We waited in our improvised fortress of stone for what felt like anywhere between a couple of hours and an eternity. Bors did his best to keep my mind from spiralling over the impending meeting, but there was only so much I could sing to keep my thoughts at bay. If I kept playing any longer, we’d get into ballads about love—the kind with lines like ‘Thine eyes are akin to twin moons’—and make everyone uncomfortable.

To spare us that fate, I ended up cultivating with the Bellows Breath, hoping my old technique would tame the wild thoughts. I pulled in great swathes of the abundant glamour, and within a few minutes, I’d all but saturated myself. I could keep pushing, pressing my hearth to get closer to Iron, but without my concept, I was wary of going too far. When I’d last died, my cultivation had grown faster than flame through dry grass.

Death was something I would try to avoid if at all possible. What I felt certain I must avoid was the experience of having my body try to move to Iron while my hearth was still lacking its final support.

I cultivated a little longer, refilling my cloak, which had done sterling work shielding me from the earlier cock-up with the death cultivation. The discordant death glamour had eaten up another portion of my resources. I felt a little tickle in my mind as I pondered that mistake. The element of discord was a potent one, one I could revel in. I’d been sabotaging the Harkley harmony for years. What surprised me was the connection I felt to death. I couldn’t deny how essential it was to my new identity.

Death didn’t define me, but it was the seed of my new self.

Even with those aspects pinned down, my intent wasn’t just half-baked; it was barely dough. Though as I kneaded it in my mind, I knew that death and discord were right in some fundamental way. Just as Bors said it would feel. Still, there was something missing, an ingredient that would get it to rise and balance out the heavy weight of the other two aspects.

Death and discord weighed me down. An intent made of those alone would lead me down the path of the Death Knight. I refused to let that be my fate, but I had to find the missing piece.

My musings ground to a halt as Bors broke the silence. “I see them. They’re coming out of the forest to the east.”

My eyes shot to the direction we’d called ‘East’. We’d used the river that flowed by the plain as our guide, the water running from north to south on our little map. The river was to our west, about fifty paces across, and flowed quickly. In the trees behind it waited our comrades. That was our fallback location. With a fire cultivator on the loose, water was a must.

Taking a deep breath, I stood. Looking out across the broken, rocky plain, I could see two figures approaching. They marched confidently towards us, ignoring the field of destruction. I could make out Sephy easily. Her armour was dull, scraped, and dented from battle. She looked every bit the warrior I knew her to be—sword at her side, a javelin in hand, ready for any threat that might descend.

I felt a thrum in my chest, chords tight, strings humming with every beat of my heart. It had been some eight months since her last message. A letter apologising that she’d be away for some time. Even with the dream offering a chance to meet her, some small part of me had still feared that it’d all be some cruel trick. Now, though, she was less than a thousand paces from me.

“Arty’s wounded. He’s not walking right.”

“He looks fine,” I said. And the Prince did. He walked comfortably, his armour in better condition than Sephy’s. As he approached, I could see what the others had been talking about when comparing him to Lance. From this distance, I could have believed it was Lance walking towards us. The man’s golden locks were, of course, perfect.

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“No, his pace is off. I can feel it. His right leg is hitching. I can feel it in the way he touches the earth.” Bors was staring intently at the approaching figures as they emerged from the forest.

“You know your skill terrifies me sometimes,” I said. My smoke, on the best of days, would stretch a third of that distance—maybe half, if I pushed it.

“I aim to impress. How do you reckon Percy is going to feel about your... youness?” Bors’ comment raised an eyebrow, but he wasn’t dissuaded. “You’ve got a lot going on, Taliesin.”

“Fair enough. I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t suspicious. I suspect she’ll push past it, though. I’m only a Bronze; there’s only so much threat I can pose. I am a threat, but one that can be dealt with. She’ll likely want to ascertain if I’ve somehow corrupted or coerced you,” I replied. It’s what I’d do if our positions were reversed.

“Then I’ll have the pleasure of seeing her make a tactical error.” Bors grinned.

“What do you mean?”

“If she assumes you’re an easily handled threat, it’ll be a rare mistake. Ignoring the ‘Lady’ stuff, I’ve personally seen you run rings around an Inquisitor while improvising multiple verses of insults, and you created a concoction that slaughtered an entire company of cultivators who were your equals.” Bors caught me off guard. While I couldn’t directly refute what he’d said, it still felt like it didn’t capture the truth of the situation.

“That’s teamwork that did that. If you wanted, you could pop my head with one hand. I’m not a threat,” I replied. I still couldn’t compete with an Iron rank in a direct fight.

“Maybe two hands, but that wouldn’t stop you, would it?” Bors grinned. He alone knew of my Phoenix origins. “They’re taking their time approaching. I’m going to say hello.”

“Bors, wait!” I hissed at him. Bors strode forward. I saw Sephy flinch, her hand going to the hilt of her blade, her grip shifting on the javelin.

“Well met, strangers. Your faces rattle around my memories; perhaps we met long ago,” Bors’ voice boomed over the rocks, and despite Sephy’s reaction, Arthur strode forward to meet him.

“I’m sure I’d remember a Knight as tall as you if we’d met before,” Arthur’s voice was melodic, rich and warm. It suited a prince. His lips were pulled into a smile. He really did resemble Lance. I suspected some Fae bullshit was at play.

“Mayhaps are you related to a man I know? His honour gets him into all kinds of scrapes. Last I heard, he’d gone off on some damn fool plan to fight half the Inquisition on his own, leaving his allies behind to reflect,” Bors called to him.

“It’s possible. You also remind me of a man who once warned me that ‘sticks and stones may break my bones, but a good boulder will still crush you.’ Last I heard, he’d annoyed an entire Order by challenging their ‘Honoured Knight’ to single combat and then embarrassed him so badly that the entire Order thirsts for blood,” Arthur grinned as he responded.

Sephy and I made eye contact as the pair continued their banter, closing the distance between our two groups. Both of us were hesitant to step forward—her for tactical reasons, while some part of me still feared she was a mirage that would dissolve away if I got too close. Her eyes danced over me, and I could feel her picking me apart. She weighed me up carefully, and I was terrified I’d be found wanting.

In return, I examined her. She was never the tallest but her presence made her loom, she was broader than most women across the shoulders, and that helped her carve an imposing silhouette. Her blood red hair was gathered in a tight braid, a couple of hair pins and fixings her only adornments, the red contrasted against her pale skin. Her cheeks were tighter than when we’d last met, her face pinched by exhaustion. Her eyes were darker, or at least lacked the dancing light I was used to seeing when we danced and schemed across the ballrooms of Albion.

The memory soothed me. I might’ve been bathed in fire, turned to ash and flame, and born anew into someone different, but if there was any part of me that remained the same, it was the man I was in those moments. I’d lived for those stolen hours when I was free.

Under her careful scrutiny, I drew myself up, imitating the proper form for a gentleman asking a lady for a dance, and bowed to her. For a second, I saw a flicker of a smile on her lips before the careful mask returned.

Between us, Bors and Arthur had dropped the pretence and grabbed each other by the wrist in an aggressive handshake. I assumed it meant something to them, as they were now laughing.

“You two done sizing each other up?” Bors yelled. Sephy looked at me, then at them, before finally letting a sliver of a smile peek out as she started to stride forward.

“Pleased to see you’re not dead, big guy. And no, this barely counts as a glance,” she grinned. “Now, if I’m any judge, we’ve got a minute or two before Astor makes his play. Let’s chat."

Her eyes settled on me, and the full weight of her attention made me take an involuntary step back.