Again, Alex found himself unable to fall asleep. He tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling of his cell as hours went by, lost in thought.

The Brennai were wary of foreigners at best. After last night’s gathering at the village’s longhouse, he wouldn’t be surprised if they turned outright hostile. The whole village felt like a powder keg ready to blow, and he didn’t want to get caught in the big boom. That was problem number one.

Problem number two was that Fawkes had only promised to stick around until they reached the village. If she decided to take off on her own, he’d have to respect her choice. Where would he go, though? He’d spent weeks in-game, and still he didn’t know the first thing about the world of Elderpyre.

Problem number three was that his nerves were still shot. He was alright as long as he didn’t get excited or stressed. But if he got in as much as an argument, much less a fight, the strain proved too much for him. He’d get better, the doc had told him. He just needed to rest for a while, stay off Elderpyre.

Well, that was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Fawkes was waiting for him. So was Fyodor and the ravens. It didn’t matter if they weren’t real in the strictest sense of the word. They felt real to him, enough so that letting them down would weigh on his conscience. For the umpteenth time, he wondered whether he was out of his mind.

***

The sun had barely started creeping up the dawn sky when Hunter materialized back in Fawkes’s tent. Fyodor was still sleeping, curled into a massive ball of russet fur. The direwolf's ears twitched at the sound of Hunter's arrival, but he only grunted softly and burrowed deeper into his slumber. He mentally checked in with Biggs and Wedge. The two birds were perched on a nearby tree.

“We keep eye!” Wedge projected, and Hunter could almost sense him beaming with pride.

“Yes, we good!” Biggs added.

“Well done. Where’s Fawkes?”

“Old woman outside! We keep eye!”

Hunter found her a few paces away, making tea over a small fire to ward off the morning's chill. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of pine needles and damp earth. Thin mist seeped from the ground, swirling around his feet.

“You’re here,” she told him and handed him a steaming tin cup. “Good.”

“And a very good day to you. Everything alright?”

“That remains to be seen, I reckon. We have an early sitdown with the alderman.”

Hunter took a sip of the hot tea, grimacing slightly.

"Do we have to? I doubt he'll be in a welcoming mood." He'd struck him as a proud, easily offended sort. The black-clad guy who spoke at the gathering, Brother Marten, must have really gotten under his skin. “The way I see it, the sooner we get out of here, the better.”

Fawkes studied him for a moment, but kept her thoughts to herself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she sighed and turned her gaze toward the village’s center. “Drink your tea and get ready. Someone will be here to fetch us anytime now.”

She was right. Not five minutes later, a young Brennai guard approached them.

“Hile, honored foreigners,” he said, sounding like he’d spent all the way there practicing the words inside his head. “Fawkes. Hunter. May your days be many and your nights serene.”

“Ugh… Hello,” replied Hunter, struggling to remember the man’s name and the proper way to greet him. “Inago? Hile. May the ancestors will it.”

“Both yours and mine, sai!” Inago said with a wide smile. “The alderman and the wise woman request your presence in the longhouse, if you would be so kind.”

At that moment, Fyodor stepped out from inside the tent. Having finally shaken off his slumber, the direwolf stretched languidly, his claws clicking on the packed earth. He yawned, revealing a set of teeth that could easily snap a man's leg in half, and blinked his amber eyes sleepily at Inago.

The young guard's smile faltered, his face paling as he took in the sight of the beast.

"By the spirits..." he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he raised his spear. “Wolf! Wolf! Direwolf!”

Fyodor, startled by Inago's sudden alarm, tucked his tail between his legs and let out a whimper. He ducked behind Hunter, his massive frame trembling slightly as he sought reassurance.

“Stop shouting, you fool!” Fawkes chastised the young man, taking a step between him, Hunter, and the direwolf. “Look at him. He’s just a pup, ears back and tail tucked. He’s more scared of you than you are of him!”

“It’s alright, Fyodor,” said Hunter in a soothing tone, kneeling down and scratching the direwolf under his chin to calm him. “Look. It’s just Inago. Inago is our friend. Isn’t that right, Inago?” He glanced up at the young guard with a reassuring smile.

