Fawkes jolted awake in the dead of the night, drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding like a drum. She’d been dreaming that thrice-damned dream again. She sat up, drawing a shaky breath, the remnants of the dream slipping through her mind like smoke – vague, foreboding, and unsettling.

It was the same dream she’d had for the past few nights. She was there at the Sacred Training Grounds, training an Aspirant. Sometimes it was Hunter. Other times, Reiner. Sometimes the student was herself, standing before her old master as if no time had passed at all.

Then came the storm. A great bird of prey flew over her. Lightning flashed in its eyes, and each beat of its wings split the heavens with thunder. It headed for a far-off mountain, where it would sit on a rocky cairn and wait for her. She had to follow, she knew. She had to chase that storm. It was important.

But she couldn’t move; she was thick with child, her belly swollen and heavy. Her sword belt hung useless at her side, listless, too narrow for her. She could never make the journey in that state. The thunderbird screeched as it flew off, its cries a summons that pierced the storm itself. But deep within her, her baby kicked, restless and eager to be born.

So she remained there, bewildered, torn – and then she woke up, gasping for air, her heart racing, the ghost of the thunderbird’s call and the babe’s silent cry still echoing in her ears.

Fyodor was curled by her feet sound asleep, his big body radiating warmth. Fawkes gave him a scratch behind his ears, if only to feel some manner of companionship, of connection with another living being. He stirred, gave her hand a drowsy lick before settling back into sleep.

She was never one to puth much faith in dreams and portents. In that regard, she was very much her master’s student. But this… this felt different. It clung to her, left her hollow and unsettled.

She kicked off her blanket, put on her boots and jacket and tricorne. She couldn’t go back to sleep – not yet. Outside the tent, Wroth was sitting by the dying fire, hands held out over the fading embers to ward off the night chill. The flickering glow cast ragged shadows over his weathered face, making him look ancient.

“Can’t sleep either, eh?”

“No. Not really.”

“Indigestion’s a bitch and a half at our age,” he tried to jest, but his attempt fell flat. Fawkes was hardly in the mood.

“Ever wish you were like them again?” he went on, gesturing towards the Aspirants’ tents. “Be young again? Start over, do it all again?”

“No.” She sat by him, pulled her jacket tighter around her waist. “I haven’t had a happy life, Wroth.”

“All the more reason, then,” he said with a shrug. “If only they knew how lucky they are. Young and wild and full of life.”

Fawkes made no attempt to carry the conversation. She was bitter, angry. Wroth was as good a target for that bitterness as anyone.

For a few breaths, nobody spoke.

“I know what you think of me,” Wroth finally spoke. “I’m not half the boor you think me to be. I’ve seen the world beyond the Weald too, in my younger years. And it was not all playing the hero, and eating and drinking and cavorting around fires with good friends, Ancestors help me. Far from it.”

“I’m not sure what you expect me to say.”

Wroth frowned, the lines around his eyes deepening like cracks in parched earth.

“Why are you even here, woman? I know your story. You lost a friend, and I’m sorry for that. Ancestors know I’ve felt the bite of that more than my fair share of times. But why stick around? Why answer Vanchik’s ask?”

“Why not? It’s not like I’ve anything better to do, now, do I?”

“Oh, for the love of – Just take the Transient and go. He doesn’t want to be here any more than you do, it’s clear as day. I appreciate the help with training them young braves, and I thank you for it, sai. But it wasn’t me who asked. Ancestors know you’ve no stake in this, and we can manage just fine without you. So why not just go? Why not move on?”

Stolen story; please report.

Why not indeed, thought Fawkes, though she’d never share that thought with the old ox. That was a question that ran deeper than he had any right to know.

“It seems to me,” she said instead, deflecting, “that you have an issue with my being here. Why’s that, I wonder? Would Wroth, the grand hero of the Brennai, be threatened by little old me? Surely not.”

That struck a chord with Wroth – just as she knew it would.

“Bah! Be like that, then. I’d swear Rook put you up to it, if I didn’t know the old crow wouldn’t trust his own mother, let alone an outlander, and a woman to boot. Not to mention a witch.”

