“I understand another team has already been dispatched, ma’am.” Saren felt the feathers on his face twitch as he tried to prevent the frustration spilling over inside him from reaching his expression. “I am asking for permission to form another one.”

Isla’s eyes narrowed at him, and the owlen quite literally felt her non-verbal attempt to try and remind him that the sentinel had already given her as much of her famously short patience as he was likely to get. Unfortunately for her, Saren was past caring about her temper. He had rage aplenty of his own – and he had to know why.

“We never leave behind the bodies of our fallen.” Saren continued, his voice rising as whatever part of him that had once been her student seized on the chance to convince her once more. To make her understand. To make an appeal here, instead of an enemy. “You taught me that. You taught all of us that! Wain and Bacchus–”

“-- were my students, too.” Isla said, her voice softer than the owlen felt he deserved.

They had been arguing about this topic every day for days now. Weeks, maybe. Saren had stopped counting. The commander wouldn’t see him, Rory was no longer in the city, the oracle had gone into another one of his seclusion periods and couldn’t be disturbed – there was nobody else for Saren to argue with. None he had any sway or influence over, at least.

Even the knight-captains now refused his requests for meetings. Which, admittedly, was partially his fault. Saren hadn’t meant to shout at them, and in fact hadn’t even realized he had been doing it until the sentinel had dragged him one-handed out of their collective office. Isla may have saved his career there, the owlen knew.

Which made what Saren had to say next that much harder to get out.

“Then why won’t you help them?” Saren all-but-begged, resisting the urge to screech in frustration. He didn’t want to be thrown bodily out of another office, but even that reaction was starting to feel preferable to the stone wall of nothing Isla had been giving him. “Their corpses are feeding the forest floor as we speak, their spirits unguided and bound, and you’re just– you just–”

Saren shook, unable to help himself. He wasn’t sure if his grief or his rage were winning out, but whichever it was, it was a near contest.

“You’re just sitting here. Doing nothing!” Saren accused, finally willing to put on the table the one piece he had kept himself from throwing at his former instructor.

Isla flinched, and for a moment Saren nearly did the same. He knew immediately that he had gone too far, and many hours in the practice yards together had quite literally beaten into the owlen how much the sentinel outmatched him in melee combat. But as shaky as the ground he was currently walking was, Saren could feel he was getting somewhere. He just had to take another step.

Saren opened his mouth to speak, but before he managed it the owlen’s sharp eyes noticed the telltale veins popping out of the skin of Isla’s now-clenched hands. When had she balled them into fists? His ears picked out swiftly approaching footsteps, and Saren’s heart began to race.

I have to finish this–no, I have to apologize. If someone walks in on this–

A reprimand for his misconduct was not out of the question. At this point though, the Spire wouldn’t stop there. His breathing came in quick, rapid bursts, a natural stress response for his people. And then he jumped, as the heavy wooden framework of the sentinel’s desk… split apart with a loud crack. The sentinel had struck her palms to her desk, moving so quickly even his sharp senses hadn’t noticed it.

“How dare you stand there and tell me I–” Isla thundered, rising to her feet in sudden fury. Her eyes were bright, tear-streaked, and Saren honestly couldn’t tell whether her next action would be to hurt or hug him. Luckily, he wasn’t destined to find out. Because a bold, new voice interrupted the sentinel mid-sentence.

“-- think that is quite enough.” Commander Derald said smoothly, in the same tone of authority that instantly quieted a room. “I do agree, Sentinel.”

Both Saren and Isla froze. A second later, each turned towards the highest ranking Gold Spire member in Dervash, and saluted their commanding officer. Commander Derald looked him up and down, as if considering something. Saren felt his chance at convincing the sentinel to his side evaporate into nothing under that gaze, like water spilled over sun-heated sand at midday.

“Come with me, Zealot.” Commander Derald ordered after a moment. “Before requisitions has to replace any more of our furniture today.”

Isla started to apologize, her face flushing behind him, Saren was sure– but the commander merely held up a hand, offering a rare smile to his subordinate.

“Accidents happen.” Derald’s brilliantly sky-blue eyes flicked back over to Saren for another appraising moment. “More so when asked-for aid goes unrendered.”

