“Are you sure you can’t be tempted?” Dashiell asked, standing at the top of the long trail down the mountain.

Garrick chuckled. They’d finished their tea a little while before, having not really discussed the matter much further until now. It seemed the young man was going to make one final poke to get him to join the mission.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” Garrick said. “Probably make a fine solicitor someday.”

“Me?” The young man asked, shaking his head. “No, I don’t know that I have the stomach for it. I’m training to be a Beacon.”

Garrick raised an eyebrow.

“Are you?”

His words seemed to deflate Dashiell’s self esteem and he slumped.

“Oh! Apologies, friend,” Garrick said quickly. “I didn’t mean to call your merit into question—it’s only that being a Beacon is…well, I should know, it’s a damn treacherous occupation to get into.”

“Yes, as my father reminds me regularly,” Dashiell said glumly. “It is one of the more perilous, to be sure. But aren’t all the Heroic Jobs dangerous, in the end?”

Beacons were the highest order of combatant in the stand against the greatest evils of the realm. Garrick didn’t need to say that it also had a ‘job vacancy’ rate of eighty-nine percent, last he knew. Of that, very few of them actually made it to retirement like he had. The thought of this mildly apprehensive young man taking up arms against monsters made him nervous on his behalf.

As this conversation unfolded, Ember played in the background. The small creature was busily engaged in a whimsical dance with a fluttering leaf, leaping and twirling only half-gracefully. Garrick's eyes momentarily followed Ember's antics, and an affectionate smile crossed his face at the sight. Then he turned back to the young man.

“But you’ll likely do fine,” Garrick said. “You’ve already reached High Foundation Sphere and you’re, what? Not even twenty?”

“Nineteen,” Dashiell said, looking a bit baffled—but still pleased. “And yes, I reached High Foundation not a month ago. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, however…”

Garrick laughed.

“You want to know how I could tell,” he said, nodding. “When you climb the ranks, eventually you know what to look for,” he said.

Garrick saw the look in Dashiell’s eyes—one he knew all too well. A ‘youngin’ on the Path of Spheres, eager to absorb the words of someone who had already mastered them. It was a very specific look.

I’m probably as bad as them, though, Garrick mused—he loved talking shop. I can’t help but offer the younger generations a little advice.

“Oh?” Dashiell said.

Garrick leaned in, adopting a tone of secrecy.

"It's all in the color of your mantle," he explained, his voice low but clear. "Each Sphere has its own distinctive hue, a reflection of one’s progress and mastery."

Dashiell's eyes widened with curiosity. "Colors? Truly, sir? I've never heard of that."

"It's something you learn to perceive over time," Garrick continued. "For instance, the Foundation Sphere, where you've made your mark, is characterized by a vibrant green mantle. It's the color of new growth—potential, if you will, just beginning to unfold. After Foundation—"

"Pillar," Dashiell interjected, clearly champing at the bit to understand more.

Garrick smiled. When Beatrix, his mentor, had first walked him through this conversation all those years ago, he had reacted much the same way as the young Montrose—except he had no baseline of knowledge to draw from.

"You obviously aren’t ignorant to the Spheres, Mr. Montrose,” he said. “That’s good. You are correct—after Foundation comes Pillar. The mantle turns to a deep blue, like the endless ocean. It signifies depth and stability, the strength to support all that comes next."

Dashiell nodded silently.

"Following Pillar, we, of course, reach the Arch Sphere. Here, the mantle becomes a bright yellow. Arch symbolizes the bridge between the lower and higher tiers. It's a critical transition point, full of energy and aspiration."

“Where the progress of the majority hits a blockade,” Dashiell offered.

“Correct, again. Also called the ‘Astaran Filter.’ It takes an incredible amount of time and energy—and most importantly, drive, to make it past the Filter to the next stage.”

“And beyond that?” Dashiell asked, hopefully.

“Well, beyond that things get a little more ephemeral—uh, varied in a sort of unknowable way. But, you’ve just reached High Foundation, which, if you were wondering, is mostly green with hints of blue. Trust me when I say that it would be better to focus simply on the next stage rather than the ones you may not reach for years.”

Dashiell seemed crestfallen, but Garrick could tell his politeness wouldn’t allow him to say anything further. So, the old man decided to push the conversation down a path that might cheer him up.

