Long after the sun fell to the wrath of Gratsinmorn’s twin moons, Lunar awoke with a start.

She was a hunter but had been hunted for some time. Both crafts honed her senses, forcing her awake when needed and ensuring she was alert and wary when she had to be. She could never sleep through uncertainties, even if she wasn’t entirely sure where they came from. It was a skill she had known for some time, and she knew she only broke from sleep when someone or something was nearby.

And she was awake now.

Even through the hasty beats of her heart, the screams of her alarmed nerves demanding she move, she remained still. Her eyes stayed half-lidded, the room's darkness broken only by the soft glow of Gratsinmorn’s moons through the frail shutter. The fire must have gone out, and she withheld a grimace as she could not scan the room for threats. But as her eyes adjusted, her gaze flicked across the room, cold and determined, even as fear spread in her breast. Her breathing remained calm and level as she aimed to copy the patterns of her sleeping self, cautious of the one who awoke her. The presence was neither friendly nor unfriendly, but the room seemed colder, for the shutters could barely hold the wind from the fireless place.

Michael’s sleeping figure may have been the only other figure she could see, but it was never what one saw that was dangerous. It was what one did not.

Without warning, she leapt from the bed, grasping her dagger and flicking the scabbard off her blade. The gundar sheath flew with a hiss across the room, and her alert, cautious stare flicked across the room as she braced herself in a crouch. Her figure was tense, sweat breaking across her brow, and a sense of urgency lit her heart aflame. She grasped the dagger in a white-knuckled grip, still scanning the room, as she leaned upon her blade for comfort. It was an old friend that had kept her safe, secure, and alive throughout the years, and it would protect her again if she found the intruder.

But there was no one. The presence lingered, but there was, truly, nothing in the room. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat and failed miserably. It was stubborn, and she let it remain as she cautiously trudged around, warily swinging open the closet and privy doors with her blade braced. Each terrified movement was met with a fruitless result, nothing but the darkness greeting her. Even as she searched, the presence began to fade. It was as if her sixth sense was a conscious entity determined to awaken her and force her into panic for no real purpose. And she cursed it.

She relaxed, affording herself a moment of serenity in the chaos as she gathered her bearings. She was never one to ignore her instincts, but sometimes she wished she would when it falsely alerted her like this. But maybe there was some use to it as she crept to the shutters and opened them to allow the beautiful morning sunrise to peek through the trees and into her room. A warm glow touched the furniture, allowing her to bask in its generous shine as she heaved a breath of the brisk morning air. It was rare for her to see the dusk, but she adored any and every time she did.

She turned and waddled her way to the privy, washing away the sweat and fears of her rude awakening and sighing as she went. The water was cold, uncomfortably so, but it was better than nothing as she used the last of her bar of ilini to clean herself off. She was exhausted, the adrenaline of her awakening dying away, and the water helped wake her. She fetched both her and Michael’s dirty clothes, left out to dry after they were washed and hung the previous night, and packed them back into their bags, noting how Michael had, even through all the commotion, remained dead to the world in a deep stupor. While it could be inconvenient at times, she was envious of his ability to sleep through anything, and she left him to his rest as she pulled a couple of coins out of her purse and went down to purchase a quick breakfast.

She strode down to the tavern and ordered some eggs and bacon, and the redheaded barkeep offered a tired but warm smile as he relayed the order to the kitchen. She was one of the only people in the dining room; most of the town’s occupants were likely still asleep or preparing for their day, and her order came out quickly. Another satisfying meal that she dug into while speaking idly to the bartender. He spent most of his time cleaning his space, she noticed, but he was friendly enough and held their conversations well with an adequate interest. There was none of the snarkiness or rudeness of the previous night that Michael had been so angry about, though Lunar presumed his weapons were the problem as opposed to his finer attire.

Eventually, the topic of travel came up, and the bartender, who she learned was named Laurence, seemed interested in her stories as he spoke of his own tales.

“I’ve spent a lot of time around the Northern Districts,” he remarked idly. “Lots of beautiful sights there, but nothing quite like the East if you can avoid the Forgotten Forest.”

“I can’t imagine being near that is comforting,” she admitted, and he replied with a dry chuckle. “Too much to worry about. Whatever goes in rarely comes out.”

