1

Metal rattled and creaked as the solid oak door was pushed inward, the glint of armor shining bright in the dim torch lit hallway. Standing tall and cheerful as always, and with a knight on either side of him, Sigebert entered the room leisurely, as one would enter a warm bath. With glazed eyes he searched the room for nothing in particular, instead seeming to savor the sight of the room itself, as if Amice’s presence had imparted some strange beauty to the objects within.

Even Amice could tell that he was smitten with her.

He had made a habit of visiting her, often at least once a day. The worst had been shortly after she had first arrived, bound in useless steel shackles and escorted by an entourage of knights. He had visited her four times that day.

Sigebert had been dismissive of her presence on their first meeting, not even so much as looking in her direction, and ordered her to her new quarters with undue haste. It had been a few days later that he had entered her quarters himself sometime in the early morning, suddenly curious of her. He said little that she could remember. What she did remember, however, were his eyes.

Pallid, glazed, inattentive, they were the embodiment of what thoughtful eyes were not, devoid of any intelligent thinking. In its place they had what Amice could only describe as a hunger.

Sigebert visited again at noon, carrying with him plates of simple food; lunch, for him and her both. Amice did not enjoy the idea of dining with this man with the hungry eyes; she had spent most of her life in solitary fashion, dining alone more often than not, and so to have another break such a routine (and without her desiring such no less) had been a uniquely unpleasant experience. One that she put up with, partly out of some faint desire to maintain the unsteady peace that lingered between her and the Empire, and partly out of respect for the man. He was a commander, after all.

There was, however, a uniquely unpleasant air about the man, like the crawling of bugs against skin. He did not seem malicious to her, and even if he did, Amice was confident in her ability to kill him in combat. But there was some unplaceable discomfort emanating from his presence. Was it his interest in her? His unusual display of affection? She had experienced such on several occasions before, including from a butler that had shown her undue interest when she was young (and who was quickly replaced once her mother had gotten wind of it). She had not hated them, even if she should have. So, Amice felt, she simply disliked this man and that was all there was to it.

Today, at least, Sigebert had a reason to visit.

“I see you’re doing well,” he began. “I have news, however. Bad news. There has been… an interest in your defection. By the Imperial Vigilants.”

In the silence that followed Amice felt a sensation she had never felt before. Something similar to what she had felt, oh so long ago, when she sparred with her mother and, believing herself to have the upper hand, had attacked with reckless vigor. It took only a single fist to put her back in line, to show her the difference between Amice the girl and the Lady of Witchester. To instill fear.

This was different, somehow. Duller, less urgent, less primal. But, beneath it all, more serious. She had heard the stories, the odd whispers in the halls at Witchester manor about those who stepped out of line and came under Imperial scrutiny, and how little it mattered how much wealth or political sway or personal power they had. Stories that never said what had truly happened to the people investigated. Only that they disappeared.

And now the Vigilants were coming for her.

“They will be here by next week, I’m told,” Sigebert continued. “Or sooner, or later, depending on their mood. The Vigilants arrive as they arrive, and us servants can merely wait.”

“I understand,” Amice said.

Sigebert nodded, then eyed her for an uncomfortably long moment. He turned to leave, then stopped, the tips of his forefingers tapping against his thumbs as he thought. A restless movement, one that annoyed Amice the more she witnessed it.

“There is another thing,” he said, turning back to her. The light had seemed to fade in his eyes as he regarded her, the uncomfortable interest having died away, replaced by cold, dire seriousness. And, for the first time since her arrival, a keen, frightening intelligence. “What do you know of Discovery magic?”

The question caught her off guard. Why ask her? She was not a mage.

“Very little,” she replied simply. Curtly. She wondered if she would have said so little, had Alden been the one to ask her? There was more that she could say, after all, more that she wanted to say. But not to him, it seemed.

Sigebert only nodded, content with her answer, then left.

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2

Lightning crackled in the air, unleashing bright white light as bolts of burning electricity scarred the rockface. Emanating from his right hand, his good hand, Alden ceased the flow of magic and the world grew dim, clouded by a haze of smoke that obscured the burnt trees and charred earth. The rockface was blackened by the magic, its surface shattered in places where the lightning had struck and, with a shifting groan, the rockface slid forward and collapsed into a heap of rubble, the tumultuous sound so loud there was no doubt it could be heard from miles away.

