Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The public forum was crowded that morning, which was nothing new. That was sort of what public forums were for, after all. On this particular morning it was proving a problem, because people were rubbernecking around the job boards. Tim was decently tall, but seeing over the tops of people’s heads didn’t do much when there were this many people between him and the notices pinned to it.

"What if I sat on your shoulders?" Sasha asked, and he could tell from her tone that she was only joking if he wanted her to be.

"Someone might throw something at you," he pointed out. "Isn't that your favorite shirt?"

"Ah, good point. Guess there's only one thing for it." With that, Sasha stuck out her elbows and waded in. A few people protested against the pushing, but never quickly enough to catch her before she moved into another split-second gap between bodies. Anyone too slow to move out of her way risked an elbow to the ribs or a horn to the face.

After a few minutes, she returned—empty-handed and frowning slightly. She was clutching the end of her tail, with the familiar disgruntled look that told him someone had stepped on it by accident.

"Anything?" Tim asked.

"Besides the usual posters inviting people to join the Shields?" Sasha let go of her bruised tail and ran her hand through her corkscrew curls instead. "There was one calling for a bounty on an adult manticore, but it sounded like a job for a party bigger than just two."

"Damn."

They stood together for a moment, weighing their options. There weren't a lot to go through.

“The Sunkissed always has tables in need of bussing,” said Tim.

“That’s not enough.”

“It’d keep us fed.” When Sasha scowled, Tim put a comforting hand to her shoulder. "It’s an option. The money we’ve got won't last forever, and if we’re going to be picky about who we ask for work—”

He felt Sasha tense under his hand. “We’re not going to the Clasp.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Tim said, bridling. “You know that.”

“Right.” She ran her hand through her hair again, agitated. “I know. I know that. I’m sorry, Tim.”

“It’s fine.” He paused. “And we’ve still got money from, ah. Your last… job.” Sasha pulled a wry face. “Look, how long will it last us? At least a week, right?”

“I'd give us another week, maybe two, before we have to start tightening our belts."

“That’s not nothing,” he reminded her. "Something's bound to come up." From the look on her face, the encouragement didn’t seem to stick. “…Sasha, what’s this about? It’s not like we’ve never resorted to wiping tables for coin before.”

"It’s just…” Finally she left her hair alone, and the curls sprang back into shape when she released them. “Look, it'd make me feel better if we could leave Westruun behind completely." She sighed. "I'm getting tired of this place, I’m tired of getting the side-eye from guardsmen, and…"

"And?" Tim prompted.

"I was… look, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to worry you," Sasha said, worrying him instantly. "Remember Rentoul?"

Tim opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and stepped back to guide Sasha away from the worst of the crowds. It wasn't until they reached a more secluded bench that he spoke again. "Just to be clear, this is Lee Rentoul from the Clasp?”

“Yep.”

“The same Lee Rentoul who threatened to snap your neck if he saw you again?”

“That’s the one.”

“After you stole from him.”

“He stole it first! I was retrieving it for the rightful owner!”

Tim sighed deeply. It couldn’t be helped—the finder’s fee for that crystal was still paying for their room and board. “What about him?"

"Well…" Sasha crossed her arms over her chest. "Apparently he’s changed his stance on neck-snapping. And he wants to hire us. Me."

“What.”

“I mean, I did sort of demonstrate my skills to him—pretty directly.”

Tim swore under his breath. "Did you turn him down?" Sasha pulled a face. “You told him yes?”

“I told him I’d think about it!”

“Why are you thinking about it, Sasha.”

“I’m not!” she whispered furiously. “Look, Rentoul may not be the spireling in Westruun, but he’s chummy with the man who is. So if he whines enough, Noriega will come after me just to shut him up, and then I won’t have a choice. I could have a whole Clasp chapter after me!" Sasha's tail flicked again. "So I told him I'd think about it. I give us maybe a week before he gets tired of waiting."

"Bastard," Tim muttered. "We could take off now, you and me. We have enough money to get us to Kymal for sure, maybe Emon if we really stretch it."

"If we take off now, he’ll come after us,” Sasha said flatly. “Rentoul’s like a dog—if you run from him, he’ll chase.”

“What did dogs ever do to you to deserve that?” Tim sighed.

“I’m serious, Tim.”

“I know you are,” Tim said grudgingly. “But Rentoul’s not stupid. Whether we leave town with or without a job, he’s bound to know we’re avoiding him. What’s to stop him from following us anyway, if you think he’s that determined?”

“The Clasp itself, hopefully,” said Sasha. “They’ve got a code of their own, and they’re pretty good at keeping their own in line. If it’s less obvious that we’re running from him, the Clasp might not support him.”

That was a good point. As amoral and ruthless as the thieves guild could be, they still operated on a strict code. They had to; shunning the law was one thing, but going back on your word was bad for business. Still… “I dunno, Sash. He’s still in good with the spireling…”

“We’ll just have to act fast, then. Get to another city, maybe.” Sasha looked thoughtful. “Somewhere with a different spireling who won’t take Rentoul’s shit, and can slap down Noriega if he tries to help his friend.”

It was a better plan than none. Tim squared his shoulders. “Right. How long d’you think we have?”

“Like I said, maybe a week.” Sasha pulled a face. “I guess, failing everything else, Salesa’s people are always hiring.”

“Salesa’s business gives me the creeps.”

“Like I said. Failing everything else.” Sasha looked toward the job board one last time. “Unless we want to try throwing ourselves at a manticore.”

“Not quite that desperate yet,” Tim said, and reached up to give one of her curved, backswept horns a light flick. “Come on. Let’s try the Sunkissed Tavern, see if there’s any news there—”

Behind them, a throat cleared politely. “Um. E-excuse me?”

They turned around together, Tim shifting so that the short sword on his belt was within easy reach, Sasha crossing her arms in such a way that her right hand ended up over the hilt of one of her hidden knives. With minimal movement, they were both poised for a fight.

It proved unnecessary. The speaker stood at a respectful distance, fiddling with the straps of his bag, and he couldn’t have looked less like a Clasp member if he tried. He was tall—a hair taller than Tim, much to Tim’s chagrin—but everything about him was soft lines and round edges, from his build to his mess of dark hair to the green scarf knotted around his neck. When he saw that he had their attention, he tried a smile. It was a stiff, nervous thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Sorry,” the stranger said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you both talking about the job board…?”

Tim exchanged a quick glance with Sasha. “Yes? What of it?”