“Heard that too many times to count,” he sighed. “Lost some good patrons to that. Too curious, too brave, or too desperate to prove themselves. Throwing them into the clutches of the forest in hopes of finding something to sell for a profit.”

“My condolences,” she murmured solemnly, and he waved his hand in dismissal before offering her a small smile.

“Part of life,” he said. “People try, people die, that’s all. All you can do is continue as best you can with what you’ve got and make do with their memory. And they’ve given me enough to know that I shouldn’t ask too many questions. Some things are the way they are, and until I’m in a place where I can do something about it, I’ll keep my head down.”

“Not an unfair deduction,” she said, though she found herself internally protesting. There was always something that could be done, and she would do well to remember that to avoid becoming someone sombre or helpless. Not that Laurence was, but he was nearing it, and she just hoped the end of the rebellion, if he even knew of it, would bring with it a hopeful future.

She eventually finished her meal, though he insisted that it was on the house, and she smiled in gratitude as she prepared to go for a walk. But as she went out, she was nearly bumped into by a breathless patron, who charged into the bar and stared around wildly before staring at Laurence and rushing up to him. The barkeep set down his glass and faced the newcomer, who spoke in a rushed, incoherent slurry until Laurence lifted a hand and requested he repeat himself. The words that came next sent a chill through Lunar’s spine.

“There’s a lance coming in,” he gasped, and Laurence frowned as he leaned on the counter and gestured for him to continue. “And they’re looking for trouble.”

“How many did you count?” he asked, and the scout heaved a breath before continuing.

“Five soldiers,” he said. “A sergeant and four men-at-arms. They probably want money like always.”

“Crays,” Laurence growled, stepping out from behind the counter and buckling a flint knife to his belt, gesturing to the few bargoers within as he prepared to exit. “Don’t know how many times I have to tell them we don’t have any. Their armour alone is worth more than my house.”

“This is frequent?” Lunar demanded, and Laurence grimaced.

“Happens more than it should,” he snapped. “They like to make my job harder.”

Only when he emerged from the counter did Lunar notice a patch on his shoulder. And it all clicked into place as she saw Covenhaven’s emblazon across his arm, stitched with a unique engraving that she knew could only mean one thing. This was the village headman. In a town so small, there was no opportunity for even its wealthiest resident to relax, though he clearly kept himself occupied with hard work on the daily. And she made sure to step aside as he stormed out, a beaten iron sword opposite his knife as the other patrons drew makeshift weapons and made their way to the town square.

Lunar deliberated her next steps. If the Royal Court were coming for her, they would not have sent a party of five to do it. This was clearly another matter. But she would still do well to wake Michael and alert the knight to the predicament, so she charged to her room and hurried to wake him up. To her surprise, he was already awake, blinking sleep from his gaze as he pulled on a shirt and grumbled a greeting as she rushed to his side.

“Michael, we’ve got company,” she said, and he blankly stared for several moments. “There’s a lance here. Some group of soldiers wanting to cause trouble.”

“A what?” he asked, still rubbing his eyes in exhaustion, and Lunar shook him firmly as she tried to wake him quicker.

“A lance!” she exclaimed. “They’re coming for trouble, and I doubt anyone here can give them much of a fight!”

Michael paused, and she felt a flare of anger flick up in her breast as his unknowing stare fell upon her. He just looked, not a thought behind his blue gaze, before recognition finally broke free, and he leapt to his feet before digging through his pack in a panic. Throwing his clothes out as he searched for his sword, only to realise it was set at his bedside. He snatched the blade, buckling it to his belt and charging out the door with Lunar hot on his heels. She wasn’t sure where he was going, but at least he was moving as she went out to the streets, where the headman and several of the village guards were watching a conflict unfold.

The two ex-royals turned the corner and drew near, and Lunar grimaced as she heard the fight unfolding. And her grimace turned to a look of rage as she saw the smith surrounded by the soldiers and berated by their sergeant. The cold steel of the crimson-clad soldier’s weapon was free, with the point extended to the blacksmith, who just stared in horror and fear as the sergeant shouted again.

“You lie!” he screamed, brandishing the weapon at the hapless old man. “These are weapons of Gratsinmornian soldiers! You could not have found these without killing knights of Gratsinmorn!”

