Horace snapped awake before the sun even rose. A cold sweat ran down his back; his dreams plagued with nightmares. Again, he ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. Pulling himself from bed, he walked over to the sink to wash his face clean.

It was the same nightmare that came to him every so often. Dreams of his family home burning, the people he loved dying before his eyes.

These dreams only made him regret not being there during the night Keep Ankaa fell. If he had been there, if he could have been fighting by his father’s side. It made him wonder if he would have been able to make a difference.

After he was finished, he grabbed his blade from the corner of the room. With so much time before his meeting with Saphyr, he might as well get in some practice. He’d done well to shape the new leather to his hands, however, there was no such thing as too much practice. Not when he was in a position where one mistake could cost even the most skilled man their life.

Down in the lobby, there were already plenty of patrons gathered in the small dining area connected to the main lobby. Breakfast would be the best reward for after he finished working up a pre-dawn sweat.

Behind the inn was a rather spacious lot. Allowing him plenty of room to move around. Uneven ground made it slightly difficult to keep his footing perfect, but it allowed for practicing to fight in rough terrain. Horace would prefer to always find himself battling against opponents on smooth ground. If he stuck to only participating in official matches, he would manage. But as someone who made his living off of bounty hunting, he knew he couldn’t always choose the place where he fought.

While he was in the middle of a basic cutting drill, one of the inn owners—a lovely old woman, and the mother of the desk manager, came out with a tray of tea and bread rolls. Placing them on a barrel they had sitting out back. “You know your way around a blade,” she commented. Smiling as she approached him.

Taking a short break, Horace wiped his brow clean. “Do you know something about swords?”

“A little.” She held out her hand for Horace to let her see his weapon. Once it was in her hands, she began to go through various stances.

“Impressive,” Horace said. Making his way over to the tea and helping himself to a cup. “Did you use to train with swords in your youth?”

“Me? Never.” She took a few swings. Holding herself steady only every other strike. “I had a son who was well versed in these things. He would show me all sorts of things. And sometimes I would mimic his movements with an old broom handle. But I never fought anyone or anything like that.”

Joining Horace at the barrel, she returned his sword and helped herself to some of the tea.

The two talked for an hour or so, and then Horace was on his way to meet with Saphyr. The sun had not quite yet come up, so he asked the merchants setting up shop for directions to the inn she said she would be staying at. By the time he reached it, she was on her way out the door.

“I had a feeling you’d be here,” Saphyr said. Making her way over to his side. “Though I thought I wouldn’t see you until you met me by the gate.”

“Afraid I might not show up?”

“Afraid, no. Worried, also no, but I knew there was a chance you would ignore my request. Or worse, have taken the job for yourself and left me out of the cut.”

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

Saphyr raised a skeptical brow. Shrugging it off, she started to make her way toward the eastern gate.

Hours passed and there had been no sign of the bandit camp they were looking for. Saphyr had set them up by a river for lunch. As well as giving them a chance to refill their canteens.

Horace had taken the momentary break to once again practice through his guards and cuts. Since his earlier practice had been interrupted by the innkeeper. Even though he knew he was being watching, he was unable to stop himself. Finding too much enjoyment out of working his muscles. The weight of steel in hand.

As he sheathed his sword, Saphyr stood off to the side clapping. “Pretty fancy blade play. But are you sure you want to tire yourself out before we find the bandits? If you end up dying because you wanted to show off to a gorgeous woman, that’s on you.”

“Oh?” laughed Horace. “There’s a gorgeous woman around here? Where?”

Saphyr rolled her eyes at this. Drawing her own blade and stepping close to him. “One round, you and I.”

“Neither of us have blunted weapons,” Horace noted.

“Afraid of an edge?” Sparks birthed as their blades clashed. Horace parried a thrust at his neck. “Come on. Strike back.” She pulled her blade away to go for a riposte. Once more her attack was countered by Horace.

He easily pushed her blade away. “I never agreed to this.” Catching her in a bond, Horace kicked at Saphyr’s torso. Pushing her to the ground and positioning his blade before her chest. “Is this enough for you?”

“You could have at least thrown an attack.” Saphyr spat before climbing to her feet again. “But, glad to see you kept a cool head.”

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“What? Are you saying this was some kind of test?”

“Something like that.” She made her way over to the river and dropped to her knees. Dunking her head into the fresh, clean water and greedily drinking.

Horace did much the same.

After packing up their small camp, the two continued eastern. Coming up on a terrace, the two kept low with the underbrush.

Below them sat eight highwaymen. All gathered around a campfire: wild boar on the spit. Two of the men were armed while the remaining six seemed to be resting. Passing around a jar of what could only be some sort of alcoholic beverage.

Even though the majority of them were unarmed, their weapons all laid close by. Even if the two bounty hunters got the drop on them, they wouldn’t have time to finish them all before they gathered steel to fight back.

“I thought there would be more,” Saphyr whispered. “Makes me feel as though I over-prepared for this.”