As ever, the owlen found he could not read the expression on the human commander’s face. He couldn’t tell whether the powerfully built man was insulting him or apologizing to him. Which, for some strange, irrational reason, infuriated Saren on a level he dare not express. He had only met the commander a handful of times outside of ceremonial settings, and the human was taller than either of them even outside of his armor. Chiseled muscles stood starkly out against sun-weathered skin beneath his flowing robes of office.

Muscles he knew the commander had not earned lifting weights. A fact that caused his next words to send more cold sweat running down the owlen’s feathered back.

“In my office. It’s past time you and I spoke about your actions of late.”

—------------------------

“I’ve read your report.” Commander Derald said after Saren had taken up the customary position of respect. Sky-blue eyes traced their way over what the owlen could tell actually was said report in the commander’s hand. He tossed it on the desk, taking his chair. “A Morian family necromancer on our border, a hive of slaver ants waylaying travelers, and this… sentient monster.”

“Yes, sir.” Saren said, unsure why he felt so off-balance while standing at attention. When was the last time I ate? Yesterday? The day before? “Gel is the one who helped me slay the creature who–”

“I said, I’ve read your report.” Commander Derald interrupted smoothly. “But there is more to the story that wasn’t in it, isn’t there?”

“... Yes, Commander.” Saren admitted, knowing how futile it was to lie here of all places.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Then another.

Omissions are lies we pretend not to know about.

“Why are you planning to render aid to a monster that will likely prove itself to be a threat to this city? To its people. People we are responsible for guiding safely into the Light. People who are counting on us not to be the ones growing the strength of a sentient monster in the shadows.” Commander Derald held up a hand again, this time as if he were forestalling a response they could both see coming. “The real reason, Zealot.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Knowing the commander was unlikely to believe a hasty answer, Saren’s sleep-deprived mind seized on this chance to actually articulate himself properly. Something he probably should have been doing earlier. Since he had already gone further than he had planned before with Isla, the owlen made a decision.

Why not go all the way? Once a path is chosen… it is only the first jump we have yet to fear.

“I want Gel’s aid in helping us deal with the threat posed by the Morian family.” Saren said after collecting his thoughts. “There are other monsters the city has agreements with, and the deal we struck proves this one can be bargained with just as they can. If we honor our end, then even the oracle believes Gel will respond favorably. With the promise of more meat–”

“You wish to bribe it into killing its former master, using our food stores as coin.”

That particular detail had only been added into his report once, and Saren knew the commander saw the potential that Gel was a trap just as well as he himself did. But the undead had risked its own life on their behalf even after they had gotten away, so… that just didn’t feel right to the paladin. Gel was self-serving, sure. Absolutely. But a trap?

Maybe I don’t have the experience to see it? The owlen searched his thoughts, fighting back the uncertainty that was trying to worm its way into his mind. No, I would have felt it. That can’t be it.

“I do, sir.” Saren affirmed out loud, putting as much confidence into his voice as he could muster.

“You don’t believe the team we sent out will be able to handle this… filth. Bancroft. The necromancer.” The commander’s question was hardly one, and his tone made that clear.

“I do not, sir. I believe they should be recalled. Immediately. Before they are–” Saren couldn’t bring himself to say the words for a second. It wasn’t weakness that made him choke on them. Wasn’t that he was afraid. No, for a moment… Commander Derald’s eyes had narrowed in a way that had reminded him sharply of Isla.

So, maybe a little afraid.

“--before they are lost as well.” Saren finished, only a beat later. “It’s why I have been so adamant about this.”

“Because the oracle does not see their fate in his futures.” Commander Derald guessed, with a surprising degree of accuracy. “Just as the fate of your own team was murky before you left.”

“... yes, sir.”

More silence filled the room. That particular detail had not been revealed to Saren until his return, and the owlen would be lying if he pretended not to still be upset over it. Readings were common before any mission. His team had been under the impression they hadn’t had one for some reason. Which, it turned out, had been a lie.

One of omission.

The commander appeared to mull over Saren’s words for a time, and it was only in those moments that Saren realized just how exhausted he was. With everything he had been trying to put together, get started, or set in order. Everything the Oracle had ordered him to get in place, the trips back to the smith to fulfill his end of the bargain, not to mention coming here and his own concerns…

I’m exhausted. Saren realized, and it almost felt like he was realizing it for someone else. I need sleep.