A cry of protest rose from the townsfolk, and Lunar’s blood ran cold as one of the men-at-arms, dressed in chainmail beneath a coat of thick, fine gundar and iron, drew a blade and advanced at the villager. Anger bristled through the ranks of the villagers, and Lunar saw, from the corner of her eye, the headman draw his blade and approach, though he was too slow as Michael had already yanked out his longsword and charged the man.

The raksteel knight barreled into the soldier, sending him flying into one of his comrades with a breathless cry as the sergeant whirled around before meeting Michael’s harsh downward stroke with a swift parry. The soldier parried Michael’s subsequent attacks, steel sparking against steel as noises of shock rippled through the townsfolk, and Lunar prepared to attack before an explosion rang from the gates.

Dust and wood flew from the shattered gavlik structure, screams from the gate as a couple of the guards were sent stumbling from their perches with pained cries. A shower of splinters littered the ground as a black-clad figure emerged from the rubble, approaching from the cloud of dust erupting from his assault. Black robes, free of the earth kicked up by his attack, flowed across his body, and white cuffs and a familiar script along the sleeve marked them as mage’s attire. A dark cape fell free from beneath a well-groomed head of black hair, which framed a pale face bearing a pair of eyes Lunar had only ever seen in her nightmares. One was a hollow, haunted black, empty of emotion and devoid of feeling, while the other was an errant green stare, which flicked in all directions as if it were free of his control. Simply staring wherever it wished before locking upon the five soldiers before it. Even Michael and the sergeant paused to stare in horror at the newcomer before Michael tried to press his advantage and cut down the officer.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

But Lunar’s attention was only for the mage, who approached with great leisure. His arms folded behind him, his approach agonisingly slow; he strode toward the awaiting soldiers, whose blades shook as their hands quaked. And Lunar felt the presence of before again, her sixth sense screaming as he approached as if he were behind her. He was here, right in front of her, marching toward the men-at-arms, as a whisper from the crowd alerted Lunar to who this terrifying newcomer was.

“The Mad Mage…” a villager breathed.

Before she could reply, the mage’s hand shot toward one of the men. A scream erupted from the iron pot that served as the soldier’s helmet, echoing through the little piece as his armour crumpled. Leather and iron caved in on the chains, which broke of their own accord before burying into his flesh, and the soldier’s drawn-out cry rang through the town. The mage clenched his fist, and the man collapsed, dead before he struck the ground, as his fellow footmen drew their weapons and charged.

It was a mistake.

He vanished from sight, only to reappear behind the three. Their shocked gazes stared wildly around, but the men were already flying when the mage was found. A clap from the mage sent the three footmen hurling toward the shattered remains of the gate, their screams filling the air as they landed with ugly, sickening crunches. Two of them staggered to their feet, holding tender and broken limbs and bones, while one stayed where he was, his head bent at an impossible angle. They turned and still, stubbornly, prepared to attack, only for a volley of stones to smash into their arrogant figures. Stones were torn from the ground and sharpened before being flung into the armour of the men-at-arms. And though individually the rocks did nothing, the weight of the many projectiles eventually broke through their armour, and one sank to the ground as blood pooled around him, streaming from his wounds before one took him in the head. The last soldier turned on his heel and ran for his life, though the mage did not pursue, instead vanishing from sight and leaving only Michael and the sergeant to fight.

The knight was struggling against the officer, his blade unable to find purchase in the man’s flesh. But as she watched, he swiped at the officer’s neck, raksteel meeting loose plates and chains and leaving a dent in both. There was a dreadful crack as the chains gave way beneath the warped metal before the stunned soldier was stabbed through the weak mail around his throat and left to gurgle and cry before collapsing. Michael did not allow him to bleed out as he kicked off the man’s helmet and finished him off with a violent swipe, leaving him dead in the earth as worried mutters were exchanged by the townsfolk. The knight heaved a breath, cleaning his blade as he sheepishly returned to Lunar, sheathing his blade.

Beyond the embarrassment, she saw fear. And she knew why.

“Let’s… Get this straight,” Michael murmured, running a shaking hand through his hair. “The Mad Mage arrives in Covenhaven, picks apart a few soldiers, then leaves me to deal with their sergeant… How are the townsfolk just talking?”

“I have a sinking feeling this isn’t the first time he’s shown up,” she murmured. “I wonder if this is why they try to leave the gate open during the day.”

“That is exactly why,” the village headman interrupted, and Lunar flushed as she turned to greet Laurence, not realising how loud she had been. “This is the fourth or fifth time he’s arrived. It’s getting tiring.”

