Kallas asked me what our team name was back then, when it was just the two of us. I joined him thinking we already had one. But he claimed that everything he named himself didn’t sound good. So, when I played along only one thing came to mind: Dawnstriders. People who strode forward for the next dawn; that was us, that was who I thought we were meant to be.
— Milaine
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The Dawnstriders began in a dirty alley. In the beginning, they were a group of common interest—to help the needy and ruin the rich. They sought equality and fairness, and strived to pioneer the next day. They were a meagre group, and were terribly, terribly unprofessional. They didn't have agents, and they didn’t have clients. What they did have, however, were targets. People who took advantage of the normalised inequality. The nobles.
They were vigilantes, to put it simply, and they were all in it for the same goal. In the beginning, it was only Kallas, the young boy who, at that time, left his village to search for something more, something to fulfil his calling—soul-searching, if one could call it that.
Then came Milaine, the young girl who, at that time, left her birdcage to finally be free, to finally think for herself, to be herself, to be whole. She was an enigma, a force to be reckoned with, yet at the same time a force who was too gentle. And how they met was in that same dirty alley, whereupon by chance, Kallas tripped over the girl’s famished body. He didn’t know her then, but there was something which pulled the two of them together. The people from Old Farrow called it the ‘thread of fate.’ Kallas took her in that day, and cared for her before himself, cared for her when she couldn’t herself. That was her first meeting.
Next came Royd, the errand boy who, at that time, studied under his father to become the next merchant-in-line. He wasn’t particularly happy then, but he also wasn’t unhappy either. He was simply satisfied, satisfied to fulfil his father’s wishes though he knew he had his own. How he met them was on the road, when he had to make a trade on his own for the first time in his life. At first, he mistook them for bandits, but quickly grew to accept them as his own when they followed him in his merchant duties. That was his first meeting.
Finally came Einwald, the young noble boy who’d been the third son to Viscount Hilm. He wasn’t supposed to meet them that day, but the noble boy always had a sense of chivalry in his heart. He and Kallas were similar in that regard. He met them at the base of his mansion, after one of his house’s maids had been fired on grounds of incompetence. Truly, it was the most humorous of meetings; he found them berating his father for firing an incompetent maid in tears, but somehow, he found it more amusing than humiliating. He joined them then, and would receive a scolding when found out—but that didn’t matter to him. That was their first meeting.
Together, they formed the Dawnstriders, a childish vigilante group with heroic intentions. At first, their area of operation was only within the Marlyn Capital, but over time they expanded as far as the neighbouring cities. As they grew, their area of expertise grew specialised, and they developed from a childish vigilante group into an underground, well-known party. They were praised by the people for what they did, and they were proud of that. They were proud of helping the community, of thieving from the rich and giving to the poor. That was what they were for and did, to pioneer the next dawn for those that couldn’t see the sun.
But as is the fickle nature of the Old Gods, a nature without cruelty is not fair.
And perhaps that was why they were punished. With each good deed, a distant star faded, a compensation for the equilibrium they were trying to shift. If one person succeeded, then another failed, and they were simply too naive to understand such a simple idea. They were too naive to see what had been before them. Because, in the end, they did more harm than good; and not for the people, nor for the nobles, but for themselves. Every good deed curated guilt.
And in the end, a guilt too heavy can break someone’s scale.
Isn’t that right?
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“That’s all there is to it.” Kallas said, ending the memory. To him it almost felt forced, abrupt and rushed, like the record had ended prematurely. And he knew that, but it had to be done.
“I see.” Varna said, silence beckoning its masters. They walked across a wooden bridge, a river flowing below them as New Farrow continued its day-to-day routine. Along the way, they had passed some children, some vendors and merchants, each with faces that neither of them knew.
“Disband. Why?” She asked.
Kallas sighed. “It’s not that we disbanded. We just…don’t operate like we used to anymore. It’s a long story for another time.”
“Oh.”
She was disappointed, truthfully. There was a lot more she wanted to know about the Dawnstriders, about Kallas, about Royd and Einwald and especially Milaine. But, she stopped questioning him, respecting his wishes. She switched the topic.
“We have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Kallas echoed, slightly curious. It wasn’t often that people came to Old Farrow for something other than trade. “Who?”
“Envoy.” She answered. “From Earl Sterling.”
