I wake up. I wasn’t expecting to wake up. I wasn’t expecting… anything. I’m warm. My hand jumps to my neck. No wound. I look at my hand. No wound. A dream?

No. I’m somewhere different. The cloak is still around me, but my gambeson is gone. I’m on… a cot? Straw is packed into thin linen — and the room is near pitch-black, with only a small Lightlantern glowing ever so slightly on the other end of the room. An explanation comes to my head. I’ve been captured. The assassin took me alive, brought me to Daraas. I have to escape.

I stand up, then topple over onto the ground, my knees impacting hard onto… wood? Wood in the dregs? In Edgehaven? Doubtful. I feel out in the dark, and find a support pillar. I grip onto the iron band around it, dragging myself up until I’m leaning on it… I feel so very exhausted. The blood. I must have lost so much blood. Father had told me once; about how much blood a man could lose and still keep fighting. He had emptied his cup of water on the ground, then filled it and dropped it into the sand again. Then he simply declared that he had won, or that he had lost. I feel that now. I must have lost more than that. My head aches dreadfully. My skin is cold, and exposed to the air. I thank the cloak silently — whatever it’s nature may be — for the limited protection it grants me. As I think that, it seems to grow heavier, thicker. I hug it tighter. As my eyes adjust to the dark, the Lightlantern seems to glow brighter. I try to put out my own light, but all it does is splutter. I’m completely out, and I’m not getting any more until the sun rises again. I grit my teeth and push carefully from the supportive pillar, standing on my own two legs. Confusion is at the forefront of my mind. Did the Gods save me? Did they whisk me away from danger?

I stumble forwards, towards the Lightlantern. Father kept these in Ravenwatch, but only a few. They store the Light from the sun, like something permanently Conjured. I put my hand around the crystal, feeling the smallest amount of Light drain from it into me until it is cold. I do not think I can Repair blood loss. It is not the knitting of flesh or the sealing of a wound. I feel my neck. It has definitely been Repaired, smooth and clean but with that residual ache that always remains; a phantom pain. When I take another step forward, I smell something. A bit of air comes from somewhere bringing the smell of cooking meat. The smell makes my mouth water. There’s something else there too, the smell of… potatoes?

My mouth dries. Ugh.

I think I know what I am in, even if I do not know where. This is a hayloft. That would explain the straw, but I don’t hear the noise of animals. There must be a ladder or stairs somewhere. I feel around, very carefully, until I find a banister that guards the accidental falling down onto the floor below. From there, I trace around until I find a gap in the armour. When I try to crouch to feel for the ladder, I topple forwards, unable to slowly lower my weight. A spike of pain comes from my knee — a splinter has stabbed deep and it bleeds lightly. I pull it out, then sigh and reach out for the ladder. Can I even climb down?

I have to try. I need to know where I am. It’s not safe for me. No doubt House Daraas will send more assassins. It dawns on me that I haven’t felt this vulnerable since I was face-to-face with one of House Kaelis’ wolves. I was only a boy. I frown. I still am. My first true opponent… and I lose horrifically. Is that what the Gods want from me? Their Arbiter, felled by some assassin that I just happen to cross paths with? Doubtful.

I whip myself around, putting my legs down the ladder, gripping tightly and taking it slow, making sure I have a good position before I attempt to lower my weight. I nearly fall once, but I reach the bottom and put my bare feet on grass. Not a chance I’m in Edgehaven any longer. The only grass there was high, high up on the spires. I’m not there. I can feel it in the wind. I follow the smell of food, I follow the orange, flickering light. There is a fire. There is the assassin. He watches me. “You must be cold. You must be hungry, and it must be obvious now that I do not intend to kill you,” he says, stirring a broth with a long wooden spoon, letting the smell cover the warm air. I look at the fire, and then at him. “Where is my gambeson?” I ask, and he nods. “Near me. I washed it. I very much doubt you wished to carry the entire filth of Edgehaven along with you on your journey. As for that cloak,” he says, looking directly at it. “It would not leave you. It’s not a magic I have personally encountered. Unless it is… It also wrapped itself around your neck to staunch the bleeding. Not that it helped.”

I feel the cloak, pressing it between two fingers. “Why did you save me?”

