The harsh afternoon sun and the absence of wind on the white beach outside Honeydew sapped the stamina out of the young man. Ann rocked as she knelt on the sand, clasping his hands tightly with her eyes shut as if she expected Ben to lash out at her for mentioning the name of her God. Ainsle and Jor stood quietly; the former let out a ‘hmph’ and turned her back to the party to observe the crowd again.

Ben’s headache receded, and he frowned as he considered the words of the Squad Leader. He tilted his head toward his Keeper and untangled his hands from hers.

“Annie, relax,” he said, patting her shoulder.

The short, blonde-haired woman sniffled and nodded before helping him up to his feet. Ben had to stop her from brushing the sand from his trousers. He glanced at Ainsle’s back before meeting Jor’s gaze, who regarded him with wide green eyes and a mouth slightly agape.

“What was that about other Heralds?” he asked as he ran a hand over the prickles on his head.

The Archer’s eyes jumped between Ann and Ben as her shoulders stiffened in hesitation or fear; he couldn’t tell. The young man glanced at Ann, whose chest heaved, drawing deep lungfuls of air due to her earlier distress. Her nose scrunched up, and her brows framed angry blue daggers for eyes aimed directly at the tall, slender woman. Ben felt Ann’s presence flare for a fraction of a second before she schooled an impassive expression from that of sheer disgust and loathing.

“Priestess, I-” Jor began.

The Keeper interrupted the Squad Leader with a raised palm. She took a deep breath and blinked slowly.

“I follow the Path of a Keeper now.” She tucked an errant lock of golden hair behind her ear. “You speak of that which you know little. I’ll offer you a warning, as my Champion would no doubt disapprove of the alternative. You’d best hold your tongue when your meager mind considers workings much greater than you can hope to understand.”

Jor’s already stiff shoulders seemed to go rigid at the address. Ainsle turned and regarded the pair, and her eye squinted as she considered the Squad Leader. She opened her mouth as if to speak before subtly shaking her head and turning to face the refugees once more.

“Hey. Let’s take it easy for a moment,” Ben said. “Ann, what’s going on? What did Jor mean about other Heralds?”

The Keeper’s stoney expression melted into a plea with slanted brows, head turned upward to meet his gaze.

“It’s just nonsense, my heart. Conspiracies and slander by those seeking to gain from my Order’s downfall,” she spoke rapidly in a panic.

“But there were others?” Ben interjected before the Keeper could prattle on.

Ann opened and closed her mouth as pleading eyes frantically searched his for an answer she didn’t have or wasn’t willing to give.

She wouldn’t lie to me. Would she?

Ainsle grunted and spoke without turning to face the party.

“Gods, you’re so dense at times. The girl’s worried what you’ll think of her,” she sighed, “I’ll bloody well say it then.” The voice of the Berserker was laced with weariness, and she turned to face Ben. “There were others. Probably hundreds of poor cunts who were convinced that they were chosen. Special.”

“-Ainsle,”

Ann tried to interject but was stopped by the old woman who raised a hand and exhaled slowly.

“As I was saying. There’s probably a couple of poor sods running around right now with naïve little Priestesses, filling their heads with all kinds of bullshit. Folks call them Keepers, but they aren’t really that. Right, Sunshine?” Ainsle raised a brow toward the Keeper. “Now I don’t know what makes a Keeper, but Ol’ Ain sure as shit felt a change a couple days ago.” She faced Jor, “and you did too.”

Ben felt the headache threaten to return as he tried deciphering the old woman’s meaning.

So, Ann's Path changed from a Priestess to a Keeper when she swore her oath?

Ann brushed her stained, beige dress to flatten non-existent wrinkles on her lap and cast her gaze downwards to her feet. Jor’s expression, which had remained that of a frightened deer the entire time, began to relax as her inquisitive nature saw her place a hand on her chin in thought.

“I felt it. It’s true. The shift in your aura,” Jor said, addressing the Keeper. “I thought it was a reaction to Ben’s… accruement, but it seems I was wrong.” She faced Ben. “And you’re from the Old World; that has to be significant.” She paused and spoke to Ann. “Please forgive my careless words earlier; we’ve been taught from a young age that your sect is nothing more than a dying cult of deranged doomsayers. I apologize.”

Ann nodded without a word, and Ben took a deep breath as he regarded the Keeper with concern. The young man let out a frustrated breath through his nostrils and spoke.

“Listen, honestly; I don’t know enough about this Herald business to care about it. I want to figure out where I came from. Where these pieces, no, fragments of memories that are floating around up here came from.” He pointed to his head before facing Ann. “I’m worried that this is all some big mistake. I mean, you’ve committed yourself to this cause. To me. And if you get hurt trying to protect me, then… I don’t know.”

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The Keeper sniffled and met his gaze. He almost expected her to have another emotional breakdown, similar to the incident in Shalebeak, yet her expression was calm and through their bond, he felt confidence or determination.

“A Priestess of my Order can only truly become a Keeper once they’ve been acknowledged by the true Harbinger.” She paused. “There have been other candidates in the past, but no new Keepers have appeared for hundreds of years. Some High Priestesses have taken the title, but not the Path. My ascendence proves that you are who you are meant to be.”

Ben looked toward the city as he considered Ann’s words. He felt a weight shift, abstract yet present, in his mind. “I believe you. It feels… right.” He sighed in frustration once more. “It’s all so confusing. I don’t remember anything, but it feels like I should. You know what I mean? Everything feels so familiar until it doesn’t, and then I have questions I don’t know how to ask.” Ben turned to each of his companions, searching for an answer.

“The Scholar,” Jor said, “I still think you should speak to him. He may have the answers you seek or, at least, have a lead for you to start looking into. I’ll show you where to find him then, and we can part ways.”

