Before heading off with the Blacktalon crew to scout the Weald, Fawkes had assured Hunter she’d be back in just a few days, a week at most. But that promise didn’t hold; eleven long days crept by before she finally returned to the Sacred Training Grounds.

She kept telling herself that Hunter would be fine under Wroth’s watch, busy training alongside the other Aspirants. That she'd return before he even had a chance to notice she was gone. The truth was, she needed the time away to clear her head. But eleven days hadn’t been nearly enough for that. Hells, she wasn’t sure even eleven years would be.

She rode into the Sacred Training Grounds around midday on a borrowed mare, Haleth and another Behemoth nation brave riding beside her. Hunter’s ravens spotted her from two hundred paces away, cawing as they circled overhead. Fyodor followed soon after, a whirlwind of russet fur barreling through the underbrush, barking with excitement, spooking the horses.

“Wolf!” cried Haleth, reaching for her bow.

“No, wait!” Fawkes raised a hand to stop her. “He’s tame!”

She quickly swung down from her horse, grabbing the reins firmly to keep the animal steady. It shifted nervously, eyes wide and ears twitching, but obeyed. Fyodor bounded up, tail wagging furiously, his excitement barely contained. Fawkes tried to hold him back, her hands pressing against his furry chest, but Fyodor was relentless. He planted his front paws on her shoulders and tried to lick her face.

“Down, you mutt! Yes, yes, I’m glad to see you too!”

Haleth and the other rider cautiously led their horses closer, fazed by the spectacle of the foreigner woman giving the large direwolf bellyrubs.

“Is… is he yours?” asked Haleth.

“Hunter’s, more like,” Fawkes said, still trying to keep the direwolf at bay. “The damn thing follows him around like a pup.

The other rider leaned toward Haleth, asked something in a low voice. She nodded in response, and Fawkes didn’t need to hear the words to know he’d asked whether Hunter was the Transient.

Haleth got off her horse too, careful not to get too close to the direwolf. Fawkes handed her the reins of her own beast.

““This is where we part ways,” she said to the younger woman. “Are you heading straight for the village?”

“We have to, sai,” said Haleth. “We have to be back to the camp by nightfall, and the day’s awasting.”

“I see. Thank you for everything. It was good knowing you had my back.”

“Ancestors bless you,” Haleth said with a wide smile, her teeth bright against her tattooed face. “I hope we ride together again soon.”

“As do I. Good luck with the alderman and the other elders. You’ll need it.”

The two Behemoth Nation riders set off, guiding their horses down the winding forest path. Fawkes’s mare followed along obediently, her reins loosely tied to Haleth’s saddle.

“Alright,” Fawkes said, talking to the mutt as much as to herself. “Let’s go find Hunter, yes?”

She turned her eyes to the ravens perching on some nearby high branches, knowing fully well the feathery shites could understand her perfectly.

“And you two? Lead the way, get useful for once.”

The ravens cawed in response and took wing, flying straight toward the totem pole near the center of the Training Grounds. Fawkes followed, the direwolf by her side.

The alderman’s son was locked in a sparring match with the village guard lad, the sharp clang of weapons clashing echoing through the late morning breeze. Nearby, the girl sat cross-legged, her eyes fixed on the fight. Wroth stood off to the side, barking out commands, pointing out every mistake.

Hunter was nowhere to be seen. A knot tightened in Fawkes's gut, but she tried to push the unease aside. There were plenty of places he could be. Hells, he could simply have popped off to his side of things to take as shite. He was a grown man, after all, she told herself. He could take care of himself. He didn’t need babying.

“Hile, Wroth!” she shouted.

The man turned around and raised a hand in greeting.

“Hile! Fawkes! You two,” he turned to the sparring Aspirants. “You did well. Sit down, rest. Uhh… meditate on what you’ve learned, yes?”

The two young men put their weapons away joined the young woman in meditation, and Wroth started to stride towards the approaching Fawkes.

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“You’ve been away for days, sai,” he said as they met, offering his arm for a firm clasp. “What news from the Weald?”

“Same as you’ve heard,” said Fawkes. “We’ve scoured the woods with a fine-toothed comb, and yet there’s no trace of whatever’s slaughtering the folken.”

“Is that good news or bad, then?” frowned the towering man, eyes narrowing behind the bushy beard that covered most of his weathered face.

“You tell me, Elder.”

Fawkes turned her gaze towards the three meditating Aspirants – the absence of the fourth still a knot in her stomach.

“How have things around here been?” she asked. “Are the young ones making progress?”

“Yes, well, about that…”

Wroth shifted uncomfortably, his usual boisterous manner dimming as he scratched at his silver-gray beard, eyes avoiding hers.

Fawkes stiffened, her sharp eyes narrowing to slits.The worry that had been gnawing at her since Hunter's absence now flared into something hotter, more dangerous.

“Out with it,” she said, her voice low and edged with an ominous calm.

“Hunter… Well, there was a mishap, you see.” He exhaled sharply, fumbling with a loose stitch on his leather bracer. “ His hand… It was crushed badly during training. Ruined, in truth.”

Her stomach tightened, the vague worry she’d been nursing now solid and cold, wrapping around her like iron chains. A flash of anger and guilt rose to her throat, but she swallowed it down, her face a mask of stone.