“I find it very interesting you ask that not as your first question but your second. I assume the gambeson is a gift, something special to you.” He analyses. “But sit down and eat, and I will answer any question you want me to. You are, to use a Voidorne term, anaemic.”

I stagger over, planting myself on the nearby log - the furthest away from him I can be. Just because he decided not to kill me does not mean he is my friend. He could still be taking me to House Daraas. It wouldn’t be ideal for me to die before he got his pay. He notices my glare. “Suspicion can be a good thing. Healthy, even. But letting it cloud your judgement… not so much.”

He sounds like Father. He grabs a wooden bowl, seemingly freshly carved based on the fresh wood scent that comes from it. He uses the spoon — actually a ladle — to scoop some of the liquid into the bowl, which he then brings to me. Each footstep that brings him closer causes me to tense, and I instinctively put my hand out ready to Conjure a weapon. He chuckles. “You don’t have a smidgen of Light in your body. I should know; I took it to Repair you.”

I take the bowl, and he turns his back. I have an involuntary jump as though I should stab him whilst he considers me a non-threat. I might have enough. Just enough, with the Light from the Lightlantern. But I don’t. Instead, I put the soup to my mouth, taking a small bit to test the temperature. Too hot to eat, so I put it on my lap. The cloak covers it on its own, trapping the heat inside a nearly impenetrable barrier of thick cloth. He sees this, watching.

“I think — but do not take my word for an absolute — this cloak you’ve got is an Ancientry. I saw quite a few of them in my travels in Voidora. They take all sorts of shapes; all sorts of sizes and effects. But this world is vast. It could be anything else.”

“Ancientry?” I ask. Information is never a bad thing to collect. He nods. “It’s the Voidorne Magic. Like our Lightblading, Koltor Runes or Tressan plants. I never got a clear answer on how they make them.”

“Do you know of Pacts? From the Skorodae?”

He shakes his head, but then speaks. “I have never had an encounter with one who bares a Pact that did not end in sorrow. I don’t know if the Gods are good or not; but I doubt even they intended for it to be used in such a way.”

I bring the soup back up to my lips. Edible. In fact, it tastes pretty good. I still stop when a potato hits my lip, to pick it out and throw it on the ground. He smacks his lip. “Nobles. Always considering the humble potato something to be thrown away.”

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“I don’t like them. I never have.”

He reaches down, Conjuring something like a gauntlet but much more like cloth over his hand, and picking out something small and round. He presses a clasp, revealing… something. It’s brown all the way around, and he Conjures a small knife — making me flinch — but then he simply cuts into it, releasing hot steam. He digs into his pack, pulling out another small clay pot and popping open the latch. Butter slivers out, covering the potato. He smiles, and hands it to me on his plate. “If you still don’t like them after this, then fine — you just don’t like them.”

I try to pick it up with my hands, but its far too hot. He taps his head and Conjures a spoon with a sharp edge, point it towards me handle-side facing me. I take it, watching him closely, then put the other bowl aside and stab into the potato, scooping it up and bringing to to my face so I can blow on it. When steam stops rising from it, I eat.

I will admit, it is better. The texture is more crumbly than the boiled potatoes I’ve normally had to eat, and the butter adds both a fuller edge and saltiness to it. Still, I just do not like it. I put his Conjured spoon on the bowl and hand it back to him. He laughs. “Really? I pulled out the camel butter and everything. I haven’t found a soul that didn’t like a baked potato with a little bit of salty butter.”

“Mark that as one.” I say. I’m too tired to keep my guard up. Even the smallest bit of food has me feeling sleepy. Still, I drink more of the soup. I watch as he pours his soup onto the potato and digs in. Through mouthfuls of food, he mutters. “Is probably not that people love them, its that they have to eat them—“ he swallows the bite. “—not everyone is fortunate enough to live in a castle and eat meat.”

“I had to eat them too. Sometimes they were all I ate. For sustenance.” I say, and I feel a sadness come over me. Mother is dead. I am alone. The air seems to grow chiller. The cloak wraps around me tighter. “You didn’t answer, before.”

