Sir Kestrin the Ice Blade surveyed the town of Laetera from his vantage point atop a parched yellow hill. His mount, an unnamed stallion bred of the finest stock that the capital had to offer, snorted and pawed at the brittle grass that rustled against his hooves. Kestrin sharply tapped the beast's side with his steel-ridged boot, and it settled obediently.

The royal stablemaster had insisted that the mount be decorated with the conspicuous scarlet silks of the Crimson Blade, but Kestrin had refused outright. He preferred anonymity by default, and would only reveal his esteemed position if a situation truly necessitated it.

That traitorous guard Marcus had been a mild challenge to break, but like all before him, it had merely been a matter of time. Kestrin wondered, with a kind of detached curiosity, whether the man would ever fully recover. His bruises, broken bones, and flayed feet would undoubtedly heal, but the wounds to his honor and pride were deeper. The man's admirably stoic manner had crumbled like wet sand, and he'd bawled and begged like a cowed mongrel by the end of his ordeal.

Kestrin allowed a thin smile to stretch his normally cold, impassive features.

Ten years ago, he'd emerged as the undisputed victor of King Asha's tournament of champions. Still spattered with the blood and entrails of his competition, Kestrin had kneeled before the Heir of Fire as the latter lowered the token of victory, a ruby amulet, around his neck. That day, his cold and methodical style of combat had earned him the title of Ice Blade.

The spectating crowds surrounding him had roared and cheered, but Kestrin cared nothing for their cheap, fickle renown. His center of focus had been King Asha's amber gaze, which smoldered like glowing coals with a tantalizing, unfathomable power.

Until that moment, he'd never judged anyone worthy of his unconditional devotion. The nameless masses, as colorless and insubstantial as phantoms, had flitted past him all throughout his lonely, ragged life. But King Asha, the Heir of Fire, embodied strength itself, and blazed as brightly as a flame amidst a sea of muted grays. He effortlessly inhabited a position of greatness beyond what any common mortal could achieve, and he'd been born to it per divine decree.

Though Kestrin had long abandoned any hope of attaining true happiness, he knew then, with utter certainty, that pledging himself to King Asha's service would bring him closer to personal fulfillment than he could ever hope for otherwise. He'd kissed his new master's hand with naked, prideless piety.

Kestrin rolled the amulet between his slender fingers and tucked it into his tunic. The sight of a gemstone, even a lesser one, would no doubt attract unwanted eyes. He flicked the reins, and his nameless mount began to canter down the parched and brittle slope toward Laetera.

*

Laetara was a sizably bustling town, one of the more prosperous and expansive settlements on this side of the Hadria River. Kestrin drew little notice as he trotted down the cobblestone streets among the other carts, wagons, and riders. His features were plain and nondescript, and his impassive expression further deflected casual attention.

Townsfolk passed him by on either side of the avenue, absorbed in their petty little affairs, chattering away about nothing. A few toothless beggars shook their hats at him before quickly moving on upon his indifference. An hour in, Kestrin was already yearning for a campsite in the wilderness with nothing but a fire and his mount for company.

But if one were obligated, for whatever reason, to make his way amongst the unwashed masses, there was no better place to pick up the heartbeat of a settlement than the local tavern.

He stopped upon sight of such an establishment, this one called the Silken Hog, whose sign boasted a fat, grinning pig. Kestrin hitched his stallion at the corral by the back, which was manned by a gangly youth, and took a few moments to consider the upcoming ordeal. He then made his way through the tavern's weathered wooden door.

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The interior was smoky and hot, packed to the brim with raucous patrons. Kestrin nimbly wove between the masses of pungent bodies, resisting the urge to hold his nose, and spotted a vacant seat at the bar. The barkeep, a diminutive, hairy man with a shiny bald pate, conversed and laughed easily with a sozzled customer. A slender, black-haired boy, likely little more than a slave, filled tankards beside his master in sullen silence.

