By mid-day, the eclectic assembly known as the Golden Lion had trooped into sight of the town of Bellwater.

The day’s journey, accented by a renegade summer storm, had left their cloaks splattered with mud and soaked through from a downpour. Notably, Georgina's cloak remained suspiciously pristine, the delver having conveniently vanished during the storm's arrival and reappeared just as the clouds parted.

For everyone else, there was a general feeling of exhaustion and dampness—Kufko in particular had continued glaring up at the now-sunny sky as if expecting another betrayal. Despite all of this, the urgent matter of briefing the upper echelon of the project about the path now being free of nefarious hindrances sat atop all their minds like an improperly balanced hat—it stayed on, but just barely.

Yet, as they approached the perimeter of Bellwater, where the scent of civilization began to mingle with the lingering aromas of wilderness, a new agenda subtly wove itself into their tired minds—one that eschewed the devious summonings. Nor were they thinking about the enigmatic scroll that seemed more and more like a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, then lightly battered and deep-fried in extra-buttery confusion. No, at the forefront of their thoughts was one thing: tedium.

"Well, my dears," Georgina said, proudly ruffling her all-too-dry cloak with a flourish. "We made it back. Fun's over. Time to offer blood up to our masters."

"Dramatic, aren't we?" Fran asked, her inflection serious.

"Ah, it's not drama, Franny," Georgina retorted. "I just hate the waiting 'round for the next kernel of a job to do, y'know? Loiterin,' and the like."

"Waiting around?" Kerd asked, raising an eyebrow. "Rich words from 'she who turned tail at the first sight of a storm.' I'm still slapping rainwater outta my ear canals."

"Well, that's an all-day affair, innit?" Georgina said with a smirk. "Size o' them lug holes you got on you. A proper stream leaking outta them. It ain't my fault the rest of you didn't bring an umbrella Chant or the like."

She sighed.

"But that's beside the bush. I'm simply saying that it'll be a wickedly boring affair before we get to gettin' out again. I don't like resting on my laurels for too long. Makes a gal grow moss."

"You're in rare form today," Dashiell said. "And I'll pretend to not be affronted that you despise my hometown so passionately." He smiled at her, a clear sign that he was only joking. "There's plenty to do in Bellwater while we anticipate our next job," he continued. "If you know where to look. Rushing to complete our tasks will have you missing the points of interest."

"Sounds like she's in a rush to be miserable," Fran said.

"Let's just get it over with, eh?" Georgina grumbled. "Gotta pay our dues before we can shove off again. That's adultin,' yeah? Doing that which requires doing, despite knowing it's going to lick the joy off of you."

"Yeah," Tad said, smiling. "But being an adult has its benefits. For instance: I can purchase and eat an entire cake whenever I want—and there's no one to stop me."

"Listen to this man," Georgina scoffed. "Cakes… Oi, Tad, I'm going to swap you and Kerd's places in my hierarchy of simpletons. Congratulations on your promotion."

Tad beamed.

"I didn't even do anything to deserve this honor, but I'll wear it with pride," Tad said genuinely.

"Wear what?" Georgina asked.

"Well, I assume there's some sort of badge, right?" Tad wondered.

His earnestness seemed to put the fire out of Georgina's teasing.

"Well…I guess I could knit one for you…"

"We should get to reporting our findings," Fran said, interrupting what was surely to be quite the intellectual conversation. She pulled at her clothing beneath her breastplate. "I'm soaked nearly through."

Garrick nodded.

"I wouldn't say no to hurrying to finish it out, for the moment," he said. "I could use a rest after all that walking."

His knees were getting sore—it wasn't often anymore that he had to trek for that long.

"Aye, so, Dashiell," Kerd said. "What's the protocol? There’s talkin' to the Surgemaster ‘bout the road bein’ clear, obviously…"

Garrick noticed that Dashiell stiffened a little at his comment—an action that Kerd didn't miss.

"…Unless we just send a runner and dive into this scroll mystery over some ale?" the big man offered.

"No, no…" Dashiell said, clearing his throat. "We must report to him first. However, as you say, there is indeed the issue of this scroll. What we've unearthed might need more than just a cursory glance by Sir Callifery—as it is doubtful that it is his particular area of expertise. Perhaps I can mention it to my fa—erm, Lord Montrose. He may know where we could find information that would assist us."

"Well, I might know a…" Garrick began, but slowly trailed off.

