Behind Garrot lay an alleyway full of dead men. Ahead of him, a city at its coldest hour.

Only the snowflakes zipping from darkness into his field of vision assured Garrot he wasn’t flinging himself into a wall. Though he’d lived in Dosken in years past, these streets were foreign to him. Even as sparse as they’d usually be this late, few would risk wandering the streets this night in particular.

When Garrot stopped to heave in his breath, his hand came away from his chest with a wet, sticking feeling. Droplets landed in the snow beneath him, staining the white snow a crimson red.

A panicked, whispered prayer interrupted Garrot’s horrific revelation.

“O-Oh, by Mhira…”

Mere yards in front of him, a young alchemical worker had appeared from the darkness, and backed away from him in terror. Garrot inspected the state of his loose chainmail tabard, dark crimson red spattered on royal blue, and spoke without thinking.

“The blood’s…not mine.”

The worker tripped pedaling his legs away, and began a sprint in the opposite direction, kicking up snow Garrot’s way.

“HELP!!! POLICE! MURDERER!”

Garrot spun, and picked a new direction to flee.

He was used to the streets of Dosken’s J’halan Quarter, but he’d found himself in the upscale neighborhoods. The street before him was well-lit, which would normally be a sign of relief. After the young man’s call, however, it made Garrot feel exposed.

Once, he would have assumed the panic of the young man he’d fled from was because he was a klyskin, one of the Frostscape’s residents bearing a yellowish tinge to his flesh. But tonight, everyone was afraid of everyone else. That fear had now manifested itself, through a ruthless attack earlier that night, which had claimed innocent lives in untold numbers.

Soon enough, he’d found himself out of breath again—adrenaline, piled after so many incidents that night, was taking its toll. He could hear himself hyperventilating even as he pushed on.

Even after the attack, the killers had come for him by name. Garrot needed to find someplace safe, but going back to his companions could put them in danger. There was a priest he knew in the Mistraal Quarter. Maybe he’d be an option?

Garrot’s breath froze in his throat as a painful memory shot forth—that same priest had met a painful and fiery end mere hours ago. His mind had tried, unsuccessfully, to stuff the memory away—he hadn’t even had time to mourn the loss.

Even the briefest moment of breathlessness, amid frigid cold and his rising heart rate, made Garrot’s head feel fuzzy and oxygen-starved.

No – the memory of the priest’s grisly demise from earlier that night shot back through his memory with a panicked surge. He’d barely even been able to take time to mourn the loss in the face of the crippling realities.

Collapsing against a wall of an alley for a moment’s rest, he felt at his frigid arms, warming life back to himself. The once-warm blood upon him had cooled, sapping heat through its moisture.

Days ago, it had been enough to worry about facing the Dark Spawn—the faction of terrorists from his homeland that had perpetually threatened his new home in the Halen Empire for nearly a decade. So often the terrorists had projected cries of abandonment by their new Empire. Garrot, for his own part, had tried his best to understand the feeling all that time, but never felt it so much as now.

Garrot leaned back against the wall, and saw a light shone in the distance—the far, far distance in the skies past Dosken’s edge. It was rare for the weather to be clear enough to see across the Egg like this. If his meager geography was right, the constellation of cracked lights was the midland city of Kataria, or maybe Meklade. In their time zone, night was beginning to fall and the city lights had only just been lit.

Though the cities in his view were hundreds of miles away, it was romantic to picture the individuals across The Egg, the hundreds of varied cultures, and imagine them gazing back at you. But Garrot didn’t feel any of that tonight. Now, like so many others of this city, he just felt alone.

Over the past weeks, he and his companions had gathered unsavory rumors about the Department of Knowledge, the Adventurers’ Guild, and even the Legion that he himself served. Yet none of them gave hints towards the identity of the powerful enemy he faced tonight—nor did he even know who he could count among his allies.

Flexing his limbs to restore their warmth, Garrot moved on again—but found himself stumbling. The initial burst of adrenaline had worn off, and now his body was truly feeling the cold of the night. He had already taken off part of his overcoat while he had been safe indoors minutes ago; and found he was now inadequately dressed for the snowy Dosken night. Now, his legs faltered, shaking against the cold air.

He steered himself towards a small footbridge over the midtown brook pass, connecting two of Dosken’s sprawling neighborhoods. When Meltwind came, a small river would flow through the city beneath him. But, in Fellwind, it was nothing more than a small, dried-up valley.

