Dean shared a carriage with Mason and Delta, while Vason, Meek, Kylo, and Slater shared the other. They departed yesterday morning, so they were only on the roads for a day. Their approach to Ryuso was a windy one. Since they were disguised in Midhelm’s colors—blue with silver stripes—they would cross into Dork before bending up to enter Dormoor from Midhelm.

It was better to be wary, especially with how much risk they took wearing another nation’s colors.

That would cost them a few hours on the road, but it played out nicely for their plan. They should arrive on schedule before Lord Aidan’s speech. During that time, they retrieve the target, named Belch.

Going over the plan with Mason, he still hid his role in the operation. All that Dean knew was that he had his own part in the process. Symond tasked him with something, something they refused to let the others know about, but Dean could easily guess.

And here I thought we were supposed to be a team, Dean sighed.

“What’s the matter, Prince?” Mason asked. “Nervous?”

“No,” Dean said. “All I’m doing is scouting on the rooftops. Can’t be that hard, right?”

Mason laughed. “We all start off doing something simple. It’s how the process goes. I promise, even the simplest of tasks always end up a little more complicated than they sound.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dean said. “If things go wrong, are you sure it’s better to retreat immediately?”

Mason nodded. “We can’t be discovered,” he reinforced what had been said a hundred times already. “If we are, we’ll risk far more than our lives.”

“What does that mean?”

“If the other kingdoms find out Soucrest plotted to kidnap a young girl outside of our borders, it could get our higher-ups in a shipload of shit. Especially Symond, who if they find us out, might be forced into early retirement.”

“Early?” Dean asked. “The general is in his late fifties, isn’t he?”

“You’d be surprised with how much he has left in his tank. Not many could pull off what he’s doing at his age. If I could take a guess, he could probably reach his seventies before his body couldn’t handle himself anymore.”

“That sounds a little absurd,” Dean said. He wore a blue uniform, though a little darker than Midhelm blue. They wanted their carriage to pose as them, but they didn’t want to precisely frame it on them either, which barely made sense to Dean.

Mason, however, wore his armor—training armor, as his actual set of armor gave away the colors of Soucrest. Before Mason was an agent, he was a Colorsword, something else on his astonishing resume. It explained his title of “Gold Officer.” He brought his sword—his real sword—and carried it around his waist as most warriors did.

“I thought you had a Soulsmithed sword,” Dean said, not seeing a Soulgem on Mason’s hilt.

“I do,” Mason claimed.

“Where’s the Soulgem?”

Mason cocked a smile. He slid his sword slightly out of the sheath, revealing a pentagonal Soulgem tucked inside the thick, steel base of the hybrid sword’s blade. What Dean found strange was that the Soulgem glowed, indicating that it was on—or at least, recently on.

“What does it do?” Dean asked. “Or, what is it doing?”

Mason smiled. He picked up an apple from one of the many bins stored near the hold's back. “Here, catch.”

He tossed it over. Dean lifted his hands to catch—

The apple slipped past his hands and hit him square in the forehead.

“What the hell?”

“Do you wanna try again?” Mason smirked.

Dean tossed the apple back, curious as to what the apple had to do with his sword.

Mason tossed it over, this time underhanded, an easy catch—

It flew under his hands and him in the crotch. Dean grunted, retrieving the apple. “Lorgrad’s Fire!” he cursed. He tossed the apple back.

“Once more,” Dean said. Mason nodded, preparing to toss the apple. As it was in the air, Dean turned his head to the left, removing Mason’s sword from his sight. He caught the apple easily. “Wow, that’s incredible. It fucks with the perception of anybody who looks into the blade, right?”

Mason nodded. “That’s about the gist of it. You can’t fight against me with this sword in my hands without shying your eyes away from the blade. That goes against everything we duelists are ever taught, so I have a huge advantage in fights with Melody.”

“Melody?” Dean asked, cracking a smile. “You named your sword?”

Mason nodded. “All Soulsmithed swords deserve a name, don’t they? Your father’s sword, Glory’s Edge, it has a name.”