“Are you… sorry, maybe I’m completely misinterpreting this,” the man went on, soldiering through a nervous stutter. “But you two look, uh, like you’ve been in fights before, and from the sound of it you’re looking for work?”

“Are you offering?” Sasha asked, keeping her voice neutral.

“Yes,” the man replied, toying with the end of his scarf. “And, I also couldn’t help but hear something about leaving Westruun—sorry, I know eavesdropping is just, really rude, but I’ve never really done this sort of thing before and I was just trying to get a feel for the crowd—Anyway, that’s what I’m trying to do, myself. Leave Westruun, I mean. Only I’ve got a long way to go, and the roads can be dangerous if you’re traveling alone, and I’m not looking to get robbed by anyone, so, if you were looking for something on the job board…” His voice trailed off, and he gave them a look that was half hopeful and half pleading.

Already, Tim could feel his spirits lifting. At last, an option. “Well—you know what, why don’t we talk about this somewhere else?”

“Somewhere less open?” Sasha suggested. “There’s an inn on the edge of the Residential Ward, not too far from here. We go there all the time. Good place to talk business.”

The man nodded vigorously, relief so powerful that Tim could feel it wafting off of him. “Lead the way.”

True to Sasha’s word, the walk from the forum to the inn was not a long one. Bit by bit, their new acquaintance relaxed. He wasn’t exactly chatty, but he had the nervous, energetic air of someone who might be, given the chance. By the time they arrived, he seemed to have settled himself, and as Sasha led the way to their usual table—positioned just right to avoid eavesdroppers and watch their surroundings—his nervousness had turned to calm determination.

“Right,” Sasha said decisively. “Tim, grab drinks. It’s time to talk shop.”

“What’s your poison?” Tim asked, turning to their prospective employer.

“Tea, if you don’t mind.” The man looked sheepish. “Alcohol gives me a headache.”

“Poor man,” said Sasha. “Chop chop, Tim.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

Once they were gathered again, drinks in hand, Tim turned to their new friend and rested his chin on one hand. “So. What do we call you?”

The man took a careful sip from his tea. “Martin,” he replied. “Martin Blackwood.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Blackwood,” Sasha said with a pleasant smile. “I’m Sasha James. This is my associate, Tim Stoker.” She sat forward, and her smile barely changed except to show a few more teeth. “So. What’s the job, and what are you offering?”
Blackwood leaned forward, folding his hands around his cup. “Well, as I said, I’m about to do a bit of traveling,” he began. “It’s a long journey, and I hear the roads can be treacherous. Highwaymen, thieves, that sort of thing. It’s better not to travel alone, so I thought I’d hire some, er, protection?” Blackwood paused, looking at them carefully. “Is that something you two can do?”

Bandits and robbers—infinitely more manageable than manticores. “If it’s a matter of keeping robbers off your back on the road, then yes,” Tim said readily. “We both know our way around a fight. Sasha here is a master of avoiding detection.”

“Have you taken the Silvercut Roadway before?” Blackwood asked.

“We have,” said Sasha. “We traveled here together from Stilben, years ago.”

“And I’ve been as far as Kymal in the other direction,” Tim added. “A merchant caravan needed guards, so I joined up. Got into a few tangles along the way—nothing too bad.”

“Sounds like it’s my lucky day, then,” said Blackwood. “I’m going farther than Kymal, though. At least as far as Emon, though if you can take me farther than that, it’d be great.”

“What sort of payment are we looking at?” Sasha asked.

“Expenses paid, plus two hundred fifty when we part ways.” Blackwood pursed his lips. “If you’re leaving town, I think that’d be enough to get you started?

“Hmmm…” Tim exchanged another look with Sasha. “That depends—”

“It’s all I’ve got,” Blackwood blurted out, his face darkening with embarrassment. “I… can’t really offer any more than that, sorry.”

“Right,” Sasha murmured, half to herself. “Well. Hm. Where did you say you were headed?”

“I didn’t, but my end goal is Vasselheim,” Blackwood replied, and leaned forward again. “Which, from what I heard earlier… er, it might match up with your goals?”

Sasha whistled softly. “Vasselheim? That’s on a whole other continent.”

“Our current goal is just to leave Westruun, not Tal’dorei itself,” Tim added.

Blackwood took a moment to check their surroundings again before answering, “The Clasp doesn’t have a presence in Vasselheim.”

And then they were really paying attention.

“How does the Clasp not have a presence anywhere?” Sasha demanded, her voice forcibly muffled.

“Well, Vasselheim’s the oldest city in the world,” Blackwood said with a shrug. “It’s survived every calamity the world has ever seen, and that’s a point of pride for them. If they can bar the door against dark gods, then a thieves guild with a couple centuries under its belt isn’t going to have much luck.”

Tim looked at Sasha again, and could already see her coming to the same decision.

They weren’t going to get a better chance than this.

“Well then, Mr. Blackwood,” said Sasha. “If you’ll have us, then you’ve got yourself a deal.”

The corners of their new employer’s mouth turned upward in a cautious smile. “Call me Martin,” he said. “Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”

Sasha woke Tim the next morning, wide-awake and disgustingly cheerful. “Time to go, Tim,” she whispered. “You’re packed.”

She said it like a statement, not a question. Tim squinted at her, struggling to remember whether or not he really had finished packing the previous evening.

“I mean it,” Sasha told him. “You’re packed. I finished it for you. We need to go.”

Right. They had a paying job—escort one Martin Blackwood safely to Vasselheim, all the way over in Issylra. Simple enough, provided they made it to the next major city before Lee Rentoul found out they were skipping town.

Tim was up and out of bed, already mostly dressed for the day. “Right. Let’s go. Where are we meeting Martin again?”

“Sunkissed Inn.” Sasha thrust his pack into his hands before shouldering her own. “He’s got a room there, apparently.”

“Oh.” Tim blinked, surprised. “Sunkissed’s usually for travelers passing through, isn’t it? I thought he was a local.”

“Apparently not,” Sasha said with a shrug. “Not that it really matters. The important thing is where we’re headed.”

“Vasselheim.” Tim made a low whistle. “Pretty far. You ever been?”

“Nope. I’ve never even left Tal’Dorei.” They left their lodgings side by side, leaving behind an empty room stripped of personal effects. Whether or not they would be back was unclear; best not to leave anything behind. “Do you know anything about it?”

