“Sir!”

Garrick looked up from his platter of eggs as an urgent voice cut through the din of the tavern.

“Sir!”

Garrick set down his fork and turned toward the entrance only to see the two guards from before rushing his way. He swiveled on the bench at the bar so that he could fully face them, noticing their cheeks were red and they were sweating profusely as if they’d just finished sprinting.

“Sir!” The younger guard said again as both men skidded to a stop in front of him. The older of the two bent over, his breath heaving with his hands on his knees.

“Can’t be easy to run in that armor,” Garrick remarked, looking both men over. “What’s all the noise about, then? You want me to save you some eggs?” To emphasize his point, he lifted his fork up to display a solid yellow yolk pierced on the end of the utensil. “Dunno if I have enough for three, but I guess if you both take small bites…”

The younger guard’s look of utter confusion was comical to witness.

“We…found…you on the list,” the younger guard huffed, though he was doing a better job of managing the run than his companion. The older guard was now coughing, leaning hard with one hand on the bartop. Garrick, taking pity on the man, slid one of the benches over with his foot, which the man accepted gratefully.

“Did you now?” Garrick wondered. “Must’ve spelled my name wrong, I suppose. Sorry about that—old age, you know.”

“No…it wasn’t that,” the guard continued, looking as though he was going to throw up—though Garrick wasn’t certain if that was from the exhaustive sprint he’d just endured or fear over having turned away someone Lord Montrose had paid thirty trices to acquire.

“Ah…” Garrick said, nodding sagely. “Then they had a different name listed, I take it?”

The young guard nodded. On the bench, the older man had collapsed onto his back, still heaving.

“I don’t think he’s doing too well…” Garrick said to the young guard. “Should we call a healer?”

“I’m fine!” the man bellowed. “Just…not keen on running that much. Gods, I’m seeing stars.”

The tavern, formerly quite noisy, had become deathly silent with the men’s arrival, and Garrick smiled before addressing the assembly.

“Could someone get this poor man a mug of water?” He asked.

“Wine!” the guard cried, still on his back.

Garrick paused, looked over to him, then returned to look at the patrons. “Wine, then?”

A moment later, a dwarf with a red moustache wandered over, a goblet brimming with burgundy liquid in his meaty grasp.

“Got some wine, here,” he said awkwardly, not sure who to give the vessel to. When no one reached for it, he simply leaned down and balanced it on the older guard’s chest before moving away. The man on his back grasped the stem of the goblet before sitting up and then taking a long drink.

“Ah, that’s better!” he announced, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Alright, then,” Garrick said. “So…why did you two run all the way here? Am I in trouble?”

“Gods, no, sir!” the younger guard exclaimed. “We’ve come to show you to Lord Montrose, in fact. He’s very keen to meet someone as august as yourself.”

August? Garrick wondered. What am I, a bridge?

“We have come to apologize personally for the mix-up,” the older guard said, setting the empty goblet down on the bar. “It was behavior unbecoming of our station.”

Garrick chuckled.

“Oh, you can tell your boss I wasn’t offended,” he said. “They didn’t have the right name down—that’s not on you.”

“We had no way of knowing you were—”

“As I said, it’s perfectly fine, gentlemen,” Garrick said, shaking his head. “Think nothing of it. In fact, if you’ll give me a moment…” He turned back to his eggs growing cold on the platter in front of him, “I’ll finish up and you can take me right to Lord Montrose.”

Neither guard offered much in the way of rebuttal, so Garrick quickly finished his meal and slapped a few bronze trices on the counter. Then he stood and stretched. Picking up the painted box on the stool next to him he leveled a warm smile at the two men.

“Lead the way, gents,” he said.

—

Inside the yurt of the Montrose Structures Inter-Provincial Roadway Project’s office, Garrick found himself enveloped in an unexpected display of luxury that seemed at odds with the outer simplicity of the space. The interior was lavishly appointed, with rich tapestries hanging from the circular walls showcasing the wealth and reach of the Montrose family, and plush, thick rugs softening every step. Garrick sat in a not-so-comfortable chair with a painted box on his lap and a vulpid hiding in his pack, waiting patiently.

At the heart of this opulent setting, Lord Devendish Montrose sat at an ornate wooden table that would not have looked out of place in a Viceroy’s dining hall, engaged in the morning’s first meal.

Well, that could easily feed a small family, Garrick thought.

A large ham steak, its edges caramelized to a perfect golden brown, sat alongside several whole tomatoes. These were not just any tomatoes, but had been peeled and stewed to perfection, glistening in the morning light that filtered in through the yurt’s entrance. The tomatoes were so vibrant in color, they seemed to be a concentrated essence of summer itself.

Though still not as nice as the ones from Twyla’s seeds, Garrick thought proudly.

