I wake to smouldering embers, lifting myself up off the ground. I still feel weak, but far better than yesterday. So much has happened. The Gods sent me a message. Of that, I’m sure. I should go north, to the lands of Eight Holds — to Koltor. The greater question is how. I use the log to pull me up until I can use the main strength of my arms to lift myself fully to my feet. The man from before watches, silently. It doesn’t look like he’s even moved other than to give me a cover in the night. I don’t feel cold despite being two thirds of the way through autumn, no doubt in no small part to the cloak that seems to have grown thicker underneath me. All those who have lived a night out in the open know that the ground, not the air, is that which steals the most warmth.

The man shuffles, reaching behind him and pulling out the gambeson. “I warmed it near the fire for most of the night. Made sure it didn’t get singed, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “If I was sent after you, others will be too.”

I take the gambeson, feeling the fibres. Whatever he did to pull the sludge out of it, he did it well. The blue feathers interlaced within are still with sheen, same as the day my Father gave them to me. Supposedly, he had this made with the last Bluefeather Raven still in the roost atop Ravenwatch after it passed away. I put it on, pulling the heavy cloth over my legs first, then tying my boots. The top goes on like any other shirt or tunic, but the leather bracers and shoulderpads need extra fitting, a simple tying of the straps. The high collar stops the wind from stealing the warmth from my neck, the feathers around the bracers keep my forearms warm and ready. The cloak fits seamlessly around my armour, warping itself to fit correctly. I take a good look at the man, now that he’s helmet-less. He’s definitely… rugged, in a way even my Father wasn’t. A thick, unkempt beard dyed brown by mud — though I think his hair is blonde, just incredibly dirty. His blueish-grey eyes watch the embers glowing hot. To even begin to count the scars on his face and arms would be no small task. He’s not as muscular as my Father, and quite a bit shorter — but that obviously has no effect on his wider fighting skill. I wonder… if he could have beaten my Father in a fight.

“I never got a name.” I say, prompting him. He doesn’t say anything. “So be it. I shall be on my way.”

I walk over the log, picking my canteen. His eyes snap to it. “I wouldn’t drink the river water around here. Sekkha is not a clean mistress.”

I don’t respond, and soon his breathing becomes inaudible as I walk northwards. Ideally, I would find a road. A pity I don’t have a horse. From what I can tell, the barn he found was abandoned, no doubt a result of the Tyrnn raids after the War of Rebellion. It wouldn’t lead to a road. Soon, I escape the thin trees, finding a man-made path. About an hour after that, a fork in the road takes me north. Road-signs are apparently not something that House Daraas considers important — the fact that most trade now travels oversea, despite the Tyrnn, no doubt having something to do with it.

I keep an eye on the road behind me, checking every now and again; I still expect the man from before to run up on horseback. He had talked of following me, training me; but no doubt the reality of the situation had found him in the night. He does not want to be pursued, to be constantly unsure of his surroundings. It was all talk.

It wouldn’t take him long to catch me. I’m not even sure I could escape — most of my strength seems to have already passed and I’ve barely walked for an hour. I stop when I find a ruined shine on the side of the road, complete with a small shelter for prayer. Father told me once that he used to stop at one of these every time he came for the Das’en’uei; but then the Razor-hail broke them apart, even cutting through the stone. It would seem only dawnstone resists the damage. That and whatever the glass of the Sunbathing room is made from.

The altar is intact, the surrounding stone must have shielded it. I put my hand on it, feeling the cold of the stone even through the thick cloth of my gloves. Its wet, too, a small dripping from above. The trees around seem to have sheltered this place better than most.

I hear a voice, and press myself against the stone, willing my breathing to slow, making sure I’m not making any noise. Someone — a girl by the sound of it — shouts ’No!’ Her tone is frightened. I peer through the cracks in the stone, trying to find the source. I see a blur in the trees, two stocky men, then a flash of crimson and an eye looking into the shelter, right at me; a big orb of red so close I can see the small hexagons in their eye like those of a fly or or a wasp. Her eye widens and she runs away, her footsteps so light I can barely hear them. I follow her through the cracks. She couldn’t be an assassin… surely?

A look from further away tells me what she is; a Motari — the red wings and multiple arms make that obvious. As she runs through the forest, two men follow — both with dirks nearly as long as short-swords Conjured in their hand. I watch as she trips, fluttering the short red wings behind her enough that she doesn’t smash her face into a tree. She tries to get back up, to run, to escape — but one of them grabs her by the wing and pulls her into his arms, locking one across the throat.