Tim shrugged. “It’s like Martin said. Oldest city in all of Exandria, withstood every calamity the world ever saw. Cradle of human civilization, blah blah blah.” He paused, thinking harder. “It’s sort of the spiritual center of the world, too. Got temples to every major god in its walls, and it’s run by religious leaders. It’s the kind of place people make pilgrimages to—maybe that’s why Blackwood’s headed there?”

“He didn’t seem like the religious type,” Sasha remarked.

“Who knows,” Tim said airily. “Anyway, it’s a harsh place to live. Built around a mountain called the Heaven’s Stair, surrounded by wilderness crawling with monsters. Of course, I know my way around mountains, so we should be fine.” He paused, thinking hard, but if he had ever known more about the ancient city, his memory would not produce it. “That’s all I can think of.”

“Well, we can pick Martin’s brain about it when we meet up with him,” Sasha told him. “He’s sure to know more about it, if he’s the one who wants to go there so badly. Speaking of—” She paused, brow furrowing in thought. “What do you think of him?”

“Martin?” Tim shrugged. “Seems nice enough. Not the most confident, though.”

She chuckled. “You picked up on that too?”

Tim slung an arm over her shoulder, narrowly missing her horns. “Not everyone can be a deadly hunter of beasts and a world-class trickster.”

Sasha grinned, knocking her head against his shoulder. “No. But at least he’s wise enough to hire them.”

The Sunkissed Tavern and Inn was quiet at this time of day. It only got really boisterous in the evening, when farmers and laborers came in to relax after a hard day’s work. This early in the morning, the only bustle came from travelers looking to make an early start. Today, at least, Tim and Sasha were among their number.

Martin was waiting for them at a corner table, with a modest breakfast board already laid out. Sasha descended on it eagerly, grabbing two boiled eggs and a roll before anyone had even managed a ‘good morning’. Tim, who had not been raised in a barn thank you very much, spared a winning smile for their new employer before sitting down to eat.

“Morning, Mr. Blackwood, hope you slept well,” he said. “So what’s on the docket before we leave the city?”

“I told you, Martin’s fine,” Martin replied. “And there are a few things I need to buy before we leave. Do you two have any last-minute errands to run?”

“I could do with a shopping trip,” said Tim. “I haven’t made a trip this long in a while. Sasha?”

“We’ll need equipment and rations for the road,” Sasha replied, without looking up from the egg she was shelling. “And some healing potions, because you can never have too many of those. How will we be making this journey?”

“Oh, I’ve already arranged to rent horses,” Martin replied. “We can take them as far as Emon. Then from Emon it’s across the sea to Issylra, and straight to the Heaven’s Stair—that’s the mountain Vasselheim is built around. Emon’s got sky ships, but regular boats are cheaper, and we’ve got to make the last leg of the journey on land anyway.”

“Pilgrimage thing?” Tim guessed.

Martin shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s also just how Vasselheim is. It’s more defensible—the path up the mountain’s rough, and they only allow sky ships in for emergencies.”

“So, we’ve got a trek through monster-infested wilderness to look forward to.” Sasha slapped Tim on the shoulder. “Pace yourself, Tim, because you’ll be pulling your weight by the end.”

“I always pull my weight,” Tim said petulantly. He turned to Martin as if appealing to him. “I do. I promise you’ll get your money’s worth.”

“As long as we get there in one piece, I’ll be satisfied.”

“Better get started as soon as possible, then,” said Sasha. “Remember we’re trying to avoid notice.” She shot Martin a cautious look. “We don’t have anything on, beyond buying things for the road, but what about you?”

“What about…? Oh!” Martin shook his head. “No. I’m ready to leave. I’ve, uh, said my goodbyes already.”

Tim paused over the roll he was buttering. “Oh? Leaving anyone behind?”

“Not really, just… Westruun itself, I guess.” Martin fidgeted with his hands. “I, uh, don’t have much to keep me here, anymore.”

“Oh, are you not coming back?” Sasha asked.

Martin shrugged. “Maybe. Dunno how long it’ll be, if I do. You won’t have to worry about that, though—once we get to Vasselheim, our business is done.”

“Unless we wind up unlikely friends along the way,” Tim mused. “Long way to Vasselheim, after all. Plenty of time to bond.”

That brought a small grin to Martin’s face. “Maybe. You two aren’t really the serious-faced bodyguards I imagined, but I think I’m fine with that.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make the trip fun,” Sasha assured him. “Is this your first time leaving home?”

“Depends how you define home.” Martin heaved a sigh. “Honestly? I feel guilty, but part of me can’t wait to see the back of this place.”

Tim barked out a humorless laugh. “I’ll drink to that. Or I would, if I had a—” He glanced at the mug that Martin had pressed into his hand at some point. “Well. Tea’s fine. You get the idea.”

After that, talk was light and pleasant as they worked their way through breakfast. Eventually Martin left to pay his tab, and Sasha leaned back and made a show of stretching.

“Guess that explains the room here,” she murmured.

“Hm?”

“He’s leaving town, same as us,” she explained. “Starting a new life somewhere, I’ll bet. Probably stayed here so he could get all his affairs sorted before he left.”

“In that case Vasselheim’s a weird choice, if you ask me.”

“True, but I don’t know his life,” Sasha said with a shrug. “Maybe he’s got prospects. Not like it’s our business, of course—we just have to get him there.”

“Oh yeah, not our business, like that’s stopped you from being nosy before.”

“Ha! Good point.” Sasha grinned, showing the tips of her canines. “Never hurts to know what you’re getting yourself into. Especially for a job like this.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Bodyguarding?”

“I was going to say babysitting, but—”

“Sasha.”

Martin returned presently, and the three of them took their leave. Not far from the Sunkissed Tavern, a stable advertised horse rentals on its recently repainted sign. It was here that Martin, after a quick exchange with one of the grooms, secured them each a mount. Within the hour they had saddled up and were headed for Westruun’s main marketplace. Like them, Martin seemed to have packed light, with only a single saddlebag and a pouch hanging from a shoulder strap. Both were packed full, but for a single man’s worldly possessions, it wasn’t a lot.

Tim recalled the man’s earlier embarrassment over money, and the comments about leaving nothing behind, and realized with a pang that their new employer might very well have sold all his things to afford this trip.

“So. Martin.” Tim nudged his horse alongside their employer’s, while Sasha dropped behind them to adjust her loose saddlebags and keep an eye on the rear. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Er… what exactly do you want to know?” Martin asked, looking a little wide-eyed.