He stops the spoon halfway to his mouth. “About why I saved you?” he asks. I nod. He shakes his head. “I don’t even know myself, boy. No doubt Daraas would have given me a pretty penny for your head — more if I brought you in alive, even if it wasn’t in the contract.”

He looks up at the sky. “But I didn’t see a warrior that night. I didn’t see a Noble. I saw a boy that was wandering the dregs. You had a face on that I’d only ever seen on boys after their first battle in the ranks. I’ve known that face a thousand times. I saw when my blade was to your throat — it wasn’t a fear of death, it was a question. That was what was going through your mind. Is it over? Is this it? You’ve stared down the edge of a blade before. Perhaps more times than I have. You had this look of absolute calmness on, and you didn’t even let it go when you died. I watch you keep that defiance until you passed out. I’ve seen many a strong and older man lose their posture at much less.”

“I was trained well.” I say, proudly.

He shakes his head. “You weren’t trained. You were like a Jikan Golem, lifeless. Void of everything. You were… programmed. You were made.”

I take a breath. “I was forged.”

He nods. “That’s a good way to put it, but it’s not a good thing. Life is full of so much more. I think the reason I stopped your bleeding is because I’ve felt that before. I was part of a thieves group. I stole from Nobles when I was young. I had to. It was survival. Then came the Sorcerer-King. I was drilled, I was made into a weapon. I enjoyed it. Or so I thought. It was only when the conquests were done that I turned around and I realised I had done nothing with my life.”

My turn to shake my head. “I don’t care about that. I don’t care about your life story. I have something I need to do. A path I’ve been shown to. Either kill me or leave me alone.”

“So black and white,” he says, sighing. “You’re free to go. I’m not holding you here. That said; you wouldn’t get far in your condition.”

I have to admit he’s right. Already I feel myself being pulled back into sleep. “So what now?” I ask. “What will you do?”

I finish the bowl as he sits silent. “I think… I should show you the world. You say you have a path to walk. When you say it — it doesn’t sound small. I’ll swear an oath if it helps you… but I feel I should not let you wander off into the dark on your own. For one, you need training. Proper, actual training. Not a series of responses.”

Why would I—. “Why would I want an assassin to follow me?”

He chuckles. “Other than the fact I’m better than you? That I can train you?” He sighs. “I’m not an assassin. At least, not normally. Some have called me a bounty hunter, a mercenary. If we’re talking in plain terms, I solve problems. When I travelled, I caught odd jobs. Kill a few people here— destroy a nest of Grelocks there. You get the picture. I still have the contacts, and they still have jobs. You’ll need money for food. For a place to rest. How do you plan on getting that? From what I can tell, you aren’t even a Noble anymore.”

I grit my teeth. “I am. I am a member of House Daai”

“I was there when they were in talks with a band of Varg Primordialists. They burnt your keep to cinder and ash, Kyallan. You are nothing anymore.”

I am… I am. I am the Patriarch of House Daai, now. I am—

Sleep takes me.

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Sleep brings me back to the realm of the gods. Except nobody waits for me. There is only a message, one that I feel rather than hear. It tells me to go north, past the barrier between the lands of the Human and into the lands of the Koltor. I see a vision of the Soul of the Champion, resplendent with crackling red energy, ripped from the socket of the receptacle, torn like a tooth from a jaw; an unnatural sense of loss and a phantom feeling of regret.

A future that I cannot let come to pass.

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The boy’s head slumps first, and Kairos runs over to grab it from smashing into the wooden log as he falls into sleep. His skin is so pale, and even with the heat from the fire and strange cloak wrapped around him, he is cold to the touch. Even in sleep his face is a deep frown. Has the boy ever smiled?

He lifts him, Enhancing himself to do so. The boy is tall by most measurements, and he certainly doesn't lack muscle on his frame. He lowers him down onto ragged bed-mat. Kairos isn’t carrying him up the ladder again. The cloak writhes around him, mainly covering his body from the heat-sucking ground. Kairos grabs a covering and puts it over the boy. He can’t help but feel he has entered a murky and bottomless pool of liquid. There is such a strangeness around the child. Kyallan. That is his name. He finds himself hoping that he will live. He hopes he had not killed him.

He sits on the log and waits. He thinks about nothing, uncertain even in that.