“Ah, that sweet, Undermist scent. Did you miss it as much as I did?” MacReilly asked.

Feolin wanted to scowl and curse, but she was so pleased to see the Keep again she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

“I never thought I’d be happy to see this place,” she said. “I mean, really, never.”

“I know what yeh mean,” MacReilly grinned. “I was so happy to get away from this place, I drank until I couldn’t stand up.’

“You drank like that every damn day.”

“Aye, but that was drinks of commiseration. When we left, they were drinks of celebration! Very different.”

Undermist Keep and the town that bore the same name were much the same as every Keep and settlement around the empire, walled bulwarks against the kin. They were designed to house, equip and stitch together the Slayers as they went about their duties. However, this rift, and this town, were a little different from the others, for one very specific reason.

The two approached the Grave gate on the south side of the wall, so named for the cemetery they passed on their right. The two Slayers bowed at the waist toward the memorial, paying respect to the friends whose names had been carved into the gravestones within, even if their bodies did not lie in the soil beneath them.

Security on the gate was tight, as was to be expected, given the current circumstances. No less than a dozen guards, with an attending Magister and Priest, occupied the guard house, and every single one of them stepped out as Feolin and MacReilly approached.

“Present your papers and prepare to be searched,” the ranking Marshal declared, holding up a hand to halt them on the spot.

MacReilly rolled his eyes. He’d never been good at dealing with the authorities, but that was fine. They’d both agreed Feolin would be the one to handle these situations for the two of them.

“Hello, officers. I am Feolin Brightshield, and this is my associate, MacReilly.”

The Marshal flicked his eyes to the Slayer with a slight frown.

“Is that it? No second name?”

“Clan name is all you get unless you want to be wed,” MacReilly drawled, waggling his thick eyebrows at the man.

“Northerner, then. You have identification on your papers?”

“Aye.”

“Good,” the officer grunted, holding out his hand. “I’ll go through the documents while you report to Magister Deol over there for a status check.”

“Of course.”

Feolin handed over her papers along with MacReilly’s but waited rather than walking off at once. When the Marshal looked up to see what the delay was, she smiled ingratiatingly.

“I just wanted to check that you knew we were coming before we submit to the check, just so there aren't any… surprises.”

“What do you mean?” the officer asked warily.

“My associate and I have come from the capital, with special dispensation from the tower, to come and help here in the Keep. Have you been told of this?”

The officer frowned for a moment, then his eyes widened in alarm.

“Wait… so you two?”

The two Slayers nodded, being careful not to appear threatening, keeping their hands away from their weapons.

“Yes. The two of us are gold ranked. I just wanted to ensure there was no confusion on that front.”

“G-good decision.”

The Marshal kept himself together, but he was clearly rattled at being in their presence. Not all of the guards were as controlled, with some staring at the two, fear written plainly on their faces. Even the Magister looked uneasy at being in the presence of two golds, his hand wrapped white-knuckle tight around his stave.

Feolin kept the smile plastered to her face as if her life depended on it, desperate to appear unthreatening. The last thing she wanted was for some idiot guard to panic and cause an incident which would get her and MacReilly sent back to the cage, never to escape.

“So, can we get that status check done now?” she said.

“Y-yes. Of course. Magister Deol?”

Grimacing, the Magister stepped forward, tense as a coiled spring, eyes flicking from one to the other.

“Let’s get to the guard post. N-no funny business. M-Move.”

MacReilly sniggered at the… admittedly pathetic attempt to sound commanding, but Feolin silenced him with a glare. Ten of the guards accompanied them back to the post, each one with their hands on their weapons, ready to fight at a moment's notice.

All very unnecessary, of course. The brand placed on golds was so much more potent than what the silvers put up with. Could Feolin kill these guards? Maybe, but the pain would incapacitate her for hours, if not kill her outright.

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Offering no resistance and smiling gently the whole time, she didn’t even complain when her arm was seized with far more force than necessary before being placed on the page. At least they were gentle enough with the needle.

Status ritual complete, the Magister stared down at the page as if it might leap off the table and bite him in the neck.

“It’s true,” he muttered. “She really is gold.”

“She’s not the only one,” MacReilly said, walking forward and sticking his hand forward. “Come on now, lads. Let’s get this done, I’ve got shit to kill.”

The process was repeated with him, and his status sheet elicited the same reaction. It was almost comical how the guards ringed around them and shuffled the two Slayers back to the middle of the road.

“Everything appears to be in order,” the Marshal said, handing them back their papers. “The two of you are required to report to Magister Theolodis in the Keep before you can undertake any Slayer activities, as per your orders. Do you require any… uh… directions?”

He’d done so well, but faltered at the end, looking at the two of them.

“We’ll be fine, thank you,” Feolin said.

“Been here before, lads,” MacReilly grinned.

And just like that, they were back inside. The sights, the scents, the sounds. It brought back a flood of memories, not all of them pleasant, from their time in the field. Compared to the carefully tended gardens and immaculate streets of the Gold District, this place was rotten, covered in filth and grime, with the unshaven masses rubbing shoulders with their betters.