“Well it’s not every day a man decides to uproot himself and wander off to another continent.” Tim toyed absently with his reins “What’s the occasion? I hear people make pilgrimages to Vasselheim, but to my knowledge, pilgrimages aren’t meant to be one-way.”

“I guess they aren’t,” Martin agreed. “Don’t know if I’d call this a pilgrimage, really. I’m just visiting friends who live there.”

“Ah. They the religious type?”

“Yeah, one of them. Follows Bahamut.”

“Ooh, very nice,” Sasha piped up from the rear. “What about you, Martin?”

“Oh, well, I…” Martin averted his eyes in an almost demure expression. “My mum’s from Whitestone, so growing up I was sort of—we followed Pelor, you know? But, I-I’ve always interested in history and legends and—and lore, and stuff like that. So I spent a lot of time in libraries and temples to Ioun, and… and I sort of felt more of a connection there. I’m a cleric now,” he added. “Sorry, I don’t think I mentioned that before.”

“Well what do you know, Sash,” Tim called over his shoulder. “We’re doing good work for the Knowing Mistress herself.”

“Oh, I’ve never felt more holy,” Sasha said, dryly teasing.

“Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.”

Sasha pulled a face at him as she adjusted a clasp on her bag. “Tim, you’re only happy about this because traveling with a cleric means begging healing spells off someone instead of dipping into the potion stash.”

“Potions cost money, Sasha! Spells don’t cost anything but a nap!” To Martin he added, “Don’t worry, I’m very good at not getting injured.”

“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

“So, it boils down to a social call, then?” Sasha asked, sensibly steering them back to the topic at hand.

“A one-way social call?” Tim added, ignoring Sasha’s warning jab.

“Something like that,” Martin replied. “Like I said, I’m new to being a cleric, and to be honest, I’m not really sure where to begin. But I’ve got friends in Vasselheim, so I’m hoping to sort of… I don’t know. Form connections? Holiest city in the world, there’s bound to be someone who can help me figure out what to do next.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” Tim remarked. Martin looked uncertain, which wasn’t fair, because Tim had gone and rolled out his sincere voice for that. “No really, I mean it. Things happen, sometimes you just have to uproot and try again somewhere else.”

“We’ve been trying to do that for months,” Sasha added, with a small smile. “And now, thanks to you, we can. So. Win-win.”

Hesitantly, Martin smiled back. “Happy to help.”

They finished their shopping excursion before noon. Sasha was good about traveling light, and Tim was even better, so between the three of them they could manage without an extra pack horse, or gods forbid a wagon. And that was good; Tim had enough experience guarding caravans to know that wagons were a real bitch to defend. The roads were usually decent during the day, but the thought of having to stand guard at night over a clunky wagon, or having to flee from trouble dragging an extra horse, made him want to groan out loud.

If there was one thing he and Sasha appreciated, it was mobility. Sometimes the best defense was getting the hell out.

But those were thoughts for the future. They were technically still in Westruun, and the road beyond should be safe, at least for the first leg. They wouldn’t really have to worry until it got dark, especially given how open the Dividing Plain was between here and Emon. It was a fairly straight shot from one city to the other, with not a lot of cover in between.

With a little luck and some effort, they could make it a fair way by nightfall.

Tim’s thoughts were interrupted when Martin's voice reached his ear, as clear as if his new employer were whispering right into it. “Don’t want to alarm you, but we’re being followed,” he said. Tim shot a glance at him, startled. Martin was at least a horse-length away and wasn’t even facing him, though one hand was surreptitiously positioned to point at him. “Short, skinny guy, dark hair, sort of rough looking, could swear I saw a couple of daggers on him. Anyone you know?”

Tim shot a cautious glance over his shoulder, spotted the man, and suppressed a groan. Moments later, Sasha’s voice rang in his other ear, also far too clearly to be natural. “Tim, McMullen’s tailing us.”

He nodded, grinding his teeth all the while. How in the Nine Hells did Rentoul find out?

Carefully, Tim turned his head again, just enough that he could see McMullen out of the corner of his eye. With a whisper that barely moved his lips, he placed a Hunter’s Mark on him. The spell slipped into place, and when Tim faced front again, McMullen’s presence remained in his awareness, like an internal compass needle pointing the way.

In less than a minute McMullen fell behind, and then vanished into the crowd. Tim nudged his horse alongside Martin’s, with Sasha coming up on his other side.

“So, not to alarm you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem,” Sasha said almost nonchalantly.

“You’re right about him being Clasp,” Tim added. “That’s McMullen—he’s just a toady, but he’ll be back with his boss.” He shot a glance around, noting the amount of people. “If there’s a decent crowd heading out of town, we might be able to lose them in it.”

“We’ll still be on the road, though,” Sasha pointed out. “We can’t properly lose them if they know the exact path to take.”

“But we have to take the road eventually or we’ll be fighting off wild animals and bandits every step of the way!”

“At least wild animals don’t want to press me into organized crime, Tim—”

“Um,” Martin spoke up. “I might… I mean, I know another way. That we could take. It’s sort of a shortcut, but we’d get back on the road eventually, and there’s also a stop we could make, along the way. If we need to.”

He glanced in either direction at them, saw that he had their attention, and seemed to rally himself. Picking up speed, he pulled ahead and veered off into a side street, away from the city gates. Tim exchanged a glance with Sasha, and they followed.

“The Silvercut Roadway leads southeast,” Martin explained, carefully dodging pedestrians. “It curves around the edge of the Bramblewood. If we go straight south, we can cut through the Bramblewood and rejoin the roadway on the other side.”

Tim sat up straighter in the saddle. “This could work,” he said. “Rentoul’s a city boy through and through, he won’t be able to track as well through the forest.”

“Especially not a forest like the Bramblewood,” Sasha agreed. “How long should it take us to get through to the roadway?”

“Er… at least a day, I think,” Martin replied. “We might have to stop and make camp somewhere in the woods, sorry.”

“Hey, no complaints here,” Tim assured him. “I’ve camped before. So, why are we going this way? Far as I know, the main gate’s the only way out, unless you get creative. And it’s a little hard to get creative with three fully-loaded horses.”