“Earl Sterling!” Kallas shouted in surprise, before apologising to Varna and the people around them who’d jumped. They must’ve thought he was a crazy man.
“Why?” He asked in a hushed voice.
Varna responded in kind. “Don’t know. Wanted to see us.”
Kallas groaned to himself. Earl Sterling was well known by the people, but he wouldn’t visit an mundane town like New Farrow without reason. So, it had to be because of the incident at the capital, the incident which let the world know that they were there, remnants of the Dawnstriders.
“Do Royd and Einwald know he’s coming?” He asked.
“Only Royd. Einwald, too far.”
Kallas groaned to himself. “This isn’t good.”
“Why?”
“This is an earl we’re talking about here, and not just any earl—it’s the Earl Sterling. The same guy who had the guts to stage a coup d’etat against the king. If there’s anything he wanted, it had to be us. We made too much noise.” He explained, swerving against oncoming traffic.
“But, you like Earl Sterling, no?”
“Well, I do. I admire him. A lot. But that doesn’t mean I want to get involved with him. We’d get into a lot more trouble than we’re in for.”
“But—” You’re contradicting yourself. Varna swallowed her words when she saw the look on Kallas’ face. An expression contorted with sorrow.
“Trust me, I’ve been there, and I promise you it’s something we’re better off not dealing with.”
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They turned a corner, getting ever closer to the inn Kallas called home. But perhaps of Earl Sterling’s envoy, the travel to the inn was far more tedious than it needed to be. The concentration of people grew with every step they took, and they were slowly coming upon a crowd.
“Anyway, let’s keep it quiet now.” He said, hushing his voice as they pushed through the incoming crowd. It seemed Earl Sterling wasn’t only admired by Kallas.
“Mm.” Varna nodded, following just behind Kallas gazing upon his back. She hadn’t noticed earlier, but Kallas limped slightly as he walked, and held his left elbow up slightly with his other arm. Compared to him, Varna got off light on her injuries. She realised they spent all that time talking together and Kallas didn’t say a single word about his pain. He didn’t complain, didn’t wince, didn’t whine or seek pity. Instead, he held his back up and pressed forward, without so much a look behind him; and something about it seemed lonely.
Here he was, walking against an oncoming crowd, holding up a strong front as he knew that the citizens were pushing against his injuries. And despite this, he kept a space big enough for Varna to follow behind him, pressed against the current but sheltered and protected. It made her happy—she knew Kallas thought of her, gave her space so she could move on. But if she moved on, then where would he be? Stuck, alone, in the sea of people as he stood as an isolated body.
And they pushed against him, regardless of his behaviour, like the time which flowed ever forward no matter the circumstances you were in. It was cruel, the cruel nature of time. It really was.
“Sorry, did I talk too much?” He mistook Varna’s silence for being reprimanded.
“Mm-mm.” Varna shook her head. “Just thinking.”
“I see.” He said, then followed up as he pushed through the final wave of people. “Well, in any case— let’s just hear what he has to say first.”
Then they reached it, the inn they stayed at. In front of it was a large carriage, a luxurious carriage fitted with two horses. Beside it stood a man, dressed in a shining white, formal suit. He stood there, in front of the inn and staring at it in evaluation. He hadn’t noticed that Kallas and Varna were behind him, and Royd wasn’t in sight either.
“It’s surprisingly clean. That young boy certainly grew up.” He muttered to himself, before turning around to the sound of footsteps behind him. There, he broke into a friendly grin and bowed his head.
“I apologise for arriving at such an inconvenient time. I heard the news. You must be tired.”
Kallas flustered slightly, waving his hands to him. “No, no. Please, raise your head. It’s nothing really. I think we’re the ones who should be apologising. We’ve caused quite the commotion around here.”
“That you did, young man.” The envoy laughed. “Still, let me thank you on behalf of Earl Sterling for what you did.”
There, Kallas frowned slightly scrutinising the supposed envoy. His clothing seemed far too tailored to be a simple messenger, and his routine manners didn’t fit that of a typical noble envoy. Kallas had seen a lot of envoys during his past line of work, and they would almost always begin by introducing themselves on the behalf of the noble they served. Furthermore, any sort of talk would be done in private, so as to inhibit any forms of espionage.