Satisfaction and disappointment mixed within him, and not for the first time that day. He was growing, that much was obvious, but the elusive Rank A still remained out of reach. How long would it take, he wondered? And, more importantly, what would it allow?

Previously, when a Skill advanced a Rank it came with a noticeable, and often drastic, increase in what it allowed him to do. If that were to hold true for Rank A as well…

Alden sighed and cracked the knuckles of his left hand. It was not yet fully healed, the non-stop popping of the joints being such a symptom, but it was close. He could, as of the day before, finally uncurl all of his fingers, if only for a short time, and the aching pain had subsided for the most part. Still, it would be another day or two or three before it was back to normal.

Normal. The word didn’t feel right, any more.

Clenching his fingers tight, Alden turned to Airabella. The peryton had followed him into the woods, watching his every move like some forest spirit. Cheese was what she was after, he’d thought at first, but when she declined to eat he knew it was something else.

The issue was what. Tamed or no, Airabella was a beast, incapable of speech despite her intelligence. She had seen something, he suspected. Their targets, he hoped. Or monsters.

Finding the caravan raiders had been slow going. After the initial false camp incident Alden had become more cautious in his approach. Or less cautious, if you thought about it.

From that point on he would go alone to any camp or wreckage they found, survey the area, then order the others from there. Safer for them. Less so for himself. Still, he was a knight now. If he couldn’t handle a rabble of men on his own, then he was undeserving of the rank.

Airabella sniffed at his hand as he approached, then allowed him to pet her. Her feathered fur was as wonderfully soft as he’d remembered, like a cloud. Comforting, it made him dearly wish for a good bed to sleep in.

While friendly, the beast was difficult to control. She never stayed in one place too long, and rarely left the skies above, it seemed. With every idle gaze to the open sky above, Alden expected to find her soaring high somewhere in the distance. He did, on some occasions, but, despite her multicolored appearance, Airabella seemed to blend into the skies above, to fade away and become one with them.

She did the same now, wings beating hard as she lifted off above the treeline and dissolved into the sky above.

“She’s a beautiful creature,” said a voice. Alden turned to see Caldwell standing a short ways down the hillside, spear resting against his shoulder.

“That she is,” Alden said, smiling. “I hope to ride her one day. Could you imagine it? Me flying down, sword in hand, against a horde of enemies? I’d be known across the world.”

Caldwell nodded. “I could imagine, sir,” he said, his tone implying that could believe it. Not just empty flattery.

Caldwell stepped forward, a pained expression on his face. Despite being only a few years younger than himself, Alden could not help but see the youth in Caldwell’s features. It was not just his face, but the way he moved, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke. He even seemed younger than before, as if he’d been dragged back to his youth.

He had news, Alden realized, and was afraid to give it to him.

“What is it?” he asked.

Caldwell shifted from foot to foot, eyes glancing nervously about the rocky woods. Then they fell upon the collapsed pile of charred rubble. That seemed to give him confidence.

“There were some travelers at the inn,” he said. “Uhtric was talking to them in the dining room when I walked in. One of them was a miner.”

“You’re certain?”

Caldwell nodded. “I knew him. Well, he knew me. And Pa’s name. So I trust him, I guess is what I’m saying.”

“And why would you need to trust him.”

“He says he saw a group of men enter Coalben about a few days ago. Grizzled men, dirty and smelling to high heaven. He thought they were hunters, since they had no sigil. But they had armor. And a mage. Says he’s certain they’re soldiers.”

“The town guards didn’t stop them?”

Caldwell shook his head. “No, sir. Waltzed right in.”

Alden tossed the information over in his mind, uncertain. Soldiers after a patrol was the most likely scenario. Or Contractors. Even mid-ranked Contractors could afford armor. It wasn’t enough of a lead.

But looking at Caldwell he didn’t want to say no. Caldwell was certain, confident. And, in the worst case scenario, they could always gather information from the guards.

And rest.

“We’ll head to Coalben, then,” he said.