Both he and Ember, suddenly and with little warning, halted. The rest of the group, noticing the abrupt stop, turned with expressions ranging from puzzled to mildly alarmed. Ember’s nose twitched, a delicate and precise movement, matched only by Garrick's less delicate but equally earnest flaring nostrils.

Man and beast exchanged a glance, an unspoken and profound understanding.

"Is that…?" Garrick began, his voice trailing off as his eyes widened.

Ember's tail exploded into a wag of small, excited bursts.

Bread!

Indeed, the warm, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread was wafting over from Bellwater, cutting through the myriad odors of travel and triumph. Now, the smell was not merely bread but the promise of bread, which, as any seasoned treat traveler or feast philosopher might tell you, is infinitely more potent.

"…A strategic pause, perhaps?" Garrick suggested, already sidling towards the source of the aroma with the single-minded determination of a man who understood at least one universal truth: fresh bread waits for no one.

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Ember, for the first time since they'd left out this morning, hopped down from the hobgoblin's shoulder to the visible relief of her charge. The fox joined the old man in wandering through the entrance ahead of the rest of the pack.

"Oi!" Georgina shouted at their backs. "Where you lot goin?'"

"Just a brief detour, friends," Garrick explained, the matters of scrolls and Surgemasters momentarily shelved in the face of such olfactory temptation. "We'll meet up with you shortly."

As they disappeared down the road, the rest of the Gold Lion shared a look.

"Strange old guy," Surith said.

---

A short while later, high atop a Bellwater rooftop, Garrick and Ember indulged themselves in a diversion. Perched comfortably, they surveyed the town below, munching on freshly baked bread.

Ah, that's the ticket, Garrick thought, resting his hand on his tortoiseshell necklace. I know this was designed for combat—but this is a far superior use.

In his opinion, it offered a rare experience, being able to zap up to a high place to enjoy the sights with good eats.

Quite the gift, Claudette.

From their elevated vantage point, Bellwater sprawled out beneath them like an illustration, its rooftops a thatched menagerie of sun-bleached tiles. Below, the streets thrummed with the vibrant rush of mid-day activities; merchants working their stalls, and the rhythmic clatter of a wagon echoed through the alleys, its wheels beating a steady tattoo on the cobblestones.

Garrick's gaze wandered to the outskirts where the sprawling expanse of the Roadbuilding Project stretched out. From this height, the procession of workers and their collateral formed a winding serpent of industry, a lively artery pumping the lifeblood of progress into the heart of Bellwater. If he squinted just so, he could even make out the cluster of tents, yurts, and wigwams that housed the Guardians.

Look at that! I can see my house from here, he thought to himself with a chuckle.

He took another bite of the bread, savoring its aroma.

Gemmenbrog—a dwarfish specialty.

They had procured it (after following their noses through town) at a quaint little stall on the west end of Bellwater run by an elderly dwarfish couple. The duo baked their gemmenbrog traditionally, in small metal containers directly over an open flame. The couple, weathered-handed Edyng and warmly-smiling Perlä, had been delighted to sell to them, the pride in their craft evident. Now, lunching on the rare varietal, he couldn't help but think about the first time he'd experienced it—decades ago at a dwarfish encampment outside of Mosshome, the ruins-like false-city to the southwest of Bastion.

He'd been young and full of pluck—and completely out of his depths.

Sometimes people muse that times were simpler when they were young, he thought. But, not for that version of Garrick.

He remembered that shortly after visiting the encampment, he'd been trapped in a revolving sand dungeon, buck naked save for a cursed flower crown atop his head, frantically scrabbling for a way out whilst screaming.

Ho-ho! No, thank you! Things are about as simple as I could ever want them to be now.

He watched, amused, as Ember sniffed at her portion of bread, her eyes comically large with delight before she daintily nibbled at the edges.

"It's moments like these, Ember," Garrick said aloud, brushing away crumbs that dared escape his mouth, "that remind one to appreciate the trials that led us here."

The image of being yanked out of the revolving sand dungeon by a passing traveler from his position upside down—exposed to the elements—flashed into his mind.

Trials, indeed.

He paused, his gaze drifting across the busy marketplace and beyond to the ancient lake at the town’s edge, its surface rippling placidly in the gentle breeze.

"Bread, a good view, and a bit of quiet to think."

Ember, seeming to agree, let out a soft yip and settled closer to Garrick, her small body a warm presence against his side.

He sat bolt upright.

What's this?

