As much as he hated to admit it, Tyron did feel better. He disliked being mothered by Elsbeth; it was something Beory had never really done for him when he was growing up. If he associated anyone in his life with the kind of fussing and care that he considered the unique domain of mothers, it would be his aunt, Meg. She was the one who’d cared for him when he was sick, forced him to eat when she thought he was wasting away, and demanded he sleep when she found he’d been up for too long.

The image of his aunt, a plump, brown-haired woman with a warm smile and a big heart flashed into his mind, and Tyron sighed. It didn’t feel right, to leave Meg and Worthy thinking that he was dead, but at the same time, he didn’t see what he could do about it.

Tell them he was still alive? To what end? His Uncle may well still be strong enough to force him to abandon his revenge, sitting on top of him and preventing him from performing Necromancy. Worthy was a Silver Ranked Slayer when he retired, a hammerman of some renown, with years of experience on the frontlines. If he decided he wanted Tyron to give up on revenge, then what would have to be done to stop him?

Tyron was absolutely unwilling to fight his own uncle, risking killing him, when he didn’t have to.

Better to leave them in ignorance for now. When he was a little stronger, Worthy wouldn’t be able to stop him anymore, and it would be safe to bring them into the fold.

Thinking along these lines left a sour taste in the young Mage’s mouth. He resolved to take better care of himself, to prevent Elsbeth from having to intervene in this manner again. Sleeping every third night seemed perfectly sustainable in his eyes, so that would be the schedule he stuck to.

He just wouldn’t force the same habits onto his students. Getting carried away like that in front of them was frankly a touch embarrassing, and he hoped he hadn’t scared them off completely. Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine working with new Necromancers could pay off so spectacularly and so quickly.

Ropes. Ropes. It made perfect sense when he thought about it. In fact, it was so obvious he felt idiotic for never considering it before. He’d spent so much time trying to modify the thread as he produced it, coming out of his fingertips, that he’d never even bothered to consider doing something with it afterwards.

Refreshed and ready to work, he felt that bubbling mania rising within him as he took swift steps toward the table in his cave. His eyes greedily landed upon the notes left there the previous day. Yes, yes. There was so much to do, so many ideas buzzing around in his mind! This would be another great leap forward in his mastery of the undead, a massive qualitative step that would push his revenants to new heights.

Even if it didn’t mean much for the minions he had now, there were only a few who were capable of damaging their current stitching when exercising their abilities, it would change everything for the skeletons he would create in the future. It was only a matter of time until he got his hands on a Silver ranked set of remains, and when he did, he wanted to be ready.

Before then, he needed to push, to learn how to make Wights, and create the finest undead it was possible to make. And this technique in front of him would help unlock the first layer, all he needed was a little time to focus.

“Hey, Tyron! Are you in there?”

Just as he was preparing to immerse himself back in his studies, a voice, like jagged nails down a chalkboard, dragged him away, shattering the gathering momentum of his thoughts. It set his teeth on edge.

Snarling at the interruption, Tyron stalked toward the entrance to his cave and tore it aside.

“What?” he demanded, knowing the irritation was written all over his face, and not caring one whit about it.

Outside, he found an unexpected gathering. Samantha Douglas, leader of the Stafire Slayer team, Drenen Ebert, leader of the Hooligans, along with Brigette, the scowling blonde swordswoman he worked with, and another person, a stranger. Taken unawares, Tyron felt a little defensive around these Slayers. He hadn’t expected to see four of them, he presumed the stranger was also a slayer, show up on his doorstep.

With a few silent commands, he ordered his skeletons to draw closer. The guard he always kept nearby formed up around him, shields and swords at the ready. He didn’t mind if they thought he looked weak; he would rather be safe than thought of as impressive.

“Drenan? What’s going on here?” he asked, his tone clipped.

The only people able to hurt him on this mountain were the Slayers, and he didn’t appreciate being approachd by a group of them. Silently, he had his ghosts start to sweep the woods around the cave, seeking any who were hidden. Drenan held up his hands in peace.

“No need to worry, just came up to talk. This here,” he gestured toward the newcomer, a middle-aged man with silver hair and numerous scars on his face, “is Brom. He arrived yesterday, from Woodsedge.”

“Nice to meet you, Tyron,” the newcomer said, his voice low and gravelly. “I worked with your parents a few times, heard a fair bit about you. Glad I can finally put a face to the name.”

Tyron raised a brow.

“You worked with Magnin and Beory? As a Silver?”

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Brom chuckled.

“I’m a scout, and your old man couldn’t be bothered to do it, so they brought me through the rift with them. Twice I’ve been to the other side with them. Once at Woodsedge, once at Blackrift.”

That did sound like Magnin. Due to his sheer physical prowess, he could do most things himself, including scouting. He had extremely sharp senses, unbelievable speed and reflexes, and knew how to move quietly when he wanted to. Was he as good as a dedicated scout class? No. He couldn’t become next to invisible in a shadow, or see around obstacles like they could, but so overwhelming was he in every other respect, it almost didn’t matter.