Lunar paused. The Mad Mage was known to be a frequent disruptor of the Kingdom’s affairs, but for Covenhaven to be his target was more than a little odd, even by his standard of action.

“Why does he show up so often?” she dared to ask, and Laurence grimaced.

“I don’t know. He knows that killing these cowards only makes our lives worse,” he snarled. “Every time he takes one out, two more take their place, and we get further sanctions. It’s like he prefers the anarchy to anything else.”

Lunar and Michael exchanged a glance.

“Or he just likes to kill,” she mused, and the man lifted his shoulders.

“Whatever it is, it’s no better than the Kingdom’s knights. Just a right nuisance. But at least he deals with them in the short term, even if it does nothing long-term. But he’s come more often.”

“More often?” Lunar demanded. “You said this is the fourth-”

“I know what I said,” he grumbled. “I meant this cycle. He used to show up once or twice every thirty days, but he’s been appearing more often. Sometimes to find someone to kill, sometimes to kill the soldiers the Kingdom sends to harass us, and sometimes to shop.”

“He shops?!” she demanded, and he lifted his shoulders with a blank expression.

“He does,” he affirmed. “Pays fairly, takes only what he needs and covers the cost. He doesn’t speak or linger, but he comes around and keeps us afloat. He’s an odd fellow with no real care for collateral damage, but he does more than the King ever has.”

Save for the blatant treason, Lunar was fascinated. He wreaked havoc amongst soldiers and even the town, but he shopped fairly despite being able to steal what he wished. It made sense that he could arrive without much complaint; there was no one here who could realistically challenge him. But he did not seem to take advantage of it, at least from the headman’s point of view. And his words only affirmed her beliefs.

“The Kingdom’s made efforts to invade his lair many times,” he noted. “Talk buzzes around the tavern, and they’ve lost close to fifty soldiers trying to find him. They don’t know where he is, only where he’s said to linger around, and each patrol they’ve sent has been completely annihilated.”

Lunar blinked. That was news indeed to her.

“Do you know anything about that general vicinity?” she wondered idly. And she fixed him with a sly grin. “To avoid it, of course.”

The headman’s returning stare was not as friendly or humoured as she had hoped, though it was not hostile either. A mere glare of question, wondering if she was mad. But he shook his head, clearing his mind of confusion as he beckoned for her to follow.

“I owe you something, at least,” he mumbled. “Your funeral.”

“Wait, so is this why those adventur-”

“Yes.” He cut her off, and she felt a flicker of irritation at this annoying habit. But she made no notice as he went back into the bar and dug out a map from behind the counter. “Yes, it is. It’s also where all the spoils of previous battles went. The mage comes in, kills the soldiers, and some young men pick up those weapons and armour and go hunting, never to return.”

He spread the map across the counter, and Lunar was surprised to see that the rough parchment was scrawled with several fewer designs than what hers contained. Multiple villages and towns were missing, and even entire forests had been left undiscovered. Her thoughts must have been writ upon her face as she stared at the crinkled surface, which the headman smoothed out before chuckling dryly.

“Yes, I know. This looks like it was drawn by a child, and you probably have something better and more detailed,” he noted ruefully, running a hand through his hair. “But it has what I need on it.”

He jabbed at one of the few pictures scrawled across the surface, and Lunar leaned in to stare. It was the same foreign script she had seen scribbled across the mage’s sleeve, hovering above a few poorly drawn mountains and trees. And she watched as he traced a circle around the area.

“Somewhere around here,” he murmured. “Within the confines of a bar are the mouths left ajar.”

“Didn’t know people still used that old phrase,” Michael noted as he finally reentered the bar, and though Laurence shrugged off the remark, Lunar cringed. “Bit dated, right?”

“It’s a good one,” Lunar interrupted hurriedly, laying a hand on the knight’s arm. He paused, staring over at her, before noting the light in her gaze and returning to their room as she glanced at the barkeep. “Thank you, Headman Laurence. If there’s anything we can do, please let us know.”

“Probably have him watch his steps,” Laurence remarked as Michael retreated. “I owe him my thanks for handling the sergeant, but he’s cocky.”

“He has an ego,” she admitted ruefully. He was like a brother to her, but that came with acknowledging his most significant flaws. “He’s had a rough week.”