Inago, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, slowly lowered his spear. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

"Forgive me," he mumbled, still eyeing Fyodor warily. "I... I've never seen a beast like that before."

“Want to pet him?”

“Pet him?” He stammered and swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “Is it safe?”

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

“Go on,” Fawkes reassured him.

The young Brennai man extended a trembling hand towards the direwolf, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and wonder. Fyodor, sensing the shift in mood, wagged his tail tentatively, the tip brushing against Hunter's leg. He lowered his head, offering Inago a closer look at his muzzle and amber eyes. Inago hesitated a moment longer, then slowly reached out and touched Fyodor’s fur, his fingers trembling slightly. A small smile spread across his face as the direwolf leaned into the touch, a low rumble of contentment vibrating in its chest.

"See?" Hunter smiled as Inago ruffled the direwolf's fur some more. "He's just a big puppy at heart."

Fyodor, in turn, licked Inago's hand with a rough, warm tongue.

"He... he likes me!" Inago exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his face. And just like that, the two of them were fast friends.

Since not many of the Brennai were likely to share Inago’s open-mindedness and childlike wonder, Fawkes decided it would be wiser to keep hiding Fyodor in the tent. Hunter left Biggs and Wedge behind to keep an eye on the direwolf, too. Ravens were often regarded as ill omens. He’d rather not draw any unneeded attention by having the two feathery buffoons merrily fluttering about.

Inago guided them through the slowly awakening Brennai village. The air was filled with the sounds of early risers: the rhythmic chopping of firewood, the gentle bleating of goats, the soft lullaby of a mother calming her child. Despite all that, though, a palpable tension hung in the air, a lingering unease from the previous night's gathering. Eyes darted nervously towards the two foreigners from half-open tent flaps. A few of the more suspicious folken spat at the ground and made gestures to ward off evil. Everything thrummed with an undercurrent of uncertainty and fear.

The longhouse, so recently filled with the fervor of the gathering, now stood eerily quiet. The air still hung heavy with the lingering scent of smoke and sweat. Vanchik and Hallara stood near the central hearth, their hushed voices barely audible as they engaged in some kind of tense exchange. As Hunter, Fawkes, and Inago entered the building, they stopped and tried to look impassive.

"Hile, Fawkes of the Lodge," the alderman called. "Hallara has just informed me of the outcome of your quest in the Vale of Ghosts."

"Alderman. Wise woman." Fawkes inclined her head in greeting. "I trust our news brings you some relief. The Ghost Nation, such as it is, offers their kinship."

“And yet one of their own has found himself in our midst, sowing discord.”

“We know nothing of him,” Fawkes said coolly. “A rogue agent, perhaps. Or a charlatan. In any case, the source of the whispering has been silenced. The Brennai have one less reason to lose sleep at night.”

“And for that,” the wise woman intervened, “we are most thankful. Come, lets us sit and break fast together,”

The four of them made their way to a long, low table in the center of the longhouse. The morning light filtered through the smoke hole in the roof, illuminating the intricate carvings on the wooden pillars and casting warm shadows on the furs and hides that covered the benches.

Vanchik gestured for Fawkes and Hunter to take the seats of honor, while Hallara busied herself with serving bowls of steaming porridge and platters of dried berries and nuts. As they settled in, Hallara called out to Inago, who was still lingering nervously by the entrance. "Join us, young one," she said, her voice warm and welcoming. "There is plenty for all." This drew a sideways glance from the alderman, but he said nothing. Inago, after a moment's hesitation, accepted the invitation, face flushed with embarrassment.

They sat and ate in a strained silence. The porridge was warm and filling, the berries sweet, but the atmosphere was tense. Vanchik, in particular, seemed unable to settle. He picked at his food, his eyes darting between Fawkes and Hallara as if searching for the right words to begin.

“Right,” he finally said, pushing his bowl aside. “Let us not waste time mincing words. Hallara told me you reconsidered my request concerning the Aspirants.”