“Where is he?”

“I did what i could do patch him up, but –”

“Where is he?” Fawkes snapped, her patience running dangerously low.

“Away!” Wroth raised his hands, as if to calm her. “He returned to his world to spare himself the worst of the pain. He's popped back once or twice since, checking if you'd come back. Looks well enough, sai. And it wasn’t his sword arm, thank the Ancestors. With time, he’ll learn to make do.”

Relief flooded through Fawkes, though it was a bitter kind. Hunter had walked away from worse – far worse. He was Transient; even the cold clutches of death had trouble keeping him down. A mangled hand? It was nothing more than a painful inconvenience in comparison.

Still, that didn’t stop the anger from sparking deep in her chest, turning her long-lingering grief and sadness into white-hot fury. The direwolf at her side sensed it, too, nudging her hand as if to comfort her.

“He always makes do,” she muttered, more to herself than to Wroth. The familiar rage swelled – anger at Hunter for his reckless nature, at herself for not being there, and at Wroth for letting this happen under his watch. “And that’s the thrice-damned problem, is it not?”

Wroth only blinked, confused.

“Was it that cocky cunt, the alderman's son?” Fawkes asked, staring daggers at the young Aspirant meditating just a few dozen paces away, all but daring Wroth to give her a reason to lash out.

“No!” Wroth said quickly, voice rising in an attempt to stave off the swordstress’s fury. He raised his hands as if to physically block the wave of anger he could see building up in her. “Well… yes, but it's not what you might think, sai.”

“Enlighten me.”

“It was a good, clean sparring match,” Wroth insisted, hands still raised, voice trying to stay calm. “Nothing out of line. Yuma’s glaive just slipped – it wasn’t intentional. Hunter’s guard was off, the angle was wrong. It was an accident, sai, pure and simple.” He met Fawkes’s gaze, trying to drive the point home. “No foul play, I swear to the Ancestors.”

Fawkes had to give the man his due – he was making an honest effort to soothe her. His explanation was not implausible, either. Accidents did happen during training, during sparring. She still bore scars from her training days herself. But bitter rage still smoldered in her, an ugly, festering thing. She needed someone to pin the blame on, someone to take it out on.

And Wroth, fool that he was, finally said the wrong thing.

“If only he'd been better-trained, sai…” the Elder muttered, shaking his head. “I told him from the start he wasn’t cut out for this.”

“What are you implying, Elder?” she asked, voice deceptively calm, a storm brewing in her iron-gray eyes.

“Nothing more than what I said, sai,” Wroth replied, his tone firm but resigned. “It pains me to admit it, but your Transient doesn’t belong on these Sacred Training Grounds. He gives it his all, I’ll grant him that. But at the end of the day, he’s just a scribe by trade. You can’t forge a sword from soft metal, sai. No matter how hard you try, it’ll never hold an edge.”

Fawkes’ lips twisted into a bitter smirk, her gaze sharp as a drawn blade.

“Is that so? Or maybe the problem isn’t the metal, Wroth. Maybe it’s the smith wielding the hammer.”

Wroth’s expression darkened, the proud gleam in his eyes hardening as his own temper finally flared. He took a step closer, towering over Fawkes, the weight of his presence palpable.

“And who would that be, swordstress?” he growled, voice thick with restrained anger. “Me, or you? Or is it easier to blame the forge when your own hands aren’t even stained by soot?”

And so the niceties are over at last, Fawkes thought. Fyodor nuzzled her hand again, sensing the rising tension. His ears flattening as a low, uneasy growl rumbled in his throat, sensing the rising tension. If Wroth heard him, he gave no sign. His gaze was locked onto Fawkes’s. It was a silent standoff, neither willing to back down.

For a moment, Fawkes tried to imagine how a bout between them would play out. The Elder was bigger, stronger, his reach far greater than hers. But he was arrogant. Complacent. And, when all was said and done, far less experienced than her.

He’d strike first, a great, heaving blow. She’d pirouette to the right, draw steel, go for his hamstring, jab at his ribs, then quickly step out of his reach. She’d bleed the brute like a hog, every swift cut making him angrier, slower, more prone to mistakes. And once he’d grown reckless enough, she’d dance her deadly waltz and end him for good.

Just as she had watched her own master do countless times before, sending barbarian weapons masters to an early grave, one after another.

That final thought gave her a moment's pause.

“I suppose you're right about that last part,” she said at last, letting out a weary sigh. “The fault does not lie with you, nor with the alderman’s lad. I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve known better.”

Wroth’s brow furrowed, uncertainty flickering across his face as he studied her. His pride bristled, unsure whether her words were a concession or another subtle jab.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” he said cautiously. “Just a cruel twist of fate. Nothing to be done for it now.”

“Oh, there’s plenty to be done.”

Fawkes offered no further explanation, her gaze drifting past Wroth to settle on the Aspirants, who were still deep in their meditation.

“I’m back for good now.”

Then, without another word, she turned and strode away, leaving Wroth standing in her wake. The Elder frowned, puzzled by her sudden shift in focus. He opened his mouth as if to ask, but the words never came.