Garrot eased himself down the bank, and sat in the shelter of the bridge. Taking the refuge as an opportunity to ease his mind, he decided on his first course of action.

He cried.

The events of the past few days played out like a jumbled puzzle in his mind—the impossible assignment he’d been tasked with, and all the disparate information they’d gathered. His superiors had thus far taken the burden of resolving the mysteries they’d confronted, but he couldn’t rely on them now. Putting the responsibility on himself to figure it out furthered his stress even farther—he felt lost beyond all reason, having become entirely reliant on the people around him to make sense of things.

All he knew was that Dosken had become host to horrors unknown to him. He no longer knew who he could talk to—who he could trust, aside from the other Rangers. Pathetic, unmanly tears streamed down his cheeks as self-focused thoughts began to override his driven concern for others. He was scared.

Garrot sat up as a rush of noise assaulted his ears. A motorized sled was passing over the bridge above him, rattling the support beams around him. Time had passed—he'd fallen asleep in the snow without realizing it—his body too numb to process the cold earth his head sat against. Were he to fail to devise a plan of action, he could easily freeze to death out here.

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When shifting his posture, Garrot’s side pressed against the small object in his pocket—the only thing on his person that could qualify as a weapon, should he be attacked again.

He removed the Conduit of the Third Scion from his coat pocket, and examined it through blurred vision. Its red magicite gemstone shone on a silver ring. The ring was fastened to a leather strap meant to secure the stone to its owner’s finger and wrist. He was holding one of the three most powerful items in the Western Frostscape; but it certainly didn’t feel like it.

Putting on the Conduit, he closed its clasp around his wrist, and held his hand out. He envisioned the Third Scion’s flames bursting forth from his fingertip. When at first nothing happened, he closed his eyes to focus his thoughts, struggling to envision success.

For minutes that were made more brutal by splaying his exposed fingers into the cold night, he shot his hand forward, attempting new angles of flexing some unseen muscle in his body to produce flames.

The only burning he felt was the slow beginnings of frostbite in the exposed tips of his fingers.

Finally conceding defeat to the small ring, he grabbed at his hand, rubbing warmth back into his fingertips. He could feel the tears bursting forth yet again.

Most would blame his failures on his lack of talent – inform him with regret that he lacked the magical talents of the Scion bloodlines needed to wield the magic he’d attempted. It was how most citizen of the Empire understood its few magic wielders.

But Garrot knew the truth. There was no such thing as borne magical talent. Bloodlines were irrelevant. He only needed the Conduit clutched in his hand to set the air before him aflame. The ring, and years and years of practice with it. Years that were easily afforded to the lucky sons and daughters of every former Scion.

He’d been lucky all through tonight, but it had gained him nothing; his adversaries had what mattered; power, wealth, and friends—and luck.

He stuffed his palms against his eyeballs, trying to block out his vision, his frustrations, his fears. He fantasized about being someplace else—anywhere to escape the crippling despair of reality, emerged from what should’ve been a night of hope.

“Goodness! Young man, are you all right?”

An agonizing, guilty realization shot through Garrot’s mind as he realized what he’d done on pure reflex. As an unrecognized voice called out to him, he’d shot his hand out in his visitor’s direction—attempted to use the Conduit to defend himself. He had tried, in vain, to immolate the innocent person that had crept up on him in his state of focus. Mercifully, the result was the same as his many minutes of practice—and the startled face before him remained unharmed, though befuddled.

Letting out an undignified sob at his own self-protective attitude, Garrot wrenched the Conduit from his wrist, undoing the clasp by force and tossing it into the snow. He thrust away at the tears blocking his vision, struggling to speak through the lump in his throat.

“’m fine,” he whimpered, unconvincingly.

“Are you sure?”

The sympathetic voice belonged to an elderly woman—hunched and huddled in a large, warm coat, and holding a lantern out to him curiously. She had recoiled in fear when Garrot’s hand had shot out, but stood her ground in honest concern. She peered in at his disheveled uniform.

“Oh! My goodness! Mister, is that blood?”

Garrot fumbled his reply. “I-! It was...It’s not mine-…But-! I-I didn’t—”

The old woman heaved a sigh, and placed a hand on him, assuring the question was not an accusation.

Garrot was naturally a trusting person. Even from someone he barely knew, he could draw strength from the confidence and caring feelings of the old woman next to him—though he felt more concerned for her safety than his own.