“Oh! Uh.” Martin looked sheepish for a moment. “I just thought we’d take the long way to the gate? When that—McMullen, right?—when he brings back his boss, if it takes them a while to find us again, I figured it could buy us some time to get out of Westruun, then detour around the city walls to head straight into the Bramblewood.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “Not a bad idea, as long as we’re quick,” he said. “And once we’re in the Bramblewood, the trees should be thick enough to hide us.”

“Think you can cover our tracks?” Sasha asked.

“Can I cover our tracks? Sasha, Sasha, what do you take me for?”

There was a pause.

Martin shot him a hesitant look. “So… is that a yes, or…?”

“Obviously I can cover our tracks.”

All told, it probably took them an extra ten minutes to leave the city. With McMullen carrying around a Hunter’s Mark like a beacon, Tim could safely say that he never caught up with them again.

Just outside the gates of Westruun, the three of them veered off the road and followed the city wall toward the west, before splitting off from it entirely and riding into thick treeline of the Bramblewood. Only when the shadows of the woods were upon them did Sasha look back, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.

“Tim?” she asked.

“Marked him before he disappeared in the crowd,” Tim assured her. “He was nowhere near us when we left the city, and he’s nowhere near us now.”

The tight line of her shoulders relaxed, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. “First hurdle, done.”

Further ahead, Martin turned back to them with a worried frown. “Do you think they’ll keep trying?” he asked. He must have seen the uncomfortable look that passed between them, because he added, “It’s alright, if they will. We’re out here already, it’s not like I’m going to dismiss you now.”

“Thank you,” Sasha said quietly.

“Can I ask…” Martin hesitated. “Why exactly are you running from them?”

Sasha sighed. “Guess you might as well? The man who’s after me is a member of the Clasp, Lee Rentoul. I’m just—I’m good at finding out things I shouldn’t, and getting into places where I don’t belong, and… that led me to, sort of, steal something from him.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “You stole from the Clasp?”

“He’s not even a high-ranking member! And he’d stolen it first, I was just getting it back for the rightful owner! And—I did the legwork ahead of time, I made sure Rentoul’s theft wasn’t a Clasp-official job, just his own sticky fingers. I got it back but I didn’t get out as clean as I hoped, and he swore he’d kill me if he got the chance. But now he’s changing his tune, trying to recruit me instead. Technically, by Clasp rules, he can’t force me to officially join, but…”

“But Rentoul’s never cared much for rules.” Tim’s lip curled in contempt. “And there are plenty of Clasp higher-ups willing to go along if it means profit. So, if Vasselheim doesn’t have a Clasp presence, it sounds like a pretty good place for us.” Sasha looked pained at him, Martin curious, but Tim didn’t elaborate. “So. Anyway. You know the way from here, Martin?”

“Oh! Right.” Martin seemed to remember what they were there for. “Yes. Straight south through the forest, and we can get back on the road once we’re, ah, out of the woods.”

“Have you been this way before?” Sasha asked.

“S-sort of? I’ve been in the Bramblewood before, I grew up here, but… I-I mean, it’s just straight south, isn’t it?” Martin shrugged. “So if you see me veering off in the wrong direction, don’t hesitate to shout.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Tim. “Lead on, boss.”

Martin spluttered in embarrassment, then kicked his horse into a light trot. It wasn’t a pace they could keep up forever, with the forest growing thicker as they moved further in, but it gave Sasha a small window in which Martin drifted out of earshot.

“Us?” she asked, a little too casually.

“Yeah, us,” Tim retorted. “What about it?”

Sasha’s face did a complicated, almost twisty little maneuver on its way from surprise to curiosity to guilt and discomfort. “It’s just… I’m the one who needs the safety of Vasselheim.”

“What?” Tim snorted. “You think if you went off on your own, Rentoul wouldn’t want to get his hands on me, make me tell him where you went?” Sasha cringed. “Wait, Sasha—that’s not what I—”

“I’m just sorry,” Sasha said, looking miserable. “If I’d just stayed away from him from the beginning, then you wouldn’t have to…”

“What, uproot my life?” Tim asked sardonically. “I haven’t had one to uproot since before we met, and you know that.”

“Tim…”

“It was always going to be ‘us’,” Tim said simply. “Not just you. You’ve been with me through thick and thin. If you go, I’m following. And right now, we’re going to Vasselheim.”

Sasha stared at him for a moment more.

“Well, go on,” Tim urged her. “I’ve got to bring up the rear. Covering tracks, remember?”

Her tail, previously draped neatly over her horse’s back, swept between them and flicked him affectionately. Without a word, she trotted ahead to catch up to Martin.

Behind them, the thickening trees slowly closed around their last view of Westruun.

“It’s getting dark,” said Sasha. “Dark for real, I mean. We should probably stop soon.”

Night fell early in the depths of the Bramblewood, it seemed. The trees were high with thick foliage, shrouding the forest floor in darkness long before the sun completely set. It made for decent cover and forbidding surroundings; if, say, Rentoul happened to catch up to them, there was enough room to manage a decent gallop, and plenty of opportunities to lose a tail.

But they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Rentoul or his usual crowd since leaving Westruun. The effects of Tim’s Hunter’s Mark had faded after the first hour, but that didn’t stop them from being vigilant. As far as Sasha could tell, they had not been followed.

Now it was dark, and in a forest like this, that meant an entirely different brand of danger.

“Martin?” Sasha repeated. Their employer had yet to answer, or give any indication that he had heard her. His horse’s pace had slowed, and his head was turning this way and that, scanning the trees.

“Martin,” Tim echoed her, his voice slightly sharper. This time Martin jumped.

“What? Oh.” He looked back at them, blinking. “Right. Sorry, it’s just…” His voice trailed off.

“Is everything alright?” Sasha asked.

“I think so,” he answered. “I was hoping we’d get farther than this, but…” He shook himself. “Doesn’t matter. You’re right—we should stop and make camp.”

“Tim? That’s your specialty.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Tim nudged his way to the front, then turned them slightly westward. “C’mon, we’d better head this way.”

“I thought we were going to stop?” Martin said as he followed.

“Can’t just make camp anywhere,” said Tim. “Look around at the ground—it slopes down here from all sides. It’s still winter and liable to rain, so we need proper cover and elevation. Also—hear that?” He stopped talking, and the distant burble of a stream rushed to fill the silence. “We’re too close to a water source. If it floods—not saying it will, but if—I’d rather not be sleeping at the bottom of a bowl.”

“Oh,” Martin said quietly. “That—that makes sense.”

