Four hours, an Old-Fashioned and three Manhattans later, Hunter was still no glaive master. The ‘Opera Nova’ was by no means a long book, but he’d found it to be an endless source of both fascination and frustration.

There was a mind-boggling amount of precision and discipline behind the techniques described and depicted - his copy included the original 1536 woodblock illustrations, digitally restored and colored. Their level of complexity, however, was daunting. Every move and countermove had a specific, highly mechanical purpose. The ‘Opera Nova’ was nothing like the fluid White Cloud combat style Wroth had been teaching him and the other Aspirants. Just trying to decipher it felt like trying to learn a new language.

Hunter only skimmed the First, Second, and Third Books, which were respectively dedicated to fighting with sword and buckler, various one-handed edged weapons, and two-handed swords. Instead he skipped straight to the Fourth Book - the one about polearms. There were sections for fighting with various Renaissance polearms, like the partisan, the pike, the spiedo, the bill. Unfortunately, there was nothing in there for specifically fighting with a glaive, but Hunter was confident that many of the techniques would translate well to it, too.

Well, once he’d managed to understand how to perform them, and once he’d drilled them endlessly until they were second nature.

Deciding that was more than enough for one day, he turned to Mortimer, who’d been discreetly sitting behind his bar, doing whatever it is bartenders do when nobody’s looking.

“I think I’ve had enough for now, Mort. Thanks for everything. I guess I’ll drop by again tomorrow.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Hunter stood up slowly, feeling the stiffness in his legs and back after hours of sitting. He stretched, rolling his shoulders and flexing his arms. It felt good to shake off the stillness.

“Mort?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s going to happen to my hand now? I mean, crippling injury and all.”

“Your Transient body regenerates flesh wounds at a highly accelerated pace, sir. But limb injuries like that are currently beyond its natural healing capacity, I’m afraid. My suggestion would be to seek help of the transmundane kind.”

“Which means?”

“I suppose you would call it alchemical or magical, sir.”

“Like Fawkes’s Troolblood Salve, or like how that bear godling healed my wounds?”

“Exactly, sir.”

“I see. Thank you, Mort.”

“Again, sir, it’s my pleasure.”

Hunter weighed his options for a moment. Fawkes would likely return in a few days. He could wait, hoping she’d have more Trollblood Salve or something similar.

Another option he had was to seek out the Aspect of Mir and ask for help. That, however, was quite a trek, and he had no way of knowing that the bear godling wouldn’t simply maul him to death instead of helping.

Similarly, he could make his way back to Lormenheere, present the Great Spirit there with proof of his hunts, and ask for boons in return, including healing. That was something he meant to do sooner or later anyway. Again, though, he had no way of knowing that Herne wouldn’t sic his Mist Stalkers on him again.

The last option was to find a painless way to, as they say, step off. If he did it right, the strain to his nerves would be minimal. He’d wake up in his bed, log back in, and bounce right back as if nothing happened, good as new. Well, save from an unsettlingly grim notification about his dwindling Élan.

Option A, waiting for Fawkes to return from her little field trip, was by far the most rational thing to do. For all he knew, she could already be back, waiting for him to decide to log in, mutt at her side. In fact, maybe he should quickly pop in and check. It was only quarter to nine in the evening, as good a time as any.

He turned towards the speakeasy’s exit - a door that would lead him straight to where he’d been when he last had logged out.

“Bye, Mort. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, sir. And good luck.”

Hunter sighed, thinking about his mangled hand and how much it had hurt. He’d probably need all the good luck he could get.

***

Hunter materialized in the middle of the Sacred Training Grounds, near the totem that marked the Place of Power. It was night already. A surprisingly cold and damp breeze was blowing from the northern parts of the Weald, chilling him instantly. It had been some time since he’d logged in during the night. He’d forgotten how cold it could get.

His hand didn’t hurt as much as expected, he realized. The pain was there, dull and constant, but somehow distant, like a memory of something worse. His Toughness Ability must have been working double time boosting his pain tolerance. The hand itself, though, still looked like a torn mess. Hunter unwrapped the bandages and took a closer look.The actual wounds were healing at an accelerated rate, but there was some structural damage there even his Transient regeneration couldn’t fix. Not on its own, at least.

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Hunter turned and looked towards the small camp the Brennai had set up for the Aspirants at the edge of the training grounds - three tents around a big campfire. As expected, the fire was burning. He could see four - no, five - silhouettes huddled around it, trying to get warm.

Shivering, he reached out through the mental connection he shared with his two familiars. Their response was immediate, a rush of excitement flooding the link as if they had been waiting on edge for his return. Two dark, feathered shapes peeled away from the top of a nearby tent, cutting through the air like shadows with wings. One of the silhouettes that sat by the fire jolted into action too - Fyodor.

Biggs and Wedge swooped down toward Hunter, cawing with excitement. They landed on his shoulders, as they often loved to do. The direwolf bounded toward him, legs scrambling over the dirt, yipping like he'd been left alone for a lifetime, tail wagging furiously as if trying to make up for the lost time. Hunter felt a pang of guilt. It’d been a while since he’d paid the mutt the slightest bit of attention. The two feathery windbags and Inago had been taking good care of him, he knew, but he still felt bad. The past few days must have felt like an eternity to the direwolf.

“Who’s a good boy?” he called. “Who’s the best boy in the whole Weald?”