Lord Montrose, a formidable figure, built like a knight with the discerning gaze of a hunting hawk, paid Garrick little mind as he continued his meal. His manner was stoic, every cut of his knife and fork through the ham steak precise and deliberate. Yet, despite his focus on his meal, his eyes would flicker up to Garrick periodically, observing him with an intensity that would likely set most men on edge.

Very unlike his son, Garrick noted.

Still, Garrick wasn’t so easily cowed by simmering looks. The difference in their demeanors was night and day. Where the younger Montrose might have offered pleasantries or idle chat, Lord Montrose's silence spoke volumes. It was clear that here, in the presence of such a man, words were chosen with care, and even the act of eating breakfast was treated with a certain level of gravitas. Or at the very least, Lord Montrose wanted it to appear that way.

He had a mantle—nearing High Foundation—but that was hardly surprising for a man so easily able to obtain marks of standing. Most of the nobles and wealthy merchants in Dova had at least some semblance of prominence in their Spheres—typically either High Foundation or Low Pillar—enough to qualify for a Caste, in any case. These were typically not martial Castes, but expertise-driven ones, forged from years of practicing their trades and skill sets.

Garrick was reminded then of Sonistra, a fabric merchant from his early years, who boasted that he’d hit the High Tower Sphere.

That man could actually buy and then sell you your own clothing off your back—and make you glad for it.

Truly, becoming a Beacon was not the only path to mastery.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

As it stood, there was something about this experience in the yurt that Garrick found familiar. Lord Montrose was putting on an air of seriousness, and it was a tactic to be sure. Garrick may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. He recognized the subtle signs of a social strategy when he encountered them. Still, he wouldn’t ruin it just yet. It was clear that Lord Montrose had not only requested his presence in his tent for a reason, but also to come along on the project. The least he could do would be to allow him to play out his theatrics.

The food itself was a testament to the culinary skills of the Montrose household. The ham steak was so richly flavored that, even though Garrick had already eaten twice today, its aroma alone was enough to make his mouth water. The tomatoes, meanwhile, were a culinary masterpiece; their flesh was tender, having absorbed a blend of herbs and spices that elevated them beyond mere vegetables to something sublime.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

As Garrick sat there, waiting patiently with a pleasant smile fastened to his face, Lord Montrose finally set down his utensils and regarded him directly. The silence that followed was manufactured to be heavy. Eventually, Lord Montrose cleared his throat, and then, startlingly, a wide, friendly grin split the man’s face.

“Apologies for the bother, sir!” Lord Montrose said, his tone jovial and disarming. “Hope my good guards didn’t put you through too much fuss? Bentle and Gylus are good lads, but they’re not always the most keen-witted when it comes to important guests.”

Garrick didn’t consider himself easily shocked, but Lord Montrose’s transition from stoic gargoyle to friendly host was stark—even if he was expecting a sudden change.

“It’s…no bother,” Garrick said. Despite his best efforts, Lord Montrose had actually succeeded in what he likely set out to do: put Garrick on the back foot.

Interesting…

“Good, good!” Lord Montrose said, nodding pointedly. “I am grateful to have you onboard. With you helping guard the project, I know it’ll boost the morale of those who might be more easily spooked away from their duties. Which is great, because I need everyone to be sharp, sharp, sharp—a focused mind makes men better at their tasks, I always say.”

“Uh, yes…sure,” Garrick said, not really getting where this conversation was going. However, Lord Montrose just continued on without heed.

“You know, I was such a big fan of yours when I was a boy,” the hawkish man explained, his grin so wide Garrick thought his cheeks might split. “That bit at the Battle of Forevernight was particularly impressive. Tell me, sir, how did you defeat the Shadow Paladin so easily?”

Ah, so he got me unbalanced, Garrick thought, now he’s hitting me with a compliment bomb. Let’s see if I can switch the dynamic…

Garrick's thoughts wandered back to the so-called ‘Battle of Forevernight,’ an event that had somehow ballooned in the retelling to something far more epic than it had actually been. There was battling going on in Forevernight Village, but he was nowhere near it at the time. In reality, the ‘Shadow Paladin’ was just a very confused, slightly tipsy bard who had gotten lost on his way to a costume party. Though it had taken Garrick a considerable (and embarrassing) amount of time to realize this. What started as a brief scuffle ended with Garrick gently guiding the bard back to the main road, the man’s only injury being a bruised ego and a misplaced sense of direction.

However, as those things often do, passersby had witnessed only the drunken missteps before fleeing to safety and when they recounted the tale—it was a bit more dramatic.

Lord Montrose awaited an answer with the eagerness of a child listening to a bedtime story, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Garrick cleared his throat, choosing his words with care.

"Well, Lord Montrose, it was really just an account of mistaken identity. He was more shadow than paladin—truly not something to brag about."

Lord Montrose's eyes sparkled, clearly envisioning a far more dramatic confrontation than Garrick's modest recounting.