He'd been reflexively extending his senses during his relaxation, letting them trickle through Bellwater. But that had been abruptly interrupted as a prickling sensation washed over him, signaling a disturbance in the familiar astara that surrounded him. He'd sensed four distinct signatures and then a mantle's flare. Dashiell. Something was off.

The marketplace’s lively buzz faded into the background as he concentrated on the source of this wrinkle.

The Guardian tents.

Ember, always sensitive to Garrick’s emotional shifts, leaped from his lap onto his shoulder in a fluid motion. Reacting instinctively, Garrick's hand found the tortoiseshell necklace at his chest. With no time to waste, he rose from his seat and fixed his gaze to a spot just behind the Guardian tents, a place obscured from direct view to the prying eye but clear to him from up high. He didn't want to showcase this little maneuver just yet. Closing his eyes briefly, he focused on the necklace, feeling the astara dwelling within pulse against his palm.

In the next moment, he was behind the tents, the world around him momentarily swirling in a blur of colors before snapping back into focus.

The area was quieter here, away from the bustling market, but he wasn't focused on that at the moment. Garrick’s fingers still clutched the necklace, its surface warm from the energy it had channeled as he made a quick pace in the direction he was sensing. He had a clear idea of what was happening, but, this may have been one of those situations to trust with his eyes.

He fluttered into the yurt of the Golden Lion a few moments later, the flap of the tent whipping quietly behind him as he entered.

Sir Albert Callifery, Surgemaster, stood rigid with fury, his finger pointed accusingly at Dashiell, who stood opposite him. A fresh welt reddened Dashiell's face. His eyes were tight and nervous, but otherwise, his demeanor was composed. In the corner, the hobgoblin, Surith, cowered, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

Garrick's arrival had apparently went unnoticed, allowing him a moment to assess the situation. He felt for the mantles of his team members, discovering that most were a little ways away, gathered at a tavern, relaxed and oblivious to the tension here.

"You absolute fool!" Callifery's voice cut through the tense air, his tone icy with contempt. "Bringing a hobgoblin into town, into the boundaries of our project! Have you lost your mind, Dashiell? This isn't some backwater bog village where you pick up stray beasts and parade them through the streets!"

Dashiell remained silent, his jaw set, absorbing the tirade with a stoic resolve.

Callifery continued, his voice rising slightly with each word, "Your protocol was clear. Should you have encountered anything out of the ordinary, you were to have fetched me. Then I would have been able to retrieve this…creature in a controlled environment. This was a grave and stupid error, Dashiell."

"Yes, sir," Dashiell said robotically, as if he well knew what any other response would earn him.

Callifery's eyes found Surith.

"Unimpeded, this hobgoblin and its ilk will dismantle everything we've worked for. And the ogres—walking away, are they? Both should be destroyed on sight!"

The words hung heavy in the air, the suggestion of violence towards the hobgoblin causing Surith to flinch visibly. Callifery's anger was a cold, calculated fury, distinctly different from the passionate outbursts Garrick had witnessed during Vash's little stunt with the exploding chest. The old man was surprised that he had gone unnoticed for so long, simply standing there. Such, he supposed, were the demands of anger so deep as this Surgemaster demonstrated.

Dashiell attempted to speak.

"Sir Callifery, I understood the risks. However, I believed—"

"Understood?" Callifery snapped, cutting him off. "Believed? Your beliefs put your father—your House's entire operation in jeopardy! Do you understand that? We don't parlay with hobgoblins, Dashiell. We eradicate them. They are a verminous threat. A liability!"

Callifery turned to Surith, his hand sparking, his own mantle flaring as he cycled astara into his hand.

"One I intend to remedy…" Callifery said, taking a step forward.

Well, this has gone on long enou—

Garrick been about to get involved—perhaps even clearing his throat and announcing his presence when something strange happened. He felt another flash of astara swell very close to him.

Before Garrick could interject, Ember, reacting with an intensity that startled him, leaped from his shoulder. With a grace and speed that belied her small size, she darted between Sir Callifery and Surith. Her tail was arched, her fur bristled, and her fangs bared in a fierce display of the hobgoblin's defense. Red illusory flames, tinged with ethereal blue, flickered around her, casting eerie shadows across the tent walls. She growled—a deep, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate through the yurt.

Garrick was taken aback. He had never heard a sound like that emerge from Ember before, but he had experienced it one other time. From her mother.

"Perhaps," Garrick finally said quietly and calmly, taking a few steps forward, "we should all take a beat and look at this issue more closely."