“Your week has not been smooth either, I take it,” he noted, and she arched a brow in surprise as he continued. “Everyone has a story. But it’s best to keep it to yourself rather than lay it upon others.”

She paused, a silence filling the air that was neither tense nor unpleasant. The headman never struck her as aged, but as she looked upon him now, she recognised the gray dusting his hair and beard. The wrinkles lined his face, marking him as well past halfway to death’s door. There was knowledge in the headman, both from his time as a leader and as a bartender. So she leaned into the old rumours and leaned toward him, with a slight quirk to her head as she met his gaze. Perhaps he was a wise barkeep.

“Before I go…” she murmured, trailing off before gathering her thoughts to speak. “Would you please lay some more bartender’s wisdom on me? It might do me some good.”

He smiled, noting her recognition of the old myths. And she breathed a sigh of relief as he showed no offence and swept the map from the counter to store away before replying.

“Let others be curious,” he decided. “Your story is yours, but when those around you wish to learn more about it, you will find friends. If your allies find interest in you, they will find reason to be loyal and true. And above all else, a few close friends are all you need to take over the world.”

She paused.

“That’s good advice,” she whispered, and he faintly smiled.

“I like to think so,” he concluded before passing her a pair of tokens. She paused, glancing at the two medallions he had swept across the counter, and her gaze lit with surprise as she recognised Covenhaven’s emblazon across the doubloons. She glanced back at him, and he returned her gaze with a brow arched in amusement. “You’ll need horses for the journey. Jorgen at the stables will be able to help you. Thank you for helping our village.”

“Of course,” she said immediately, glancing at the coins with a smile. A coin per horse, she mused. She thanked him before returning to their room and glancing at Michael, who was staring at the windowsill with a frown. He met her gaze as she entered and gestured to a footprint left on the sill.

“You had to leave through the window?” he demanded, and she frowned up at him as she wandered over.

“I went out the front door-” she murmured, and he mirrored her frown and stared at the print. But as Lunar got a closer look, her heart sank.

Her shoes had been her companion even longer than her dagger had, lasting many years. They had been made to last, and they still were in pristine condition, most likely due to her smaller, unchanging figure. Throughout the time she wore them, she learned to recognise the prints she left and the markings on her shoes left on the ground when she walked too heavily. It was a way to retrace her steps or to prove points to her friends. But no matter how hard she walked, she could never dig her prints very far into the earth, let alone the galvik windowsill.

Those weren’t her footprints. She hadn’t even gone out the window, but the mark left behind was far too large for her shoes to fit. And she saw a groove in the back, a surefire sign that a blade was attached to the boot that had left the impression. There were only two kinds of people in Gratsinmorn that wore such footwear.

Mages and soldiers.

The presence. The mage. He had been in this room. He had veiled himself and hid in the corner, waking her and fleeing from sight. She wasn’t sure why, but her heart pounded at the sudden realisation.

With her heart pounding and her breath in quick bursts, she poured out her explanation to the knight. Everything from the sudden awakening to the eerie sensation of being watched and accompanied by an unfamiliar figure. She shared her belief and theory, which, when combined with the evidence laid before her, seemed unfallible. And the knight seemed to agree as his expression shifted to one of fear. Sweat was already beading on his forehead as the two sat, staring at one another for a few moments before Michael finally spoke through the lump in his throat.

“Then should we really be trying to find him?” he choked out, and Lunar glanced down at her small shoes. She knew the question was coming and already had an answer as she heaved a breath.

“No. But we have to,” she reminded him. “I doubt you’re the only one in the Kingdom with special abilities. And if we can have someone like him on our side, we can challenge more than one of them at once.”

His doubtful expression prompted further explanation.

“Besides. It’s not like he couldn’t have killed me back there. If that was his goal, wouldn’t he try to end us in our sleep? I think it’s a chance we have to take.”

Michael sighed, closing his eyes as he heaved a weary breath.

“Starting to wonder if he’s the mad one. He didn’t even say anything when he showed up, but here we are chasing him,” he mumbled. But sense dawned upon him. “I guess if we want to recruit someone like the draconic, we’ll need help. I doubt you and I can do much to a big lizard that flies and shoots fire, let alone use his voice. We’ll need him.”

“And if it goes wrong, all our problems go down the drain!” she reminded him with a cheeky grin, and he shook his head with a faint smile.

“Well, that’s a real comfort.”