“Ma’am, why are you out this late?” he asked.

“Would you believe, an errand?” replied the old woman with a short chuckle. “I’ve lived in Dosken my whole life. Nighttime is half the day and it’s not to be wasted.”

Curious, she circled about him to pick up the Conduit he’d tossed aside. After inspecting it curiously, she held it out to him.

“Oh, sir—You dropped this ring. You didn’t want it?”

“No,” confirmed Garrot.

“It seems valuable! Are you sure? I’d just say hold onto it for now.”

He felt a gentle motion by his pocket, as she deposited it back into his belongings. Garrot was too drained to react, as she sat down beside him.

“You don’t mind if I sit down, do you?”

“You need to be getting home, miss,” insisted Garrot.

“Why?” she mused quippingly. “I’m in the company of a member of the Empire’s famous Steel Legion, aren’t I? You’ll keep me safe if any of those ne’er-do-wells shows up.”

Garrot momentarily glanced down at the bloodstained blue tabard on his chest, unsure how to treat the woman’s sarcasm—she could clearly see that he was scared and unarmed.

“Those-…" panted Garrot. “Then...you know about what happened earlier today.”

He wrapped his arms uneasily around himself, remembering the flames and cries of panic that had engulfed the city earlier.

Those eyes – those sympathetic, heart-wrenched eyes. Something felt wrong about them. Why would this woman invest her feelings into the fate of such a complete stranger?

Garrot caught the negative thoughts, and winced. The simple truth was, he’d do much the same in her position, even as nerve-wracked as he was. And it had been his own belief in the ideals of others that had carried him this far.

At least, until tonight. Until he’d seen the longing for brutality in the masses of Dosken, seen people he’d viewed as his countrymen and colleagues raise weapons to the unarmed and innocent. Given her years, Garrot wondered if the kindly woman touching his shoulder could’ve ever borne witness to such malady.

“Miss, you shouldn’t be out here!” said Garrot, finally. “I lost my musket! I can't protect you!!...I can’t even protect myself-!”

“Ohhh, grow up,” growled the old woman. “You haven’t lived in Dosken long, have you, young man? This isn’t the first terrorist attack I’ve survived. I heard the radios. They always tell us to ‘stay home, lock your doors!’, and I say 'Sure thing, if you’re too scared!’ Locked doors don’t protect us, after all. It’s other people. Our friends. They’re the ones we can count on.”

Garrot found himself silenced. It was the same kind of advice he’d given so many of his friends through his time in the Halehearth. Here he was trying to dismiss the same advice shifted back to him.

The old woman reached out her hand.

“Dorris. Or, Granny. If you like.”

I’m Garrot,” he replied, loosely shaking her hand.

“So? This must be a fun story, mustn’t it...?”

She stared him down expectantly with a pleasant expression. Garrot blinked uneasily, confused.

“What?”

“Well, that’s not your blood, is it? I’ll admit, I find myself curious! See if this compares to one of those mystery Queryman books we read at the club!”

“Ma’am, this-…!” Garrot shifted away, reminded of the blood covering him. “This is no laughing matter!! People are dead!”

“Oh, I know, sonny! And when you get to my age, you see people dropping off to the Eighth Gate every other week! So pardon me for laughing at it all. Never a bad time to laugh, I say. I laughed at the jokes we told at my husband’s funeral, and I ain’t about to apologize.”

“How can you laugh at-"

“Because...” hushed the old woman, cutting him off. “At the end of the day, we can be grateful that all of us are still alive. The people of The Egg needs to count its blessings sometimes.”

Doris’s sarcastic air faded away, and she addressed him earnestly.

“Talk to me, son. I’m going to worry for you if I go home without hearing what terrible things lead to finding you crying under this dirty bridge. And I think it’s always easier for you if you share what’s happening with someone else.”

Garrot rolled his hands, trying to determine how to begin. He’d finally given up on asking Doris to leave him alone—even for her own safety.

“I was...a friend and I were out behind the City Safety Center when some men just-…"

He reconsidered the opening to his story. The attack minutes ago had been sudden and unexplained, and he desperately wanted to make sense of it in the circumstances of all else.

“I’m not sure why they-...Look, maybe I need to backtrack. I’m a part of a group of Legionnaires called the Rangers. We-...It’s just-...it’s complicated...”

Doris settled her arms across her waist.

“Go ahead, young man. I have time.”

Garrot took a deep breath, and tried again.

“It started...about a week ago.”