“Perhaps,” "Perhaps," Fawkes said, a sly smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Would you be so kind as to remind me, alderman? I just want to make sure my memory does not betray me.”

The alderman eyed her suspiciously, but he obliged.

“As you know, dark times have befallen the folken,” Vanchik began, his voice gruff but measured. “The ancestors call for a new generation of Aspirants, the first in many years. It seems the White Cloud Sage has deemed us worthy once more.”

He paused, again searching for the right words.

"I ask for your aid, Fawkes of the Blade, in preparing them for their journey to the White Cloud Steeple." He met her gaze directly. "Their training in the ways of the spirit and the hunt must be... exceptional."

"To that end," Hallara interjected, placing a calming hand on the alderman's arm, "we have also sought the assistance of the Behemoth Nation's elder. In fact, we expect their arrival later today. We humbly ask you to lend your skill and expertise as well, Fawkes, as a friend of the Brennai."

"I see," Fawkes said, her face inscrutable. "How many Aspirants are there?"

"Two," said the alderman, his chest puffing out slightly. "My son, and the wise woman's great-niece, who will soon be his bride. Tell us, sirrah. Do you accept?"

"Two is awfully few," Fawkes mused. "Surely the Behemoth Nation elder can oversee their training on his own. As I said, I have decided to honor your ask, but under one condition."

"Name it," said Vanchik.

"I will train a third Aspirant, along with the Behemoth elder. My companion, Hunter."

Vanchik's eyebrows shot up, his face a mask of surprise. He exchanged a quick glance with Hallara, a silent conversation passing between them in the span of a heartbeat.

Hunter was as surprised as the alderman. Up until that point, he’d been doing exactly what Fawkes had taught him to do during her dealings with the folken. See everything, hear everything, say nothing.

"This... is unconventional," the alderman cleared his throat. “A foreigner, undertaking the sacred trials of the White Cloud? It’s unprecedented. What will the folken think of us?”

“The whispers of discontent already echo through our village, Vanchik of Clan Ashari.” said Hallara, her voice gentle but firm. "Do not be hasty to dismiss this notion. We must consider all paths."

“How did the old saying go?” Fawkes piped in, not attempting to hide a wry smile. “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows?”

"The ancestors have always guided us to train Aspirants in pairs," Vanchik argued, his brow furrowed.

“Then we’ll train this one too,” Fawkes said, pointing with her chin at Inago. “What do you say, lad? fancy a chance to be an Aspirant?”

Inago's eyes went wide with surprise. Like Hunter, he’d been keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. He looked from Fawkes to the alderman and back again, his face a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

"Impossible," Vanchik kept arguing, his voice rising in agitation. "An Aspirant's training requires many expensive reagents. You should know that, Fawkes of the Blade. You are the one that sold them to us. We can't afford to pay for any more."

"Then I'll be the one to provide them," Fawkes countered. "A gift to the Brennai, if you will. I ask nothing in return but the kinship of the folken."

Her gaze met the alderman's, a challenge in her eyes. "Do we have an accord, Vanchik of Clan Ashari?"

The alderman's face flushed crimson, and he burst into a string of expletives so foul that even Hallara, the ever-patient wise woman, shot him a disapproving glare.

"Bloody stars and stones!" he sputtered, slamming his fist on the table. "What will Elder Wroth think of this? As if that thrice-damned serpent Brother Marten isn't enough of a headache!"

"Do we have an accord, Vanchik of Clan Ashari?" Fawkes pressed, her voice unwavering. "Or shall we take our leave?”

Vanchik eyed Hunter, then Inago, then Hallara. The wise woman gave him the tiniest of nods.

“With a sigh that seemed to deflate him like a punctured wineskin, Vanchik relented. "Yes," he conceded, his voice a low grumble. "It shall be as you say, Fawkes of the Blade. Three Aspirants it is."

“Four,” Fawkes corrected.

“Four, whatever. May the ancestors have mercy on us all.”

A brittle silence settled over the longhouse, none of its occupants knowing what to say or think. None but Fawkes, who allowed herself a crooked smirk.