"Ah, the humility of a true Beacon," Lord Montrose declared, slapping the table with a laugh that seemed to fill the room. "But please, do tell me more. How do you prepare for such encounters? Astara? Secret arts?"

Garrick, sensing an opportunity to steer the conversation away from mythical battles and potentially embarrassing misunderstandings, leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile.

My turn.

"Actually, Lord Montrose, the secret to my success has always been a good breakfast. Speaking of which, those tomatoes look absolutely divine. What varietal are they? My granddaughter is quite the skilled—”

“My wife’s mother often spoke of you in the most elevated way!” Lord Montrose interjected, as if picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “She’d go on and on about you—you’d think you’d invented Beacons the way she sang of your deeds.”

Garrick, not used to being so flagrantly interrupted, paused and then nodded. Touche, Lord Montrose.

“So your son has informed me,” he said. “I’m grateful for the praise, but—”

“Oh! I’d forgotten, you already met my boy!” Lord Montrose interjected again. “Quite a promising young lad, don’t you think? Did you know he reached High Foundation already? And at such a young age! Eighteen! What a boon he is!”

There was something about the way he’d said it that made Garrick think Lord Montrose had deliberately misrepresented his son’s age. Dashiell had told him that he was nineteen, so, unless time was somehow moving in reverse order without him being aware of it…Lord Montrose was trying to position his son in a way that Garrick might be even more impressed.

What was worse is that Garrick had heard this style of conversational gymnastics before—many, many times in fact. He thought he knew where this was going.

“Listen to me, prattling on about my son!” Montrose continued, waving his hand through the air as if to dismiss his impoliteness. “What’s important is what you think of him.”

Lord Montrose leveled a gaze at Garrick, and the old man watched as he suddenly became the stoic figure again with the calculating predatory gaze. Garrick would have laughed at the absurdity if he wasn’t so intrigued by the Jeckyl and Hyde routine.

“What I think of him?” Garrick asked, deciding to play along. “I suppose I haven’t formed much of an opinion of the young Mr. Montrose yet. Our interactions have been brief so far.”

He didn’t bring up that he’d witnessed his son take quite the thumping in a fight just the day before—probably not something the esteemed Devendish Montrose wanted to hear about his boy. There was a way to play out this interaction, but that wasn’t it.

“Well, a man like yourself though, sir...” Montrose began, his gaze never leaving Garrick’s face. “You’d know talent when you saw it, wouldn’t you?”

Garrick shook his head.

“Your estimation of my abilities is flattering, Lord Montrose, but even someone like myself can hardly—”

“My son is special,” Lord Montrose interrupted, suddenly gazing off into the middle distance as though recalling a particularly fond memory. “No, not like every proud father might claim about their child—gifted though they may be. But…genuinely unique.”

"Special, you say?" Garrick asked.

“Indeed,” Lord Montrose continued. “And in good need of a guiding hand, if only there was a capable person up for the challenge.”

Garrick cleared his throat, feigning the dawning of realization as if the idea was just then crystallizing in his mind.

"Ah, I see. You're suggesting that, given my... extensive background, I might take a more... hands-on role in interactions with your son?"

Lord Montrose's eyes snapped back to Garrick, a spark of excitement igniting within them.

"Exactly! A man of your caliber could shape him, mold him into not just a Beacon but a legend! Like... well, like you."

Garrick leaned back, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in amusement.

"Lord Montrose, while I'm flattered by your confidence in my 'legendary' abilities, I must confess, my days of mentorship, especially in the Beacon business, are long behind me. It's been decades since I've taken anyone under my wing, and frankly, I'm more suited to guarding road building projects these days than crafting the heroes of tomorrow."

He decided not to mention that he knew that the man known as the ‘Surgemaster’ was already training him.

The hope in Lord Montrose's eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by a momentary flicker of disappointment. Garrick sensed deception there, though. Not malicious deception—but the kind that a merchant might adopt when he’s about to sell you something worthless at triple the price.

"I see," Devendish Montrose said, his voice resigned. "But you'll still help protect the workers and oversee the safety of the project?"

Garrick nodded slowly, allowing his expression to soften.

"Absolutely. That's something I can do, and gladly—ensuring the safety of those working on this impressive project. But as for training the next generation of heroes... I think your son would benefit more from someone a bit closer to his own journey. Someone who hasn't forgotten what it's like to face the trials of the early Spheres."

Lord Montrose sighed.

"Fair enough, sir, fair enough. I can't fault a man for knowing his strengths. And protecting the project is no small feat in itself. I'm grateful for your honesty—and your assistance."

Garrick smiled back, but then he saw a shift in the man’s face that told him the killing blow was coming—meant to be delivered in a way that was irresistible. Lord Montrose paused, a shadow of a different sort passing over his features, as if he were debating the wisdom of his next words.

