marrencross come daybreak.”

Ander made his feet. There was light far at the end of the tunnel, an all around him, fire burned. But a hand held his heel back, and it would not let go. He had promised Leon the truth.

And he had to keep his word.