“Have you already rolled a Caste?” Garrick asked

This seemed to do the trick, because Dashiell nodded, and took on an air that was the most confident Garrick had seen since his arrival.

“Yes,” the young man said, his gaze suddenly steely. “Sarissist.”

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Garrick nodded.

“That’s a fine Caste—but…where’s your spear? Didn’t leave that at the bottom of the climb did you?”

Dashiell smiled, shaking his head.

“No, sir,” he said, then held his hand out. Garrick felt the sudden swell of power—Dashiell’s astara—rushing into the space above his open palm. A moment later, a glittering spear-like polearm—a sarissa—stood tall in his grasp. It was quite ornate, the blades a polished bronze, the shaft made of dark wood, and just near the bottom was a red gem that glowed lightly.

“You have an Accolade, eh?” Garrick asked, examining the weapon with a practiced eye. “Those are expensive.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised, the young man was the scion of the Montrose Structures building company after all. Still—an Accolade was the type of artifact that others would get greedy about. Ancient and valuable, having an Accolade at High Foundation was like giving a toddler a crossbow: more dangerous than practical. It was also nearly as easy to wrest such a thing from them.

“It was my grandmother’s,” Dashiell said, before adding, “on my mother’s side.”

“Is she a Beacon, then?” Garrick wondered. If she were, he’d likely heard of her. It was a small network.

“She…was,” Dashiell said, his tone taking on a sorrowful tinge. “Killed, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Garrick offered with a shake of the head. “Were you close?”

“Never met her, actually,” Dashiell admitted. “My mother was still young when she fell. But we still take time for remembrance during Palathiam’s holiday, so I feel as though I did know her. In a way.”

The young man’s words stirred something in Garrick’s memories and it took him only a moment before he let out a gasp. A Beacon that carried a sarissa?

Where’ve I seen that? Don’t tell me that’s…

“Wait…was your grandmother Ylvia?” Garrick wondered excitedly. “Ylvia of the Ten Peaks?”

“The very same,” Dashiell nodded, smiling. “I hope to do her name justice someday.”

“I knew her,” Garrick said. He remembered the red-haired, emerald-eyed Beacon—the terror of any enemy—flashing about through battles and dungeons lightning quick. He’d only encountered her a handful of times, but he remembered her being quite boastful and cocky. Quite the difference from the awkward young man who stood before him.

Wait, Garrick thought. Didn’t we…?

There was a blurred memory of a drunken night decades ago after he and a group she’s been a part of had cleared a dungeon near Valorant. He seemed to recall many overflowing goblets of wine in the firelight and his bedroll being far too warm and crowded.

Perhaps I’m misremembering, he thought, gazing at the hopeful face of the young Montrose.

“Yes, sir,” Dashiell said. “According to my mother, you were quite impressive to Grandma Ylvia. She often spoke at length about witnessing you break the Apostle Shard single-handedly during the Orion incursion at the end of the Zealot Wars. That you’d shown up at the most critical instance of the battle to strike a decisive blow.”

Garrick nearly laughed. He hadn’t thought about that event in nearly forty years. He wasn’t sure why anyone had ever made a fuss—it really hadn’t been anything to write home about, yet everybody had turned it into a big deal. He recalled the Apostle Shard: big, angry, fractal that it was, floating above Torabin City like a lord, resembling a particularly hungry doorway. The way he dealt with it was hardly the stuff of legends; he’d simply jumped up the two hundred feet or so and knocked. The whole thing crumbled a half second later—which was honestly pretty shameful, as far as ancient evil artifacts of power go. In truth, his grand entrance into the battle had been embarrassingly delayed, not by any strategic planning or heroic preparation, but because he’d misplaced his boots.

“Well, then, you have quite the legacy to live up to, indeed,” Garrick continued. “It’s good to see her blood still thrives in Bastion.”

"Thank you, sir," Dashiell said. "And I mean to. Uh, live up to it, that is.”

Garrick studied the young man for a moment longer, his thoughts, previously simmering just beneath the surface, beginning to bubble over.

Is this, too, a coincidence? He wondered. Or is this all part of something bigger?

"If I can inquire… Whereabouts are the roads going to be connecting to?" the old man asked.