"Sir, before we conclude our discussion, there's one more detail about Dashiell that I feel compelled to share. Not as a plea, but perhaps as a point of... mutual interest."

Garrick leaned in slightly, an instinct honed from years of navigating the unsaid and the dangerous.

"It's about a certain... talent, Dashiell possesses," Lord Montrose continued, his voice lowering, not quite a whisper but certainly meant for Garrick's ears alone. "Something not entirely within the realm of common abilities. My son, you see, has been the beneficiary of a…well, shall we call it a gift? Perhaps a gift—though it might as well be a curse.”

Garrick waited, watching the man’s eyes.

What is he leading up to?

“A Marked Sigil,” Lord Montrose finally admitted.

Garrick nodded again.

“A Sigil? Well, that’s likely good fortune, Lord Montrose—such a thing being granted is not unheard of—and at his age it's likely a good thing. It means he’ll have plenty of time to master it.”

“Yes…yes…” Lord Montrose said, nodding distractedly. “It’s only that this particular Sigil is unique—in fact, if I’m correct, I believe there’s only been one other instance of its kind being bestowed.”

He can’t mean…

“Lord Montrose?”

Montrose leveled a steely gaze on Garrick and perhaps it was only his imagination, but the old man felt something shift in the atmosphere of the room as the senior Montrose spoke.

“The Avatar of War.”

The revelation hung between them, charged with implications. Garrick's mind worked, trying to unpack the implications of this.

“Are you certain?” Was all he could manage.

“I am,” Lord Montrose said matter-of-factly. “I’ve had it confirmed by the Viceroy’s own Loremaster. My son is, of course, quite unaware of this particular boon just yet—he received it when he was quite small. But, the fact remains that it's there…waiting for its opportunity to imprint upon him.”

"And you believe this ability of his...it needs guidance?" Garrick asked, carefully.

"I do," Lord Montrose replied, his gaze steady. "Left unchecked, who knows what direction it might take? Or into whose hands such a talent could fall? I've done what I can, but there's only so much other trainers…hells, even what a father can do, especially one with my...responsibilities."

Garrick considered this, the weight of the decision suddenly heavier, more complex. This wasn't merely about teaching a young man to control a unique skill; it was about preventing a potentially dangerous power from becoming a threat.

Well, as prepared as I was…he still got me intrigued. Shrewd.

Or it would be if Garrick hadn’t already noticed the Marked Sigil weeks before, when he first met Dashiell. In fact, that was one of the major reasons he agreed to come along on this project in the first place. He’d long since decided the young Montrose might benefit from a gentle nudge in the right direction. In any case, if there was another Avatar of War Marked Sigil…Garrick knew he’d need to be involved.

"Very well," Garrick said after a moment, his voice firm with newfound resolve. "I'll meet with Dashiell again, discuss this ability of his more thoroughly. If I'm to consider your request, I need to understand the extent of the Sigil’s influence so far."

Lord Montrose nodded, a trace of relief visible in his eyes.

"Thank you, sir. I believe this is for the best. For Dashiell, and perhaps for many others."

Maybe… Garrick considered.

“Oh, by the way, sir,” Lord Montrose said. “What’s in that box of yours?”

Garrick sighed, lifting the painted box gingerly so as to not disturb the treasure within.

“Tomatoes,” he said.

“Ah…” Montrose said, clearly not understanding, but also obviously not really bothering to care too much for such a mundane answer. “Very well, then. I’ll have someone show you to the Guardian tents.”

“Guardian tents?” Garrick wondered, turning back from the yurt’s opening he’d just been preparing to exit.

“Why, yes, sir,” Montrose said. “Where those whose duty it is to protect this investment will bunk together.”

“Oh,” Garrick said. “No need to use up a spot in the barracks for me, Lord Montrose. I’d be perfectly comfortable anywhere. As long as I have a good view of the surroundings, I’ll be content.”

“My, you’re eager to begin, aren’t you?” Montrose wondered with a smile, spearing an errant piece of ham steak with his fork before swallowing it down. “Nonsense, though. It’s better to have all who pull sentry duty in one spot each night—builds a sense of camaraderie. Forges stronger bonds. Moreso, it’s where you will receive your daily assignments—your first of which will be parceled out within the next hour.”

And the easiest place to target in any attack, he thought. If someone was so inclined, having the bulk of the defense and fighting forces all clustered together would make it much, much simpler.

But even moreso, Garrick didn’t think he’d be the ideal bunk mate for any of the young whippersnappers that would be joining them on the excursion. Plus, he wasn’t going to balk too hard at having some creature comforts on the road for a few months.

He had to stop himself from smirking, as he’d just succeeded in his own little bargain.

A makeshift roof over my head and—dare I dream—a pillow.

“As you wish, Lord Montrose,” Garrick said, and with a respectful nod, exited the yurt.