“And there it goes,” Fawkes sighed. “How long have you been holding that in, Wroth?”

“Too long, woman!”

“So tell me, which of the three do you find direr an affront, then? That I’m an outlander? That I’m a woman? That I’m, as you say, a witch?”

Wroth made a commendable attempt to simmer down, but her own anger ran much deeper than any petty feud. She wanted her pound of flesh, and she didn’t give a damn whose it would be.

“I mean no disrespect,” he said. “But this is our land, the land of our Ancestors. Your ways are not our ways. Our problems are not your problems. The folken of the Hawk Nation have lost their way, and are being punished for it. Surely you can’t be the one to help them reclaim it.”

“Spare me the folklore, Wroth. This land had already seen whole kingdoms rise and fall back when your ancestors were but seed in their own ancestors’ bollocks. Something’s brewing here, sure. But whatever it is, I’d bet my blade it’s bigger than your old wives’ tales and superstitions.”

Wroth chewed on that for a while, fuming. Surely he knew it was true – not that he’d openly admit it. It was just as well. Fawkes let him stew in his own juice.

“If you’ve so little respect for us and our ways,” he finally said, “why don’t you just leave?”

“I’d have more respect for you if not for your prejudices and blind loyalty to tradition. If you had it your way, you wouldn’t spare a thought on training anyone but the alderman’s whelp.”

“Yes! Tayen would make for a good huntress, a good wife. A wise woman, even! Inago, I would gladly welcome among my own Behemoth riders! But Aspirants? No. Only the finest among the folken are worthy to follow the path of the White Cloud.”

“Like Yuma.”

“Like Yuma,” Wroth nodded. “Yes.”

“What about Hunter?”

“The Transient.” Wroth scoffed. “No matter how hard he works – and I’ll grant, he does – he does not fit here, sai. He’s soft. Can’t run. Can’t wield a glaive. By the Ancestors, the boy even managed to cripple himself. What more proof do you need?”

“As I heard it,” Fawkes said, her tone sharp, “he did not cripple himself.”

“That again? It was an accident, woman! But my point stands. Why would you believe that someone who couldn’t even get through a training mishap unscathed could ever be worthy of being an Aspirant?”

“And why would you believe that someone who can’t be trusted to spar with his fellow Aspirants without maiming them could ever be worthy of being a leader of the folken?”

“It was an accident!”

“My point stands, too! The boy’s a privileged, arrogant, brooding sod with an ego the size of a barn. And instead of cutting him down to size, as would be your duty as his master and Elder, what do you do? You play goddamn favorites!”

“And you don’t? You’ve made a joke of our most sacred of traditions. Why don’t you take your Transient and go? Why darken our Sacred Training Grounds with his presence? Do you want to make an Aspirant of him? Fine. Teach him whatever your outlander Path is. Take him and begone from here.”

“Too bad it’s not your call to make, Wroth,” Fawkes said, a mirthless smile spreading across her lips. “For all your boasting and big talk, you’re just a figurehead among the folken, are you not? Even among your own people. What would you be without Rook telling you when to fight, when to piss, and when to shite? I wonder.”

That was the straw that broke the mule’s back.

Wroth’s face went pale, the blood draining from it as if struck by a sudden chill. His jaw clenched, and a dangerous glint sparked in his eyes.

“Maybe it’s you I should cut down to size, after all, sai.”

“Oh, Wroth,” Fawkes said, her grin growing colder, unflinching, predatory. “The fact that you think you could… It’s almost endearing.”

The silence stretched, heavy as a drawn blade.

“Uh… Elders?”

Inago emerged from his tent, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Get back to sleep, lad,” Fawkes said, rising to her feet without sparing Wroth a single glance. “It’s late.”

Fawkes went back in her tent, gave Fyodor another scratch behind the ears before lying down and closing her eyes. It would be a while before sleep came to her. But even as she tried to quiet her mind, Wroth’s heavy, deliberate breathing outside stayed with her until well into the early hours.