Kestrin claimed the seat and tapped the wooden surface to get the barkeep's attention. "A pint of your finest, if you please," he said, raising his voice above the cacophony.

Within seconds, a tankard slammed down in front of him with enough force to send the froth flying. Kestrin reluctantly sipped. For common ale, it would suffice.

"Whereabouts would you hail from, stranger?" the barkeep asked. He vigorously swirled a tankard's insides with a ragged cloth.

"The north," Kestrin replied. "I'm searching for someone. Would you say you were attuned to the goings-on in these parts?"

"By Eris, you dishonor me! No man nor woman sneezes 'round these parts without old Bigby knowing of it." He winked.

Kestrin flicked a clear, weighty nobilis onto the counter. Bigby's small eyes widened. "Now, now, this wouldn't be Blade business, would it?" he said, less boisterously now. "I'm not one to turn folk in, not even for coin."

"Certainly not," Kestrin lied easily. His mark of nobility, the sigil of the Sixth Caste, remained comfortably hidden beneath lambskin gloves. "Personal business. Have you heard of a woman in these parts, unusually tall in stature?

Bigby swept the coin into his pocket. "That leaves much detail to be desired."

"Her name is Hael, or so I've been told."

"Is that all you have to go on?" Bigby set down the tankard he'd finished cleaning and started in on another from a nearby pile.

Kestrin smiled thinly. "It may be paltry, but even this information did not come cheap."

"A tall woman, you say?" slurred the patron beside him, with whom Bigby had been initially conversing. "I could always use me one o' them." He leered, baring a set of mottled, crumbling teeth.

Kestrin ignored him, which encouraged rather than deterred the man. He clapped a broad, hairy hand on Kestrin's shoulder. "Mate, where's your sense of humor? You look like you could use some loosening up. Worry not, my whores are the finest in the--" That was as far as he got before his arm was suddenly twisted behind him and his head slammed across the bar with bone-rattling force.

A few patrons glanced up, but quickly returned to their drinks. Clearly, such a sight was not particularly unusual here.

"Oy, get off!" The drunk flailed helplessly; Kestrin's grip was ironbound.

Bigby chuckled good-naturedly. "Oh, bless him. Stranger, would you kindly release my best customer? He's merely a trifle over-friendly."

Kestrin did so. The man swayed a little as he heaved himself upright and massaged his left cheek. He shot them both a surly glare before stalking out, muttering curses under his breath.

"He'll be back within the day," the barkeep said breezily. "As for your tall woman, I may have to rack my brains a bit harder. How long do you plan to stay?"

As short a time as possible, Kestrin thought but did not say. He yearned to scrub himself clean of this town, the ripe stench of which had already settled onto him like a sticky layer of grime. "Ideally, no longer than tonight."

Bigby's young underling, who'd been intently watching the whole affair, suddenly spoke up. "I've seen a tall woman." Though his unkempt hair and filthy face hid it well, there was an undeniable sophistication to his features and expression. Kestrin wondered, without any real interest, whether he could be a descendent of an exiled Dark Apostle, brought up as a commoner among the stinking masses.

He nodded, cueing the boy to continue. "Aye, an unusually tall woman. I saw her going in Chester's shop a few weeks ago. She had her hood up."

"To which direction did she leave?"

The boy briefly glanced at Bigby, whose stony gaze would have cowed most youths, and looked back to Kestrin. "No clue. From what she bought, she couldn't have had much farther to go."

Kestrin flicked another nobilis at the boy, who caught it with nimble fingers, and rose from his seat to make a beeline for the marginally fresher outside air. He didn't see Bigby wrestle the coin out of the boy's grasp and roughly cuff his ear, nor would he have cared if he had.

Kestrin collected his stallion from the corral. It tossed its glossy head and seemed as eager to be away as its master.

The prison was situated at the foot of the Galatea mountains. If the woman had stopped at Laetera, she would have been heading south-west.

Geyire then, or perhaps Methodosia. Kestrin mounted his stallion and urged the beast onward.