“I will consider your suggestion, Zealot.” Commander Derald said, rising suddenly out of his chair. Another of those too-rare smiles crossing onto the man’s deeply tanned features. “You will have my answer within the day, and we will speak of the other concerns you have brought to the rest of my staff tomorrow.”

Relief swept through the owlen’s body. Enough that his knees almost buckled where he stood. That was a better answer than Saren could have hoped for. Far better than he had expected walking in here, in fact.

“Thank you, sir.” Saren said, true gratitude in his voice. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the owlen felt like his order was finally listening to him. That Gold Spire cared. That his friends’ sacrifices hadn’t been in vain.

That’s all I wanted. The paladin thought, as he saluted and turned to head out of the commander’s immaculate office. He couldn’t help the thought that came as he left.

Why did that take so long?

—------------------------

The moons were high in the sky by the time Saren made it out of Gold Spires’ section of the city. In all honesty, the paladin was surprised to find evening had come. It had felt like morning earlier. Though in fairness, Gold Spire’s inner buildings were never lacking in light.

I should apologize to Isla tomorrow. Saren thought, taking to the sky. It was technically frowned upon to take to the air within the city limits without an escort, permit, or pre-approved path… but his position with the Spire and family funds had enabled the owlen some luxuries. He didn’t fly during the day of course, that might have caused undue concern amongst the citizens. But at night?

At night Saren could fly as often as he liked.

It was pleasing to surveil the land – any land, really – from a position of height. Doubly so under the light of multiple moons on a clear evening such as this. It was freeing. Particularly because Saren knew that Sellis and her team would be unable to trail him in the sky. None of them could soar as he could, and even if they had some means of achieving it – none had the permit he did.

And so, for a time, I am free. Saren mused, contentment in his heart after the conversation he had had with commander Derald. The owlen flew for a time, riding the last fading updrafts from the sands before noticing something he had not expected today. Is that– it is!

A single flag placed near the Altar to the Lost, whipping easily back and forth in the night breeze. The signal he had been waiting for.

“So, Gel managed to survive after all.” Saren muttered, amused. Talking to himself was a habit the owlen had been picking up more and more lately. “What auspicious timing.”

Retrieving the rest of the bargained-for goods from his family home took less than an hour. Flying with them back to the altar, tired as he was, took twice that time. But Saren was determined to finish this particular deed as soon as possible. Once it was done, he could sleep.

Maybe the light of morning will clear my head before the commander responds with his decision. The owlen thought as he alighted in the sands next to the flag. He had circled twice overhead, hoping to catch some sight of the undead – but it looked like Gel was off hunting. Perhaps slaying more of its fellow monsters.

Saren took his time setting up the goods he had brought, shoring sand up against the two sturdy crates so that they wouldn’t move or fall. He replanted the flag next to the boxes as well, inverting it so that only the pole itself stuck out of the sand. Just as they had planned, so that others would be less tempted to chance upon the undead’s rewards.

Despite his exhaustion, the paladin found himself delaying his departure. He had wanted to speak with Gel again. To converse with the strange creature, dangerous as it most certainly was. There were still questions burning in the back of the paladin’s mind. Questions he was curious if the undead could, or even would, answer. After all…

How often does one get the chance to speak with monsters?

An hour later, with no sign of the crimson undead to be found – at least none from the ground – Saren was feeling ready to leave. He could always come back later. Visiting the Altar of the Lost wasn’t something one normally did on purpose, but it wouldn’t raise too many questions if he came back on another night. Maybe Gel would stick around, too. The undead had seemed rather chatty.

Musing on these thoughts and more, Saren began to cast the spell that granted him enduring flight. It was as he began, golden light suffusing his feathers, when the first arrow struck him.

Saren barely had time to cry out in surprise before the second and third arrows landed, tearing into the delicate muscles of his wings with expert precision. Years of combat training kicked in, and the owlen dove forward with the force of the attacks. The subtle whisper of an arrow passing through where his head had just been proving how close the paladin had just come to a swift end.

Fury exploded inside the owlen’s heart, and even on injured wings Saren managed to flip head-over-talons back to a standing position. He looked around, searching for hidden enemies.

What he found however, only brought confusion.

Confusion… and then outrage.