“Course it does,” Tim said cheerily. “Don’t worry, Martin, we’ll make a proper woodsman out of you yet.”

There were no more objections as Tim led the way up a small rise in the earth. The trees grew more tangled the higher they went, roots crisscrossing over and under each other. Sasha’s horse stumbled once, but they pressed on.

Finally, at the top of the low hill, Tim slowed his pace and turned, clearly searching for a decent spot. Sasha squinted into the woods, her vision carrying just a bit further than his—

“Hey!” Sasha sat up straight in her saddle. “Look—over there. That looks promising, doesn’t it?”

She had almost missed it, half-hidden as it was in darkness, tucked between the close-knit trees. But there was no mistaking the even, man-made shape of a cottage amid the tangle of the natural woods.

It took a moment for Tim to catch sight of it. “Well, that makes it easier, doesn’t it,” he remarked. “Think anyone’s home?”

“One way to find out.”

“Not camping after all, then?” Martin asked, eyeing the building hesitantly.

“Shelter’s shelter,” Tim pointed out, nudging his mount forward. “Let’s at least knock at the door.”

There was no answer. Not that Sasha was surprised—as dark as it was, it wasn’t that late, and she could see no light from within. Up close, the little house looked small and dark and abandoned. Sasha dismounted to try the door and found it unlocked.

“Probably some woodsman or hunter’s hut, by the look of it,” said Tim, lowering himself to the ground beside her. “Hopefully they won’t mind us borrowing it for the night.”

Martin hung back, fretting quietly. “I don’t really like the look of this place.”

“Well, it’s this or sleep outside with the cold and bugs,” Sasha replied. “Your call, Martin—you are the boss, after all.”

Their employer made another unhappy noise. For a moment, Sasha was half-sure he would insist on camping after all—

As if on cue, a raindrop landed on her cheek.

Martin sighed. “Guess we don’t have much of a choice, do we.”

“Thank the gods,” Tim muttered under his breath.

There was no stable attached to the cottage, but there was a wooden canopy of sorts constructed outside. It was large enough to shelter their horses from the rain. By the time their mounts were seen to, the drops had increased to a steady drizzle. Sasha was eager to get inside.

Inside, the cottage was simple and rustic. It was a bit small to be someone’s home, butit had all the trappings of one: a kitchen with a small larder, a bedroom off to the side, and a central sitting room of sorts in the middle of it all, complete with a hearth. It was also a horrible mess, and a quick look around proved it to be the hideout of some hunter or other. Old bowstrings, unfinished arrows, and other simple weaponswere stashed into various hiding places, including rusty old knives for field-dressing. Stains on the floor showed where game had been dragged, stored, and butchered in the past.

“Charming,” Sasha said dryly.

“Not everyone can be a homemaker,” said Tim. “Least we’re out of the rain.”

“Small mercies,” Martin murmured. He didn’t seem any happier to be in here than he had before, but as long as he wasn’t ordering them out of the place, Sasha wasn’t about to worry about it.

There was one bed in the place, unfortunately stripped of bedding. Sasha laid her bedroll out on the floor instead.

“Should we set up a watch?” she asked, as the others made their own sleeping arrangements.

“Might as well, just in case someone comes back.” With a sigh, Tim dragged out a dusty chair and sat in it. “I’ll go first. Er, Martin…?”

“I can take the last watch,” said Martin. He looked to Sasha. “If you don’t mind going second?”

“Sounds good to me. In that case, I think I’ll get a head start on sleep. Night, you two.”

Despite everything—the unfamiliar surroundings, the hard floor, Martin’s misgivings—sleep came to Sasha more easily than it had in quite some time.

Of course it did. She was free.

Chapter Text

Tim woke to the sound of quiet humming.

There was light in the cottage, pale and silver as it streamed through the windows. As he blinked the bleariness of sleep from his eyes, he noted that it was morning, and it was early, and someone was humming from the kitchen.

With a quiet grunt, Tim sat up and looked around. Sasha was asleep, but stirring, so it was Martin in the kitchen, tending to a kettle that steamed gently. He looked as if he had hardly slept, but the tune on his lips was decently cheerful. Tim wondered, with no small amount of dread, if he had invited another morning person into his life.

Sasha stirred again, on the edge of waking up, so Tim cleared his throat and said, “Morning.”

“Morning,” Martin replied, with a weary smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tea’s almost ready, if you’d like some.”

“I could go for a cup.” Tim climbed to his feet and stretched lazily, working out the kinks from sleeping on the floor all night. “You all right? You look a bit tired.”

“Just this place,” Martin replied. In the pause that followed, Tim wondered if he was going to leave it at that, but he went on after a few moments. “It’s just… sleeping somewhere new. It’s hard. And this place gives me the creeps. Sort of wish we didn’t stay the night here, but I suppose it was better than the rain.”

“You still on that?” Sasha yawned. “What’s wrong with it? I’ve slept in weirder places than some hut in the woods.”

Instead of answering right away, Martin set out two steaming cups and took a third for himself. Tim went to grab one of them, with Sasha not far behind.

It was nice tea. Certainly nicer than anything he would expect on the road.

Martin nodded toward the central room of the cottage. “It was dark last night,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t see that until the sun started to come up.”

“See what…?” Tim followed his gaze, then blinked in surprise. Sure enough, there were marks on the floor that he hadn’t noticed the night before. There was no pattern to them, just a scattered array of blackened scorch marks and gouges. “Huh. Wonder what did that.”

He looked to Sasha, and found her watching Martin. “Do you know?” she asked. “You’ve been weird about this place since we got here. Is there something about it we should know?”

An uncertain look flashed across Martin’s face, and one finger tapped an irregular rhythm on the rim of his cup. Eventually, he shrugged. “Dunno if it matters, since we’re leaving soon. I’ve just… I’ve heard stories, about things going on in the Bramblewood, and finding this place in the woods, in the dark, reminded me of them.”

“Wait, you don’t mean the Shieldhound, do you?” Tim broke in.

Martin blinked, hands stilling around his cup. “The… Shieldhound?”

“You’re Westruun born and raised, aren’t you?” said Sasha. “You’ve got to know about the Shieldhound.”

“It sounds sort of familiar, but…”

“Guess they were never more than stories,” Sasha mused. “Anyway, supposedly the Shields in Westruun had some sort of… secret weapon, or something. Never could figure out if it was supposed to be an actual beast of some sort, or just a nickname for one of their members.”