“Naw stop fackin’ runnin’” he shouts, directly into her ear. She’s crying, wet tears running down her face, clutching some kind of long wooden board. I can barely see through the thinnest cracks. “Bloody slave — giv ya this, you got far. If ain’ta been red as roses, we’da lost you.” He laughs, eliciting a follow from his other man. “Lord Thorne put down your Mother for that little act. You’ll be the next breeder — or you’ll be sold off wholesale to one of the Daraas boys, they seem to love you little squealers.”

She sobs. I step out from the little sanctum, creeping my way towards their turned backs. I see her lock her eyes to me, and then look away. Smart. I stab forwards, aiming for the liver, Conjuring the blade in the same motion to ensure there’s as little time as possible for them to react. I lunge upwards, the dagger going straight through the man, and I Enhance my legs, pushing it further and ramming into the other man. He topples over, then pushes himself off and dances behind a tree. I wrench the dagger out the man’s back and bring it to the hilt in his neck, then push off and stare down the man who still has the Motari in his arms. He’s tall enough that she’s lifted off the ground, a shield of meat between him and me. He backing off, I’m following. He’s got his hand behind his back, no doubt Conjuring — but what? A blade, spear, what?

He pulls it out, puts it to his lip — and blows. A horn, no doubt telling others about me. I throw a dagger at the horn, but he swings around and continues to blow. I hear shouts from a decent distance away. I wanted to take from House Daraas, but its quickly becoming unlikely.

I hear the clop of hooves, and look for their direction only to see the man holding the Motari girl to be suddenly wrenched away by a man holding a spear, impaled and dragged along writhing, his guts trailing behind him until the rider lets it pierce deep into a tree. I rush over to the girl, now unconscious, and hoist her onto my shoulders, running into the trees. My cloak rises up, covering her whole body, making the sight of red a rare one. The horseman swings around, and I duck behind a tree onto to hear a familiar voice. “Boy! Get on!” says the man from before, swaying the rump of his horse around so that I have a clear path to climb up onto the saddle. A man breaks through a thicket, his face scratched from the myriad sharp thorns, swinging a Conjured blade at the neck of the horse only to have his blade deflected upwards and a dagger, thrown by the man, embedded deep into his neck. I climb up the horse, planting myself securely on it’s back, gripping on the man’s side for stability, my vision swimming. As he takes off, riding the horse down the path as fast as it will go, it’s all I can do to keep my grip both on him and the girl. Her breath is shallow in my ear, but I hear her repeating a word over and over.

’Lumine, Lumine, Lumine.’ Until she no longer does.

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We walk the horse through a dense cluster of trees, getting onto another path outbound from Edgehaven to ensure that we won’t be followed easily. The girl rests on the horse, seeming barely a feather to the strength of the beast. It’s a strong one, thick muscles ripping as it moves. Good stock, but definitely older.

“There’s a small village ahead, large enough to have its own small militia — and far enough inland that the majority of raiders and outlaws don’t bother with it. I know a man there, rears mounts for House Daraas. He looks back at me enough to see my eyes squint and glance at him. “I know you and Daraas aren’t friends; but the man isn’t loyal. He cuts under the counter all the time. ’Putting down’ one sumpter after it broke a leg during training won’t be much of an issue for the right price, and the girls small enough that she’ll ride with you.”

As he speaks, he diverts from the path and goes through the centre of another fork in the road. I follow, and soon we find ourselves behind a building. We follow it around to a wooden fence, and then further. The inside looks like a stable of sorts, but I see no horses.

Something is wrong. There are four buildings in sight. The stable, which is open, and what looks to be a small altar-shelter for communion. This one is worn, but not in disrepair. The other two are unknowns, but they are on the top of this small hill, same as the stables, so it’s not unreasonable to assume that they are the Stablemaster’s housing and perhaps a barn for tithe. I walk around the next building, the shelter, but find nothing. Nobody inside, so I move on to the next. I hear muffled noises and slow breathing. No windows, but now I’m certain. This is an ambush. Daraas wants me dead, there’s no doubt about that. I follow along the building, the quickly bridge the gap to the other, a short run. I push myself against it, willing my breathing to slow, to be quieter. Even the smallest of exertion takes the wind from my sails. From here, I am can see the rest of the village. It’s small — I can see panning equipment, leather racks full of horse-skin, and pots for boiling bones and hooves to make glue.

I also see a man stuff a horse into another building, no doubt the tannery. They are protecting them, ensuring we can’t access them without springing the trap. There’s probably men in all of the buildings, five or six each, ready to swarm us as we come in. I grip some of the thatch from the building and twirl it in my fingers. Hiding like they have, in windowless buildings, might be their downfall. I retreat back to Kairos, giving the horse a pat. It can feel the tension; the scent of fear and anticipation.