Here, Earl Sterling’s ‘envoy’ only did as much as half the work, and was rather unfamiliar with the manners of a typical envoy. They disregarded basic teachings, and seemed to jump straight to the point.
“I apologise in advance for rudeness, but are you truly Earl Sterling’s envoy?” Kallas questioned him.
“But of course, young man. I could offer you my credibility, but it seems this place is far too crowded.” He responded, looking around. He seemed strangely calm.
“Then, would the inn suffice?”
“Of course.”
Kallas beckoned for the envoy to follow him into the inn, his tension rising as he knew things could quickly go south. He also hadn’t ignored how the messenger behind him kept eyeing Varna. Rather, he was getting quite uncomfortable with the man’s presence.
As soon as the three of them entered the inn, Kallas shut the door, locked it, and crossed his arms, glaring at the man. He stood in front of Varna, and interrogated the messenger.
“Who are you?” He demanded. “You’re no envoy to the Earl.”
“Of course I am!” The man responded, quickly reaching into his chest pocket to retrieve a sort of card. He still seemed strangely calm, as if nothing had happened. “Here, I have—”
“An envoy initiates conversation only in private, and always establishes who he works for. You have done neither. Speak now or you will regret stepping foot on my home.”
The envoy furrowed his brows, placing the card back within his chest pocket.
“Alright, you’ve got me.” He raised his hands. “I’m Earl Sterling.”
“What? Nonsense.”
“I'm the first son of Galm Sterling, and current holder of the Verran Territory. I presently hold three titles, each of which have been bestowed upon me by the king himself, and am currently participating in a civil war with the king himself.” He explained. “Does this suffice?”
“I…” Kallas stammered. “You must be an imposter, or have gotten access to his information! There’s no way the Earl himself would come to this lowly town.”
“But of course he would.” Earl Sterling grabbed a nearby chair, sitting down on it as it creaked along the floor. Dust fell off its sides as Earl Sterling’s white pants lost a bit of its colour. “I’ve heard all about you, Kallas of the Dawnstriders.”
“Why do you know that!” He asked, brusquely.
“I took it upon myself to get to know you better. Your chivalrous group really struck a chord in my heart. I just had to get to know you all myself.” Earl Sterling leaned his arm on the table, resting his cheek on his fist as he explained. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time nor place to until now.”
Kallas stayed silent.
“Please don’t be like that.” Earl Sterling frowned. “I really admire you, and I don’t mean any harm by it. You’re just so much like me. Is it really so bad to make friends with those like yourself?”
Kallas held his arm out to block Varna, and Earl Sterling frowned.
“What do you really want?” He asked.
Earl Sterling sighed, taking his arm off the table and leaning back on the chair.
“It can’t be helped.” He said, staying there for a few moments, before bending downward, placing his elbows on his legs and calling out Varna.
“You there, miss.”
She jumped.
“Won’t you work for me?”
“What?” Said both Kallas and Varna.
“I’ve heard about what you did, and it has surprised even me. I couldn’t help but try to employ you myself.”
Kallas interjected, still blocking Varna from the Earl. “This can’t be right. Surely even you make mistakes.”
“I do make mistakes. Quite often actually. But, I’m more than sure this is intentional.” Earl Sterling answered. “After all, you’re not from here, are you?”
Kallas answered in her stead. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know? I assumed you did, wearing that Scarf.” He continued.
“No, I—”
“That lady isn’t from here. She’s Farthan.”
That can’t be true. It isn’t true, Kallas thought. Farthos was a mythical island, a land from legend, a land which existed several hundred millennia ago, a land where humans didn’t exist. But here he was, listening to Earl Sterling say otherwise. And suddenly, something in him shattered, broke to pieces, destroyed as reality filled the hole in his heart.
Kallas forced the last few words out his mouth. “Why?”
“‘Why?’ you ask?” He smiled, opening his arms. “To help the people, of course. To help the needy, the poor, the vengeful who have been wrongfully done by our very own king.”
But Kallas knew something was wrong. He might’ve been correct in what he said, and he might’ve followed through with what he said in the past, but something was definitely, terribly wrong. He could feel it. He could sense it. He just knew it—that something was gravely amiss. He’d felt it once before, and that was before Old Farrow burned to the ground. And he knew from experience when something was wrong. He’d seen it too many times.
After all, nobles can’t be trusted.