The forest was alive around me as I stopped the wagon a few miles outside of the town. The trail to Gelvurt was not well traveled.

Finding an imposter, a perfect imposter from the sounds of it, would not be easy. Unless, the imposter was both perfect…and careless.

I focused my Vitae, going through the practiced motions of my body to direct the energy as I crouched down and focused my senses.

The sights and sounds of the world around me faded as the Scourger Bloodhound Technique took hold, my sense of smell expanding as I began to categorize the scents around me.

I quickly discounted the smells of my children and the wagon, picking apart the familiar scents of myself and my clothes, before I narrowed in on older scents.

Travelers, a group of them. Old by a few days, but there was no doubt that there were at least four of them, possibly five.

However, what drew my attention was a very familiar smell amongst them. Myself. Older, traveling with the group. With a distinct scent of perfume weaved into my own.

I did not wear perfume and I certainly hadn’t left my scent here days ago.

It seemed whoever was posing as Lord Rakta Velbrun was heading toward Gelvurt as well. And I had to beat them there.

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Imposters within the Certilia Empire were not rare. According to Lydia, doppelgangers, humanoid creatures with appearance changing magics, from the nearby mountains had bred with early Certilians.

Either purebred or simply a Certilian with enough doppelganger blood to awaken their abilities, the idea of a loved one being replaced by another individual was not unheard of.

Not that they were inherently villainous of course, but I rarely had the pleasure of dealing with pleasant ones.

It had taken me a week of nonstop travel, burning through my Vitae to travel unabated throughout the night, to catch up the scents that evaded me.

Channeling my Vitae through Fretz had been the only thing keeping the ox from not crumbling from exhaustion.

Similarly, my children were not fond of the constant travel, ruining their sleep and making them irritable.

Perhaps, that was why I had them now cradled to my chest tonight, with plans to confront the imposter tomorrow. We all needed sleep.

“Buh,” My very awake son cried.

“Wah,” My irritated Natakia noted in response.

I looked to Daka, to see if she had anything to add, but she was sleeping soundly against my chest, a dollop of drool spilling out of her lips onto my clothing.

“You should both get sleep like your sister,” I gently chided the two other babes, both of their bright eyes staring defiantly at me, “Are you not tired?”

They did not seem to care for the comparison, both of them refusing to go to sleep after a few more minutes of gentle rocking.

Perhaps if I were willing to light a campfire, I would let Dalton tire himself out counting coins and solve one of my problems. Being as close as I was to the imposter’s camp, however, it would not be wise.

Instead, I gave a great sigh and felt the rolling, rumbling echo build up in my chest as I recalled the dark, cold nights of the desert.

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And the way my tribe’s Storyteller began his nightly tales.

“There once was a man of great power,” I began, feeling the story flow through my Vitae, “They called him many names, but Brota was the name his mother gave him.”

The two babes were enraptured, an easy crowd for Ruskan Storytelling techniques, but I noticed that a third pair of eyes was now listening deeply. I had not meant to wake Daka up.

“Brota was a warrior in a time of great war amongst the Ruskan Tribes, fierce and bloody, and lost his brothers and sisters to the blade of another, a Ruskan by the name of Garrok.”

I could feel the names pulse as they were remembered, the souls of the ancient warriors preening as they were once again paid homage.

“Disheartened by the death and destruction, Brota stood atop the highest plateau he could find and sought answers from the world around him.”

Even now, I could see the stoic figure standing overhead, his expression stoic as he looked out across blood-stained sand.

“And the world answered with the desert sands, pushing and pulling at his body. And so, Brota allowed it to move him as it wished. The first Ruskan Dance began.”

I continued on, telling them of Brota’s journey. As much as my memory allowed, at the very least. I was no Storyteller, but I had grown up hearing of Brota’s story.

Soon, both Dalton and Natakia had been lulled to sleep by the story, but one set of clear blue eyes had not waned during the story.

I gave Daka a kiss on the forehead, “Go to sleep, my little one.”

And unlike her brother and sister, she did not resist, her head falling against my chest and quickly beginning to slumber once more.

The lights of my life cradled against me, I relaxed against the edge of the wagon and allowed myself to sleep for a few moments.

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I stalked the forests, allowing the natural sounds to conceal my approach. I walked with the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the bushes.

Within my grip, the familiar weight of my throwing axe, one of my Vultures. It was larger than a normal throwing axe that could, and had, doubled as a regular war axe when the situation called for it.

“So, my Lord, what’ll be your first decree when we reach Gelvurt?” The voice, deep, had a teasing lilt to it.

“Ah, my faithful follower, I shall decree that a feast will be held in my name! The Velbrun name! And we will all eat…like pigs!” It was strange hearing my own voice with such an irreverent tone.

I was not an irreverent man.

The voice, my borrowed voice, was loud and free of concern. As I got closer, I could smell the smoke of the campfire and hear the bustle of others.

Soon in sight, the camp, small as it was with only four tents, was alive well and early in the morning.

Five figures, all of them laughing and jeering at one another, sat around the burning campfire, their weapons close by to each of them.

Two of them, a man and woman, looked almost identical, both of them covered in darker brown clothing, large daggers on their belts.

Beside them, a larger looking man, slapped his knee as he laughed with a booming pitch, “Aha! Yes, yes! I cannot wait until we are finally fit to eat like kings!”

Laid against his back was a large warhammer, the iron of its head gleaming in the early sun.

A reedy voice broke through, coming from a smaller, skinnier man at the larger man’s side, “Lords, Kal, lords. I think it might be a while before Doh gets a chance at a king.”

No weapons on him, but the necklace he wore stood out, bright and with an iron-chained amethyst at the tip. A focus for magic?

And then, almost the center of the conversation, was a familiar visage. My own. Laughing and smiling alongside the rest of these strangers.

He posed, something Lydia would have laughed at, “Yes, well, King Doh just doesn’t have the same ring to it as Lord Doh. Besides, the King is old! I’ll wait until a nice pretty princess or prince gets their hand on the throne.”

He, or perhaps they, didn’t seem very serious about making a go at the throne. These five seemed close and much more experienced than simple bandits.

Mercenaries attempting to settle into an easy life? How did mercenaries learn about the writ of lordship? Many questions, not enough answers.

It wasn’t of my highest concern. My children were waiting on the nearby trail so I did not have much time to waste here. Every second that passed was another moment my children could be in danger.

Still, I would do this as Lydia would have.

I stepped out of the bushes and into the camp, no longer hiding myself, “Good morning, my name is Rakta Velbrun. I believe you have something of mine. Please return it.”

The laughing and jeering stopped instantly, the mercenaries turning to look at me with stunned, almost disbelieving eyes.

Doh blinked with my eyes, “Holy shit!”

They went for their weapons.

My Vulture cut through the air, hitting the center of their campfire, the magic laden within the enchanted weapon pulsed as it hit, a sudden great explosion of whirling air sending cinders and ash dancing.

The mercenaries stopped, staggering to their feet as they coughed and put out small flames.

I held out my empty hand, the Vulture ripping itself out of the ground and twisting through the air back snuggly into my palm.

I gazed at the mercenaries, “Please return it.”