Fyodor hurled himself at Hunter, a ball of fur and unbridled energy totally unaware of his own growing strength. The impact nearly knocked Hunter off balance, but the mutt’s eager affection was impossible to resist, his paws scrabbling for purchase as if trying to climb right into Hunter’s arms. Which, of course, was impossible; the young direwolf was as big as a Tibetan mastiff, and growing.

“Yes, yes, I’m happy to see you too,” Hunter said, ruffling the thick fur behind Fyodor’s ears. “Now stop with the licking, you dolt. Your breath stinks. What the hell have you been eating, carrion?”

Biggs and Wedge confirmed his guess with a flicker of shared memory through the mental link - a flash of bones picked clean and the unmistakable stench of decay. Hunter grimaced as the image settled in his mind, too vivid.

“Really?” he asked, wrinkling his nose at the thought. “Damn, I was half-joking! I should be taking better care of you.”

A wave of amused agreement pulsed back through the link as the two ravens made themselves comfortable on his shoulders. Even without words, the message was clear: Yes, he should.

“When did you two feathery fucks get so wise?”

Again, he was only half-joking. As his Conjure Familiar and Augmented Familiar Abilities progressed, Biggs and Wedge had been steadily growing smarter and more reliable.

Still very excited, Fyodor tugged at Hunter’s sleeve with his teeth, then darted toward the Aspirants’ camp. He glanced back eagerly with wide, expectant eyes, his tail wagging furiously.

“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

As eager as Hunter was to warm his bones by the fire, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to coming face to face with Elder Wroth and the other Aspirants, especially Yuma. He still hadn’t decided whether his mangled hand had been a training accident or an act of bad faith.

One of the figures near the campfire rose slowly, glaive glinting in the firelight, eyes narrowing in the dim glow to make out who was approaching. Inago.

“Is that you, Hunter?”

“Yeah,” Hunter called out. “Ugh… hello!”

The glow of the campfire grew warmer as he approached, the familiar faces around it becoming clearer. Wroth, Yuma, Tayen. They all sat huddled by the fire, woolen blankets draped around their shoulders. Hunter raised his good hand in a half-hearted wave.

“Hunter!” Wroth welcomed him, voice booming in the night air. “We’d almost started wondering whether you’d left us for good!”

“No such luck,” Hunter said. “Hey guys. Good to see you.”

Tayen greeted him back. With some hesitation, so did Yuma, though he avoided Hunter’s eyes. His sullen expression was inscrutable.

Inago, still standing, stepped forward with a nod and a smile and clasped Hunter’s good hand in a firm grip. There was a trace of relief in the gesture, as if he was glad to see Hunter back.

“Welcome back, friend. Sit by the fire. Let me get you a blanket. It’s cold tonight.”

“Thank you, Inago,” Hunter nodded back. He took his place by the fire next to Inago’s spot, as far from Yuma as possible. Fyodor plopped down next to him, resting his big head on his lap.

“How’s the hand, then?” asked Wroth. His voice was a little too mirthful, as though he was trying to mask his worry, or maybe the awkwardness of the situation. Hunter had been his responsibility, after all.

“Still all kinds of wrong,” Hunter raised the bandaged hand. “That’s what I came to check. The pain’s better and the wounds are healing, but I don’t see myself picking up a guitar anytime soon.”

“Ancestors bless you,” Wroth frowned, mirth evaporating, “That was a very unfortunate turn of events.”

“It was,” said Hunter, throwing a glance towards Yuma, who still refused to meet his eyes. “Wasn’t it?”

“We’ve been very worried,” Inago said as he returned with an extra blanket, draping it over Hunter’s shoulders before settling back by the fire beside him. “All of us. Thank the Ancestors you’re back and looking better.”

“Yeah, well,” Hunter shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around him, “I figured it was time to drop in and see how bad things are. Thank you for taking care of the mutt, by the way.”

“My pleasure,” said Inago, giving the direwolf a gentle pat on the head. Fyodor cracked open one eye, huffed softly, then lazily licked Inago's hand before settling back down, content.

“We were very worried, yes,” Tayen echoed, her tone carrying just enough emphasis to nudge Yuma, as if expecting him to chime in. “We’re happy to see you’re back, Hunter.”

Yuma, arms crossed and staring into the fire, refused to take the hint. It was clear he wasn’t ready to confront what had happened, even if Tayen’s pointed remark had been aimed right at him.

“Thank you,” Hunter said, following Yuma's lead and sidestepping the unspoken tension. “Though I won't be here long. Has Fawkes returned, by the way?”

“Not yet, no,” said Wroth. “Though she should probably be back any day now. We’ve received news from the Blacktalon. Whatever’s been butchering the Hawk Nation folken, they didn’t find so much as a trace.” He poked at the fire with a stick, the flames crackling as if punctuating the news.

“I see,” said Hunter. “Well, I’ll leave you back to it, then. Tell Fawkes I’ll check back in in a couple of days if she shows up, alright?”

“Do you have to leave so soon?” Inago asked, frowning. “Stay a while. You’ve barely shared a fire with us these last few days, even before the accident.”

That was true. Kinship and bonding was supposed to be part of the Aspirants’ training. But since Fawkes had taken off, Hunter had been logging out as soon as the day’s drills were done, avoiding what nightly camaraderie the others were slowly building.

Hunter hesitated, weighing the thought, then gave a slow nod. The pain in his hand was manageable now, a dull throb rather than a sharp ache. He didn’t see a reason to avoid staying a couple of hours longer.

Well, besides Yuma.

“Alright. So… How have you all been doing, then?”