“It had been a legendary weapon since before even Peyton Guilis held it. It’s been a Novac relic ever since.”

“So that gives it permission to have a name?” Mason asked, laughing softly.

“Not what I meant, but… maybe?”

Mason nodded. “I think everybody should name their weapons. Everybody dies in this world, but at least their swords will, more often than not, survive a long time after.”

Dean nodded.

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Delta sat next to Mason, resting on the gated door outside. Her eyes suddenly snapped open, and she started gasping for breath as if she had just woken from a terrible nightmare.

“Delta,” Mason said, grabbing her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“I… I…” Delta stared into the skirt of her uniform, black leggings underneath. “I’m alright…”

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, worried. “You seem pretty shaken up there.”

Delta ignored him, then caressed her stone, square necklace over her shoulders. He brought it up to her face, sticking her nose through the hole in the middle. It was the Sacred Square of the Church of the Square. Or, in an easier breath, she was a Heptunist, a follower of the Seven Warriors of Faith, just like Dean.

Only Dean wasn’t so devoted to his faith that he would wear one of those around his neck. They often weighed five pounds, and when you ran, it would swing off your chest and hit you with a forceful jab. What made Delta’s faith strange wasn’t that she wore the Sacred Square, but the fact that she was an elf practicing what was primarily considered to be “the human religion.”

The elves to the continent of Anfana to the east were Triaoists, while the swoles down south—on their own continent, Brontos—were pluralists. Heptunists were founded based on the Seven Warriors of Faith, who contributed to the slaughter and removal of the elven people on Valoria. Triaoists, if Dean recalled correctly—he didn’t know much about elven culture—followed the daughters of Anfana, the once undisputed elven queen. When she died, her daughters split her empire into three queendoms, Lyana, Mideana, and Kortana. They similarly wore a stone of triangle around their neck.

And pluralists were pagans, believing in many, many gods. They were practiced by the swoles, with a circle of stone instead of the pointed shapes of the other two major religions.

“Do you want some water?” Mason asked, rubbing her shoulders.

“No,” she said, bringing the necklace back down to her chest. “I’m fine.”

Mason removed his hands. He shared eye contact with Dean, who was at a loss for words.

“We are going to be stopped at a checkpoint soon,” Mason said, directed at Delta. “You know the drill.”

She nodded. There were specific “laws” in Valoria that demanded egregious tolls for elves entering other countries and kingdoms. The reason being that while an elf in Valoria wasn’t illegal, most kingdoms would rather not have them at all, installing horrible taxes to prevent them from entering their nations.

Delta grabbed at her mask, attached to a hood fitted to tighten and fold her ears, disguising her well enough, holding it for when they stopped.

“Forgive me for asking,” Dean prefaced to Delta. “Do you hate living in Valoria?”

“No,” she said. Delta wasn’t very talkative, and Dean was surprised she even responded at all. “It’s my home now. Nothing, no matter how much they hate me, can change that. Not anymore.”

Dean nodded. Weirdly—and in a way far less harsh—he could relate. Over the past few weeks in Soucrest, he felt himself growing more and more attached to his new kingdom, despite knowing one day, he would have to return to Midhelm. Hopefully, he could at least return to become king. But that was an arrogant dream, Dean understood. He didn’t have what it takes to rule over Midhelm. He wasn’t strong enough.

“Are the chips in our barrels or with the others?” Delta asked.

“I believe they are in here,” Mason said. “You want me to grab you a bag?”

She shook her head, standing up. The Square around her neck swayed as she lifted. Delta crossed to the front, pulling off covers to search for the right one. “All of these suck,” Delta said bitterly, finding the barrel with small pouches of chips. She reached in, digging until she found—

Delta screamed, falling on the ground as she backward crawled back and away from the barrel. “A… a rat!”

“A rat?” Mason asked skeptically.

Dean stood up, looking through the barrel. He pulled out some of the chips, tossing them to the ground. He brushed through more and more bags until he found strands of black hair. Could it be…

“Quin!” Dean shouted, pulling out more bags to reveal her head. She slowly lifted her head, showing him her brown eyes. “What are you doing here!”