“A trap, yes?” he says in a low and careful voice. “Then we will have to go. We will head further east, find something else.”

I shake my head. We can’t do that. I have to get to the Koltor lands as fast as possible. I won’t fail the first mission given to me by the gods. “I know where the horses are — and I know how we can get them. Do you have string of some type? And a way to light fires?”

He stares at me. “Why?”

I sigh. “There’s men inside the buildings, and I’ve never met a man that likes being on fire. The smoke and confusion will allow us to get to the building where the horses are, smash down the wall, and make them scatter — grabbing one along the way.”

His face grows more and more angry by the second. “Where do you think the villagers are, Daai?”

“In the houses, stuffed in with the rest of them.”

He waits a second before speaking. “So you want to burn down the villagers houses, with them in them, all to steal a single horse.”

I nod. “Yes. What I have to do is important, and I’m not willing to allow any restrictions” I say, reaching for the saddlebag on the horse and rummaging around for twine, jute string — anything I can use to tie some of the nearby spruce needles together. It’s been dry for a while so the thatch should be flammable. He grabs my hand. “I won’t allow you to do this. I know some of the people here personally; I know that they’ll become no better than the dregs and the thieves of Edgehaven if you burn down their homes.”

I try to rip my hand away, but he holds it fast, Enhancing his hand and arm. “No, they won’t. I will not burn down the tannery, nor the stables. It will be rough, but—“

“It will be far more than rough. You’ve lived in a special little castle or keep or somesuch. These thatch roofs barely survive the razor-hail thanks to the thick trees, and they won’t even have them rebuilt for winter. If the fire spreads to the forest, they are dead.”

“Then they will get help from their lord. He should provide for them.” I say, and he releases my arm. He chuckles silently. “There is much you don’t know about the world, eh? But even you should know that is a false hope. You will destroy their food and shelter… and for what?”

“If we do not move on horseback they will — and it is only a certain time before they catch me. We need to move, and we need to move now. Daraas does not want a spectre in the dark. I saw it in his eyes when he looked at me. I saw it in his family. I will die by his hands, no matter what, unless we can travel faster. If you want to leave, leave. I will take the horse north myself.”

He looks over the village. “Fine.” He says, then Conjures four horseshoes and puts them over the ones already attached. When he moves the horse forward, its footsteps make no sound. “How? How can you do that?”

He shakes his head. “Not the time. I’ll get the Horse ready behind the barn.” He says, digging into his pack and pulling out a small pouch and throwing it to me. “Use this. It’s a piece of Firesteel, from the Tyrnn. Put it to whatever you want to burn, and it’ll go up like a rushlight. Do not handle it with your bare hands; use Hardlight. It’s like touching a pan that’s been on the fire for months.”

I nod, silently thanking him. That makes it lot easier than going to find flint. I step into the forest, snapping spruce needles from dying branches and entwining them with the twine I found in his pack, forming little firebombs. When I have seven well-packed bunches, I set off through the forest, down the hill until I’m at the other end of the tannery. I can hear the horses braying inside. Handled by unfamiliar men, surrounded by the skin of dead versions of themselves. I Conjure a bow, my mind being taken back to that time in our hunting grounds, when I had failed to take a clean shot. I had practised in secret, without even the knowledge of Father. I Conjure an arrow, tying the soon-to-be fireball to the point, adding a little more weight to the end of the arrow so that it flies true, then I take a deep breath and let loose a different Conjured arrow, not allowing it to land — purely to test to range.

I push the Firesteel out of it’s pouch, feeling the heat from it, and put the spruce needles to it. They light quickly, popping and crackling almost in an instant. I raise the bow, pull back the arrow, and loose the shot. It sails nicely through the air, and lands right in the middle of the roof of the barn. Three more times, three more arrows, three more fires beginning to start. They’ll be hearing it now, at least at the first one. Kairos watches me, watches the flames. I’ll have to remove myself from him at some point; but for right now I’m unfortunately dependant.

I let the last arrow loose, landing on the building opposite the tannery. Smoke rises, and the first man that clambors from the barn screams out so the entire village can hear him. “Attack! Under attack!”

I smile, picking up the Firesteel in its pouch, and press my back against the Tannery, trying to listen to anything said or any commotion… but what I hear instead strikes a fury in me.

I hear blades pierce flesh, I hear the horses cry out in pain and fear. They’re… slaughtering them.