“It was enough to keep the Clasp quiet for years,” Tim added. “But the whispers have died down recently, and the Clasp has gotten bolder again.”

Martin glanced around again, looking even more worried than before. “Oh. I hadn’t heard about any of that.”

“Then what sort of stories were you talking about?” Sasha pressed.

“Oh. Well, you know the magical properties of midwinter?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “The what?”

“The veil between planes is thinnest during the solstice,” Sasha explained. “Wizards love midwinter—it’s the best time for rituals, magical experiments, spells, that sort of thing.”

Martin nodded. “Right, yeah.”

“What about it?” Tim asked.

“There have been… rumors, I guess,” said Martin. “That, last Winter’s Crest, something—someone attempted something, in the Bramblewood. Some spell or ritual. And—it’s only rumor, but supposedly there was a murder involved.”

Tim found his gaze drawn back to the stained floors. “And you didn’t think to mention that before?”

Martin shrugged apologetically. “Honestly, I was sort of hoping it’d be an advantage? The Clasp always knows all the rumors and gossip. I thought if we were being chased by some of them, then maybe rumors about ritual murder in the Bramblewood would make them too nervous to follow us here.” He paused again. “Sorry.”

Sasha downed the rest of her tea. “Very interesting,” she said. “You’ve convinced me. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

By midday, they finally broke through the treeline. South of the Bramblewood, the Dividing Plains stretched on and on. Trees were sparse beyond this point; what few could be seen in the distance were clumped into small groves and copses, surrounded by rolling grassland dulled to brown and yellow in the late winter’s cold.

Not far from where the Bramblewood ended, the Silvercut Roadway curved south and westward through the plain, until it crossed with a far-off river and was lost from view. Beyond, the grassland slowly rose and rolled into a small cluster of mountains.

Sasha could barely muffle a noise of delight. After half a day spent surrounded by trees and dodging roots to keep the horses from stumbling, the open air was a welcome change. And besides that, it was pretty, gray skies and yellow grass and all.

“What’s with you?” Tim asked.

“I haven’t been out this far west on Tal’Dorei before,” Sasha replied, a bit defensively. “The view’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s alright,” Tim said, infuriatingly nonchalant. Sasha tried to jab at him, and he leaned to the side to dodge. “Those are nice-looking mountains, though. That’ll be Ironseat.”

“Ironseat Ridge,” Martin added. “Once we pass those mountains, we’ll be about halfway to Emon.”

“It’ll take a couple days just to get that far, unless we really push the horses,” Tim remarked. “What do you think, Martin? How fast do you want to get there?”

Martin pursed his lips, considering. “The Silvercut Crossroads are just north of the ridge,” he said after a moment. “We can get there tomorrow night, make camp.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Sasha. “C’mon, let’s get to the road—I think we’re all getting tired of struggling through underbrush.”

“Struggling?” Tim said innocently. “Who’s struggling?”

“Oh shut up, Tim.”

When they reached the road, the going got easier, and a bit less isolated. It wasn’t exactly bustling, but from time to time they passed others along the way—single wagons, full caravans, and lone travelers all made equal use of the Silvercut Roadway.

Tim said it was more crowded than this, the last time he came this way. Of course, he’d gone in the middle of spring, and it was late winter now. As clear as it was today, the weather was a long way from losing its bite. And out here in the open plains, there was nowhere to hide from the cold winds.

Still, they made decent time, and as night fell that evening, they found a small cluster of trees in which to make camp. It was just about as restful as staying in the cottage the previous night, between the lack of shelter in one and the unsettling surroundings in the other.

This time, however, Sasha was roused by a nudge from Tim, and opened her eyes far too early for it to be her watch. Instinctively she groped for her rapier, which lay within easy reach.

“We’ve got company,” Tim said bluntly.

She looked to Martin—they had a job to do, after all—and found him already blinking awake, gripping a handaxe that he’d left within easy reach before going to sleep. In a matter of moments they were all on their feet, facing outward into the few trees. Rapier in hand, Sasha scanned the darkness and spotted undergrowth parting in the distance.

She opened her mouth to warn the others, but the familiar hiss of arrows cut her off. She felt one whiz by her ear, right before Tim gave a full-body flinch and a grunt of pain.

“Tim?” Sasha hissed.

He was already steady again, stepping closer to Martin with an arrow nocked. “Just a graze, I’m fine,” he said grimly. “Go do your thing.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sasha broke away and fled to the shadows. She could see two of their attackers skulking in the dark, men armed with shortswords, hastening closer. Sasha skirted around them, light on her feet as she searched for the archers. Two arrows in quick succession suggested two long-range fighters covering the swordsmen. That meant four of them at least, unless they had a mage squirreled away in the undergrowth as well.

A low whistle reached her ears, not from the attacking men but from the campsite she was leaving behind. From Martin, in fact. Moments later, four glowing lights materialized in midair, illuminating their campsite and its immediate surroundings. Sasha bit back a curse as the circle of light fell upon her. Noiselessly, she slipped out of range and continued to search for the archers.

She found one standing well back, another arrow at the ready. Behind her came the twang of a bowstring and an unfamiliar cry of pain, and Sasha allowed herself a smile. Martin’s hasty spell wasn’t a total rookie move; Tim’s eyes were useless in the dark, but with Martin lighting the place up, he couldn’t miss.

The archer was too focused on sighting his target to see her coming. A twist of her rapier blade wrenched the arrow out of his hands, before the knife in her other hand cut through his bowstring. With a muffled curse, the man drew a knife of his own and slashed out at her, but she dodged back nimbly and managed to get the tip of her rapier blade through the meat of his right bicep.

Behind her, metal clashed with metal; Tim must have drawn his sword. She had to deal with this and get back to them soon.

The split second’s distraction almost cost her when her enemy’s knife raked over her collarbone, drawing blood. A little higher, and he would have slit her throat. Gritting her teeth, Sasha planted her hand on his chest, satisfied when she felt cheap leather armor. Lightning crackled at her fingertips, and the man shuddered with a choked cry. His next strike missed, and Sasha brought the pommel of her rapier down on his head as hard as she could. The man went limp and slumped to the ground, out like a light.

Sasha pressed her hand to the gash as she relieved him of his weapons. The bow was cheaply-made trash, but Tim could always use more arrows. There was still one archer left to deal with, but she could regroup with the others before she handled him.

This proved to be a mistake.