Quin lifted from the chips, stretching. How did she fit her entire body in there? And for this long?

“I wanted to come with,” Quin said.

“What? Why? I’m going to get in serious trouble for this!”

Hard laughter exploded from the bench as Mason slapped the top of his knee.

Dean couldn’t believe it. Was Quin crazy? What would happen to him if Symond found out about this? Dean sat down on the bench, holding his head in his sweaty, damp hands.

Every chance I try to prove myself, Dean thought. She’s always there behind me, looming over me like I’m a child.

He couldn’t blame her. It had been how she was raised, dedicating her life to serve Dean’s, even before they fell in love. With Dean in the agency and Quin without a job, she didn’t have anything to do while Dean trained and worked. Perhaps Dean had neglected her too much recently. Out of all the women in the world, Quin was the one who could never stand still, not for a moment.

But with Quin always watching over him, he felt like he was under her shadow, swallowed by his own inability to stand out in the light. It sometimes felt like she didn’t trust him.

Quin wrapped her arm around Dean’s back as his face was still in his hand. He wouldn’t yell at her, but the stress inside of him peaked the moment he realized she sneaked into their carriage.

“This is wrong,” Dean said.

“I want to be here,” Quin said. She told the truth, so could Dean finally tell his? He needed to do this alone to prove that he could survive independently, without her protection.

He was panicking, unsure of what to make of the situation. Delta across from him climbed back on the bench, annoyed that she was frightened. Mason’s cheerful face turned to concern as he caught Dean’s unsure eyes.

“What do you think, Mason?” Dean said. “Should she get off while she can? Should she walk back to Falcon Hill?”

Quin frowned at the question, of course, showing anger through a hefty breath out her nose. She removed her arm, and Dean felt cold to the air. “I don’t believe you.”

“What?” Dean snapped. “You aren’t supposed to be here!”

“You should be fighting for us to be together, but every chance you can, you seek only to only drive me away!” She punched him on the shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise.

“I do not!” Dean said with pain in his voice.

“You denied me every request to join the agency,” she turned to Mason. “Has he ever asked in the first place?”

Mason shook his head. “Never once has the prince asked for you to join.”

“Mason…” Dean sighed.

“I’ve said it already,” Mason said. “You’ve mentioned she’s a better fighter than you, so why shouldn’t she join us?”

Dean frowned. Pressure quaked him from the inside as he felt himself trembling.

“You may complain she’s watching over you and that she’s overprotective, but isn’t it you who is going out of your way to prevent her from joining us?”

“Are you seriously encouraging her right now?” Dean asked. “She isn’t permitted to come with us, Symond will—”

“I am the team leader in his stead, prince,” Mason reminded him. “His trust is in me to lead us to a successful operation, not you.”

Dean grabbed at the fabric of his trousers. Sourness emitted off of him like a molding block of cheese. He reluctantly nodded, agreeing to the reality of the situation.

Mason looked at Quin. “You may stay, but you aren’t allowed to do anything without permission. If Dean’s assessments of your skills are accurate, you may prove useful to us if things go awry.”

She nodded.

“If things go well, I may even bring you to Symond myself.”

Dean looked away. Things calmed down after a few minutes of silence as Dean struggled to put his thoughts in order. He wanted to be mad. He wanted to be furious with her. But, as Mason pointed out, Dean wasn’t exactly loose himself. He thought that by keeping her away, he could finally improve himself, stand ground with the likes of Mason and others.

And it was working. At least, Dean thought it was. But not for Quin. Not at all. She looked upset, sitting right next to him.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I’m an asshole, sometimes, aren’t I?”

She nodded without hesitation.

Dean smiled, and she promptly smiled back at him. “I’ll do better. I’ll be better, but with your help.”

“I suppose I didn’t trust you enough,” Quin said. “I’ll be better too about that. I’m still adjusting, you know?”

Dean smiled fondly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “I know.”