Not to say he liked doing it. Magnin liked to fight, not skulk around, find a target, leave it alone and return to the group. Whenever they could find someone else to do the job for them, his parents were more than happy to hire them on. Problem was, they had a difficult time meeting people who were up to their standard. Whoever this Brom was, he must be good.

“You were lucky to see them fight up close,” Tyron mused. “Not many got the chance.”

“They were incredible,” Brom agreed heavily. “This realm is much worse for their loss. Such senseless waste.”

Drenan spoke up, wanting to explain what they were doing here.

“Brom brought some news from up North. He’s on his way down to Skyice once he’s done here, and thought you’d be interested to hear what he has to say before he leaves.”

This was interesting. Whatever it was must be good.

“I’ve heard there were some rumblings up at Woodsedge. I was planning to go there myself,” Tyron said. “Brom the Silver Slayer, I’m going to assume you came to tell us those rumblings were more than a passing shake?”

The grizzled man rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he eyed the Necromancer.

“Well, you aren’t wrong about that. First of all, I’m not a Silver Slayer, not anymore,” he grinned, wolfishly. “I’m Gold, as of last week.”

Gold. An unsanctioned promotion. That could only mean one thing.

“Rebellion,” Tyron stated, his tone flat.

Silvers who were close to reaching level sixty were monitored like hawks. Every time they left a keep to fight at the rifts, it was monitored, and when they got back, they were checked. Slayers who refused to promote, who remained in the high fifties and simply never performed the status ritual, were watched even more carefully. To promote to Gold and slip through the Magisters’ net was… unthinkable. He must have done it in the keep, right before the fighting started.

“Aye,” Brom confirmed. “There’s no Magisters alive in Woodsedge to speak of.”

“What about the Slayers who didn’t want to fight?” Tyron asked.

The man looked down at his worn boots for a moment.

“There’s none of them either,” he said quietly.

Fight or die. A Slayer who wasn’t with you, was against you, whether they liked it or not. They could be compelled by the brand to do almost anything.

“What about your brands?” Tyron asked pointedly. “How were you able to fight at all?”

Almost without thinking, Brom reached a hand up to his left shoulder and rubbed at it. Slayers didn’t get to choose where it was applied, as that decision was left to the whims of the Magister performing the ritual. Often it was on the neck, though most slayers hated it being visible. Due to that fact, most were on the chest or back of the shoulder.

“You probably know this already, but every time you advance, they have to reapply the thing, strengthen it. The version they use on bronze folk isn’t as effective on silver. A few vets like me got together and planned everything out. We advanced together, then we did what we had to do.”

Tyron winced. Less effective or not, that would have hurt like hell.

“Have you started to train up some unbranded fighters? It’s only a matter of time until they realise what you’ve done. They can trigger the pain remotely whenever they please,” he warned.

Brom nodded grimly.

“Oh, we’re well aware. There were six of us, and we’ve spread out, trying to get word to as many of the keeps as possible before the curse takes us. Fucking pricks.” He leaned over and spat on the ground. “They’ll get around to me eventually, but so far they seem occupied with other things.”

The purge, Tyron realised. Of course the Magisters were busy, they’d been pushed out of the tower in unprecedented numbers, sweeping across the province. Rounding up heretics, hunting for rogues alongside the priests and marshalls. Maybe it was helping to suppress rebellious slayers close to the capital, but this far out, Magisters were few and far between.

“You might have more time than you think,” Tyron mused, before explaining his thoughts.

“Well, I hope you’re right. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get going. I’ve got a long run ahead of me, and I don’t want to delay any further.”

“Thanks, Brom,” Drenan said, shaking the man's hand as he turned to leave.

“Don’t thank me,” the grizzled scout scoffed. “Fight with me. You don’t have long to make a choice.”

With that, he set off at a jog, keeping his feet with uncanny precision and balance as he moved far too quickly down the slope. That left Tyron and the local Slayers standing around outside his cave in the frigid air.

“Well, now you’ve heard from someone that isn’t me,” Tyron said. “I hope that speeds up your decision.”

Drenan scowled, but Samantha was more measured.

“It isn’t an easy decision to make. My girls are so young, just starting out as Slayers. They don’t want to risk their lives in a desperate fight against the Magisters.”

Tyron wasn’t sympathetic.

“What we want, or don’t want, doesn’t apply in the current circumstances. Or do you think my parents wanted to be tortured to the brink of death before they killed themselves?”

“No,” Samantha replied quickly. “No I don’t think that.”

“So, let’s not talk about what we want, let’s talk about what is. The Magisters are coming. The Priests and Marshalls are coming. There are soldiers from the Noble houses coming with them. Every Slayer on this mountain is going to be killed when they get here. The only question you need to ask your team members, is are they going to cut their own throats now, or are they going to fight?”

Brigette, watching from behind Drenan finally spoke up.

“How can you say that? Where is your pity?”

Tyron looked at her as if she were mad.

“My pity, my mercy and my sympathy, all died along with Magnin and Beory.”

He turned and walked back towards his cave.

“Besides, you heard Brom. If you don’t fight, the other slayers will kill you themselves.”