Feolin found herself unable to explain why she had ever given it up. That gilded cage may have glittered brightly, but inside it was suffocating. Out here, she could breathe easy for what felt like the first time in years.

“Brose was so right,” she said sadly.

“Aye. That he was,” MacReilly agreed.

The two moved away and headed toward the looming Keep that towered over the town, built atop a hill on the north side of the settlement.

When they arrived at the gate, they saw a few Slayers heading out to the field and a few others coming back. Feolin didn’t recognise any of them, but that was probably logical. Anyone who’d been active in their day but hadn’t reached gold was probably dead by now.

How many could have remained as silver and survived for years in the rifts? Not many, surely. She hoped there were at least a few. There had to be some out there.

For their part, the Slayers eyed them a little suspiciously, as if wondering just what these strangers were doing here. Too calm and confident to be rookies, but not properly equipped like veterans.

The entrance to the Keep was a repeat of what they had experienced at the gate. Feolin was able to grin and bear it a second time, though MacReilly was visibly struggling by the end.

“Come on. You know security around the keeps was always strict. Given the current situation, did you think there would be less?”

“You’re right,” he growled, “I just don’t have the patience for it like I used to.”

Feolin choked out a strangled laugh.

“Wh-what?! Since when did you ever have patience… for anything?!”

“In my youth, I was far more tolerant,” MacReilly said, nodding sagely.

“In your youth you made it a point to get into a fist fight every day.”

“Oh, that’s true.”

The inside of Undermist Keep was a tangled warren, much like all of the Keeps. Barracks layered on armouries layered on supply storehouses and an endless knot of chokepoints and defensible corridors. The two of them navigated it easily, finding themselves in the administration section, waiting to see the Magister responsible for the whole keep: Theolodis.

“How long until Gen and the others are allowed out to join us?” MacReilly asked as they waited in the surprisingly comfortable seats outside the office.

“You think they’ll come just because you suggested they should?”

“No, I think they’ll come because they’re right on the edge and need hope,” MacReilly said quietly.

“Really? I thought Gen was alright?”

“He’s better at hiding it than most.”

“Warra had been looking pretty rough. I thought she was down because Nora had… died.”

“You know how it goes,” MacReilly stated heavily. “Eventually you go down and just can’t quite pick yourself back up again. I think that’s pretty much where that crew had gotten to.”

“Well, now I really am hoping they took you up on your offer.”

“Aye.”

The two fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, but thankfully they didn’t have to wait long before they were allowed inside to see the Magister.

Within the comfortably furnished office, they found not one, but three Magisters, each working behind their own desk, each wearing the official robes of their order.

Of course, being Magisters, one of the desks was much larger and more elaborate than the others, so the two Slayers directed their attention to the mage sitting behind it.

“Magister Theolodis?” Feolin asked.

“That’s me,” the Magister said, looking up.

Theolodis was an older man, with a long grey beard that he’d combed to the point it flowed down his chest in a silver wave. Combined with his kindly eyes and gentle demeanour, he looked like a friendly grandfather who snuck treats to his younger family members.

“Ah, yes. Our new gold ranked Slayers, I presume?”

“That’s right. I’m Feolin, and this is MacReilly.”

“From the north! Men of the Clans aren’t that common in the west. It’s assuring to have you with us.”

“Not many appreciate the unique talents of my people,” MacReilly grinned.

“Nothing of the sort here, I assure you.”

Theolodis turned back to Feolin and smiled.

“I’m sure you are eager to get to work. There are only a few things we need to get through before I can give you clearance to head out to the rift. I hope you can indulge me?”

“Of course,” Feolin said, put off balance by meeting a polite Magister for perhaps the first time in her life.

Theolodis went through their documents, confirmed their details, had them perform another status ritual to confirm their papers were accurate, signed off on copies to be sent back to Kenmor and checked their equipment to ensure they were sufficiently armed and armoured to be effective.

Through it all, he maintained his affable, elderly charm. Which made it even more shocking when they came to the end of their conversation.

“Last item on the list,” the Magister said, then without changing expression, he stated: “we just have to check your brands to ensure they’re working.”

Feolin, caught off guard, blinked rapidly.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Won’t take but a moment,” Theolodis said, still smiling. “I’ll ask Magistier Thirn and Magister Alder to perform the test. I do suggest you sit down.”

“Why would you need ta test the brand?” MacReilly growled. “You Magisters are the ones who put them on us. Are you doubting your own work?!”

“It’s very unusual for golds such as yourself to be outside the capital like this. It’s only sensible that we take every precaution. Now, brothers, if you would begin.”

Feolin opened her mouth to protest once more, but her thoughts were obliterated in an instant by the pain. It was all-consuming, wracking every inch of her body, though it didn’t originate from her flesh, but from her very soul.

She had no idea how long it went on, or whether or not she was screaming. She couldn’t think at all. Wasn’t aware of anything except for the pain.

When it finally faded, she found she was face down on the floor, sobbing, her voice hoarse and her fingernails bloody.

She was dimly aware of MacReilly groaning and cursing behind her, his voice shaky and uneven.

“Well, that seems to be in working order,” Theolodis said in his gentle way. “You are all clear to begin work. Congratulations.”