“There’s likely more,” Horace answered. Signaling her toward the tents in the back. Eight had been set up only a few feet away from where the campfire burned. “They wouldn’t each have a tent. Not people like this. Either the others are asleep, or they’re out on patrols. What should we do?” Since it was her job, he gave her the option in taking control of the situation.

Taking in the scene before them, Saphyr shook her head. “We should wait for a moment. See if any others show up before we strike. It would be better to get them all at once. Make sure none of them get away.”

“Fight them when they have larger numbers? A bold strategy.”

It was not long before another two bandits appeared from behind canvas flaps. Coming from the same tent. If they all slept two to a tent, then there would be sixteen in total. Leaving six unaccounted for.

Saphyr seemed unwilling to wait for them to return. Drawing her blade and motioning for Horace to do the same.

Even after time had passed, only two men were armed.

Soundlessly, the two of them descended upon the camp. Effortlessly taking out two of the unarmed men each. Four men lay dead at the feet of Horace and Saphyr while another six scrambled to gather swords and spears.

Horace nimbly dodged the tip of a spear. Tripping over the discarded form of a bandit he killed. The moment he hit the ground, he pulled himself into a roll to avoid a downward thrust from a cutlass.

Saphyr was able to keep herself on her feet. But the bandits attacking her were giving her no room to counter their assault. The one time she tried to strike back had resulted in a cut to her arm. Shallow as it was, she knew that trying for another attack would only mean disaster.

Horace backed away from the bandits attacking him far enough he could turn his attention from them. Skewering one of the men after Saphyr. But before he could pull his blade free of his target, the tip of a spear wedged itself into his calf.

Howling in pain, he stumbled forward. Managing to turn back to face his assaulters in time to parry a cut from below. His blade glided across the wrist of his opponent. Forcing him to drop his weapon and cutting their numbers down once more.

Saphyr took advantage of the fallen bandit to regroup herself and catch a second wind. Putting herself on the offensive; letting herself dance between blows thrown her way and getting in close enough to disarm one of the spear wielders.

She tossed it aside and grappled the unarmed man. Throwing him in front of an attack, letting the bandit cut down his own ally. In the moment of hesitation that caused, she cut down another. Leaving herself with only one active opponent.

Horace kicked one of the fallen weapons from the ground skyward. Catching it and throwing it at the men focused on him. The three men dispersed from the weapon’s range. Dividing one of them from his two partners. Making him an easy target. Once they were down to only two men for him to watch, it was a simple matter to get in and take them out.

Both he and Saphyr finished off their group at the same time.

Injuries at a minimum, the two began to feel the fatigue of fighting off four men at once. If they were ambushed by the remaining six bandits they speculated to be part of the group, there was a chance they didn’t walk away from the camp alive. And if they managed to live, there was the chance they would be grievously wounded.

Ripping cloth from one of the felled bandit’s shirts, Horace made a makeshift bandage to cover his wound. Neither him or Saphyr had thought to bring supplies for their wounds. Hopefully, there would be some medical supplies among the bandits’ possessions.

They found a lack of gold, but had managed to find some ointment and wine that could be used to clean and disinfect the wound.

Pain shot through his leg as Horace poured the wine over the bleeding gap left behind. Saphyr wiped it clean before applying the ointment, which left the puncture with a cold, tingling sensation before they once more wrapped it.

By now more of the bandits should have arrived, if there had been more. As the day continued to pass by, the two began to wonder if the ten men had been the only members of their party. Or if something might have happened to the others. An animal attack, or they had attacked the wrong group and were left dead in a ditch on the side of the road. Either way, they were glad to have a reprieve before having to make any decision.

Nothing better to do, they began to search the tents. Finding most of them to be empty of anything but a bedroll.

At the edge of camp, Horace found one tent that had been properly furnished with a desk, lamp, and chest. Rummaging through the chest had led to finding a few objects of note.

First thing to catch his attention had been what seemed to be a map. He guessed it would lead to the riches they bandits had stolen.

Next was a journal. The handwriting within was nearly impossible to read. Whoever had been documenting their life within the leatherbound book had atrocious penmanship. Even Horace, who avoided writing as though it were a plague, had easier to read handwriting.

But what truly caught his attention was an old polished medallion buried under bounds of dirty clothes. Bearing the sigil of the phoenix. His family.

They couldn’t be, could they? Eyes wide, his thoughts went back to his nightmare from that night. But the men they had just faced, they were far too unskilled to have been a part of the raid that took down his family. Even with their numbers tactic, his father and the knights of Keep Ankaa were too skilled to allow themselves to fall for such tactics with their numbers.

Which could only mean one thing. They had been working for someone else. Someone with greater skill who happened to be away from the camp when they attacked. Or worse. Someone from Keep Ankaa had survived, and turned to a life of crime.

Even though the medallion was just over a pound, it held the weight of the world. The choice he made in this moment could be the one to change his life forever. But was he ready to face down that part of his past?

Horace hadn’t even heard the shuffling of canvas as Saphyr entered the tent. She sighed as she hovered over his shoulder. “I found nothing of worth. I think it’s time we head back. Huh? What have you there?”

Horace turned to her, silent. Skin pale as snow as he let the medallion slip from his fingers. “I … I’m not sure.”