The young man nodded and Ainsle cleared her throat.

“That’s fine and all, but there’s an ale with Ain written all over it just past those gates.” She grinned, yet it lacked the subtle tease he was used to. “Gods know I need it,” she added in a mutter.

“Ainsle is right, my darling. We should secure lodgings for the evening,” said Ann.

“Right. Uh, I’m guessing we need some money to stay somewhere?” Ben recalled the sack of coins Jor and Ann had discarded during their flight from the Ancient woods.

“Did you forget our find at the goblin village?” Jor tapped the staff strapped to her back, which she had wrapped in linen rags.

Ainsle’s grin grew genuine as she let out a low whistle.

“Shall we?” asked the Squad Leader.

The party walked toward the city gate, passing the throng of tired refugees. Some jeered and shouted unintelligible insults at the group. Some begged for food, money, or help to get into the city. Ben felt oddly unaffected by their pleas and insults. City guards in the same dull-black plate armor patrolled the queue in groups of three to five and didn’t harass the party. The young man saw a particularly uncooperative man being reprimanded physically for trying to cut the line. What did bother Ben were the stares.

Jor seemed to notice his discomfort as she leaned closer and spoke quietly. “They’ve never seen your kind before. These people aren’t the ethnically diverse people of Honeydew, they’re Farmers and villagers from surrounding areas, who’ve probably never seen a Polnean let alone an Old Worlder.”

“What’s a Polnean?” Ben asked, mimicking the woman’s hushed tone.

There’s a country of pole people?

“They’re, uhm, you know what? Let’s save the history lesson for later. Come, we’re almost at the gate.”

The party approached the gate, which was heavily guarded. In the shade of the tall uneven wall, about ten paces from the entrance to the city, a tired balding man in a deep green, long flowing robe sat at a large wooden table. Several stacks of crinkled paper adorned the desk as the man sat slumped, neck craned downwards as he wrote and added to the ever-increasing piles.

“Next,” droned the tired middle-aged man.

Jor tilted her head to indicate that the party follow. A mild protest by a waiting refugee was heard then quickly silenced by the glare of a particularly heavy-set Guardsman, who promptly dipped his head at Ann.

I guess word did spread after all.

“Squad Leader, Jor Vasylius. My companions and I would like access to the city. I have a report to deliver to Councilor Eric Vasylius,” said the Archer.

The man flinched at the mention of the Councilor and he lifted his head with wide, bloodshot eyes to regard the woman. He appeared to freeze for a moment before regaining his composure. Ben recalled his meeting with the Councilor and felt his jaw clench involuntarily. He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of meeting the monster in human skin again and hoped he wouldn’t have to.

“Yes. Of course. I hope you find your stay in Honeydew pleasant,” he spoke with a slight tone of deference to the Squad Leader.

“Thank you.” Jor paused and glanced behind her at the mass of refugees. “Before we leave, can you tell us about the situation in the region?”

The tired man regarded the party. “These refugees are from the northern villages. Don’t worry, Squad Leader Vasylius, the city has been placing them in a camp outside the eastern wall, they shouldn’t bother you during your stay.”

“What happened to the villages?” she asked.

The man hesitated. “The villagers reported their communities being attacked by… unknown forces.”

“What forces?” Ben interrupted, earning a quick glare from Jor.

The clerk’s dark-ringed eyes twitched at the address. “Superstitious ramblings of country folk,” he faced the Squad Leader again, “as the Councilor will no doubt inform you, the attacks are thought to be the beginning of an invasion by the northern barbarian tribes. Reports have indicated that a new Chief has emerged and is currently uniting the usually fractured tribes.”

“You think they plan a conquest?” The Archer frowned.

“I’m afraid I cannot say Squad Leader. I am but a humble administrator and those things are best left to my betters.”

“I see. Very well, we’ll be on our way then,” said the raven-haired woman.

Jor motioned for the party to move and they crossed the threshold into the port city of Honeydew.

The young man’s senses were assaulted by the gaudy, vibrant colors of structures, the busy cobbled streets, and the bustling sounds that accompanied them. The smell.

That’s human shit. Surely.

Ben had become accustomed to the smell of pine needles and the fresh morning air of the frontier-like region that bordered the Fringe. He gagged at the smell of sweat and excrement. He closed his mouth and willed his attention to the architecture of the port city. The buildings were made of wood, stone and what appeared to be cob, painted in shades of pink, yellows, purples, and turquoise. The group walked down what appeared to be the main street of the city and the young man observed market stalls occupied by vendors and customers dressed in wildly differing garbs. From robes to tunics and trousers, to leather and various colored plate armors. What he did not see, however, were any refugees in the streets.

Despite the reassurance of the Archer, passersby did stare at the party, specifically the tall skinny man in a dirty black gambeson and chest plate, carrying a cobbled-together spear. The adults at least had the decency to avert their gazes when Ben met theirs, however, the children had no such scruples. They gawked and pointed, and when a guardian was present, they were cuffed over their heads in reprimand. The young man was overwhelmed by the sensory overload and began feeling dizzy before Jor spoke.

“There’s a merchant right around this corner. I’ve dealt with him before and trust him to give us a fair price.”

“You mean Ol’ Bertie?” said Ainsle.

“Yes, you know him?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that…” the old woman trailed off with a distant look in her eye.

Jor shrugged and led the party down a relatively quiet side street to an unpainted building constructed with pale, pinkish stone. An old wooden sign with a picture of a nude woman gracefully holding a spear, red paint faded by the sun, was suspended by rusted chains above the door. In flowing script, the sign read:

Red Maiden’s Trinkets and Baubles