Dashiell cast a gaze out toward the mountains beyond the little hamlet, a warm fondness in his eyes. "In my father's vision... all of it. The plan is to connect every province in the realm, opening new avenues to everyone. Hopefully, it will usher in a new age of trade and prosperity."

Garrick found this declaration a bit grandiose, but the earnestness in the young man's tone was hard to ignore.

If they’re planning to connect all of the provinces… He considered this, mulling it over for a moment before speaking again.

"So, does that mean you’ll be connecting to the Ozara Province anytime soon?"

Dashiell nodded, "Yes, in fact, it's the third province on the list, right after the Hyneland."

Garrick paused, casting a glance back to his cabin, his woodshed, and the beautiful land beyond before his eyes found the garden and the tomatoes growing from the helmet. Twyla’s tomatoes. Wouldn’t she be surprised to see how many there were? A great gift. He bit his lip, ruminating. This road…the idea of such an undertaking was beyond belief, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t see the benefit in it. Having a route from here in Bastion right to their doorstep…it would change much. He could use it as an opportunity to visit them. And if they were cutting straight through…well, that would just make the trip that much faster in the future, wouldn’t it? He smiled.

Skylark, you’d better be ready to forgive me…

"When did you say you were leaving again?"

Dashiell paused in confusion before replying, "Well…after the holiday, likely three weeks before autumn's arrival."

All right, Garrick thought to himself. That gives me just shy of a month.

He turned to the young man, now standing up straight, "I've changed my mind; I think I would like to join Montrose Structures on this project."

Dashiell's jaw fell open in astonishment.

"You will?!"

“Yes, I think so,” Garrick said. In his mind’s eye, he imagined waltzing through the gate in Utsuro City and surprising his son’s family while they were around the dinner table. Lifting Twyla in his arms and twirling her around. Eating some of the sweets Ri Aru had been fattening his son up with. Perhaps fishing or doing some other father-son bonding with Skylark. The thought was almost too comforting to bear.

“But only so far as Ozara,” he added. “That's all I can promise.”

Dashiell hadn’t said anything, his mouth still hanging wide. Then, he managed to compose himself enough to ask, "What…erm, changed your mind, if I may ask?"

Garrick let out a hearty laugh, the lines on his face deepening with amusement. "An old man should be allowed to have second thoughts from time to time," he said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "As long as we can make it to Ozara before the spring festival, I'm content."

Dashiell pondered this for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought as if calculating the logistics in his mind. Then, his face brightened with a smile. "Even if it wasn’t in the cards, I’m sure my father would be willing to reroute our course to make it there in time."

Garrick chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "There’s no need to divert just for my sake," he explained. "I only need to be there before the festival."

“Then I shall ensure it happens!” Dashiell said, his mood greatly improved with this bit of good news. “If you’ll excuse me, sir: I must be off then! Preparations need to be made.”

He turned toward the mountain trail before stopping again and turning back to him.

“Sir?” he wondered.

“Yes, Mr. Montrose?”

“Is it true what they say?”

“Well, I dunno—what do they say?”

“That you are not originally from this world? That you’re from…somewhere else?”

Garrick sighed, nodding.

“It’s true,” he said quietly. “But, at this point, I’ve been here almost four times as long as I was ever there. Why do you ask?”

Dashiell nodded to himself, seeming to confirm something. “Oh, I merely asked because another member of the team—one of the guardians, like you’re soon to be—is one who claims to be from another world.”

Garrick didn’t quite know what to say to that, so instead he simply said, “...is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” Dashiell said. “Perhaps you two will have something in common? In any case, I won’t trouble you further. I’ll send word next week on when to expect us.”

There was another pause before he continued once more.

“And…sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Montrose?”

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Garrick said.

With a final nod, the young man began his arduous descent down the trail, sarissa in hand. Garrick watched him go, only chuckling a little when the youth became tangled in his weapon and had to unsummon it into the aether once more before carrying on. Once he was out of sight, the old man turned to Ember, who’d finally caught the leaf and was batting it playfully against a stone.

“Well, Ember,” Garrick said, beginning the trek back to the cabin. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

His eyes found the tomato plants again before resting on the colossal blade poking out of the ground.

“A lot of work to do.”