As soon as Sasha stepped into the glow of the dancing lights, and she heard the distant twang of a bowstring. Pain erupted in her shoulder, and she nearly went down with a yell of pain. Teeth gritted, she looked back just in time to see one of the swordsmen charging at her. Instinctively she raised her rapier, just barely too slow to strike first. Her wounded shoulder screamed, her vision went white, and the rapier was smashed out of her hand. Sasha narrowly dodged another swing, retrieving her fallen weapon with a hasty mage-hand. But the swordsman before her was still fresh, armed with a heavier weapon, and ready to kill her.

Above her, the lights went out, plunging the area into darkness. Sasha saw the swordsman falter, his human eyes next to useless. But before she could react, the light returned from above.

It was not a dancing light. It was pale as moonlight and tinged with green, descending like a comet on the swordsman until it wreathed him like flame.

Fear and revulsion hit her like a physical blow. Her attacker screamed, crumpling to the ground as the radiance took its toll. Beyond him, Martin loomed in the shadows, one hand clutching something against his chest, eyes glowing faintly with power.

From there, it was over quickly. The radiant flames died down, leaving the swordsman burned but alive. The other swordsman was already limping away with two of Tim’s arrows in him. With Sasha’s archer incapacitated, the remaining archer apparently didn’t like their chances against three.

Sasha watched the bandits retreat before returning to their camp where, as always, Tim was there to needlessly fuss.

“Shit, Sasha,” he muttered, pressing a kerchief to the cut below her neck. “You gotta be more careful.”

“Got you a present,” she replie, lifting the stolen quiver with her good arm.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have—look, just put that down before you hurt yourself worse.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, but carefully lowered herself to the ground by her bedroll. “I’m serious. One arrow, one flesh wound—I’ve had worse. Besides—” She bit her lip. Besides, they were bodyguards. They were supposed to be protecting Martin, not the other way around.

As if on cue, Martin was at her side, hands hovering over her wounds. “I can—if you want?”

Sasha almost laughed. “Yes, thanks, Martin. I’d rather not ruin this shirt.”

He pursed his lips in an almost smile, and put his hand carefully on her shoulder. The eerie glow suffused his eyes again, along with a single point on his chest, somewhere underneath his shirt and scarf. Holy symbol, probably, she thought muzzily. Something about the intensity of his eyes made her want to squirm away, but she gritted her teeth and rode out the feeling until the pain lessened.

“Thanks,” she said again.

Martin looked relieved. “It’s no trouble.”

“And thanks for the assist back there,” she said. “I’ve never seen a sacred flame spell up close before.”

He blinked, surprised. “Oh, really? I-I guess it’s… sort of the first time I’ve used it? On a person, that is. It’s a common spell, though.”

“Yeah, well.” Sasha pulled a face. “Last few fights I’ve been in, I wasn’t exactly in the company of god-fearing folk, you know?”

“Oh. I-I see.” His hand shook with post-battle jitters as he took it back. Sasha’s heart went out to him when she noticed; this was probably the first proper fight he’d ever been in. Shame they had to be on the wrong side of a night ambush; those were never pleasant. That feeling of violation was always the worst part.

Tim returned a few minutes later, tired-looking but satisfied. “They’re gone,” he told them. “They even dragged off the one Sasha took down. I doubt they’ll try again tonight.”

“Need any healing?” Martin offered.

“Nah, it’s just a scratch.” By now, his shirt sleeve was thoroughly soaked.

“It’s really not a problem,” Martin insisted. “My magic comes back when I sleep, remember?”

Sasha poked him hard, careful to avoid the wound. “Just take it, Tim. It wouldn’t even make a nice scar.”

Tim put his hands up, resigned. “Fine, fine. Lay it on me, Martin.”

As careful as Martin was, Tim still shuddered slightly as the healing spell wiped away the arrow graze. Martin was quietly apologetic all the while, as if he knew his amateur spellcasting was uncomfortable. But in the end, it did the job.

“So, uh…” Martin hesitated. “Was that anyone you recognized?”

“That wasn’t the Clasp,” Tim said flatly.

“Definitely not,” Sasha agreed.

Martin frowned. “You’re sure?”

“The Clasp may be criminals, but it still functions like a guild,” Sasha explained. “It’s organized. They have established businesses—drug trade, smuggling, that sort of thing—and it makes for a stable income. The only reasons they’d target someone is if they’re robbing them or fulfilling a contract.”

“And you don’t think those four were doing either of those things.”

“Nope,” Tim said blithely. “Robbery’s a high-risk business, and the Clasp won’t sanction it unless there’s a high reward. And if they were attacking us on a contract—like, say, if a certain persistent asshole sent them after us—then they’d come prepared with intel. Those idiots had no idea what to expect from us.”

“Way I see it, they spotted a campsite full of travelers they barely outnumbered and took a chance,” Sasha finished, nodding in agreement. And I doubt they’ll risk trying again tonight.”

Martin relaxed visibly. “Right. That’s… that’s good, then.”

“Sure is.” Tim swallowed a yawn. “Well, I’ve got an hour or so left on my watch. Both of you may as well get back to sleep, if you can. Sash, I’ll wake you when it’s your turn.”

“You’re a dear,” Sasha murmured, already curling up in her bedroll again.

Peaceful quiet settled over their campsite once more. Martin was already out like a light, probably worn out from all the spellcasting. For Sasha the buzz of adrenaline had passed, and she felt her weariness creep back in to take its place.

First hurdle, cleared. They’d fought off bandits while sleepy and missing some of their gear, and that boded well.

They could do this. For the first time since Martin pitched them his offer, Vasselheim seemed properly within reach.

It took another two days to reach the Silvercut Crossroads.

The road took them west over the Dividing Plains, across the bridge spanning the river, until finally the cluster of mountains marking the Ironseat Ridge seemed close enough to reach out and touch. After their one midnight attack, no other brigands or highwaymen bothered them. Either they’d run into bad luck early on, or word had gotten out that the three of them were not to be trifled with.

That suited Tim just fine. He’d felt thoroughly out of his element ever since they left the Bramblewood behind. It was too open, that was the problem—nothing but flat ground and grassland for miles around. No trees, no cover, not even a proper hill until you got up close to the mountains. He had half a mind to badger the other two into cutting through the Ironseat mountains, just to tide him over for that last long stretch of road to Emon.

Could be worse, though. He could be back in the damned swamp.

Tim set his jaw. If Danny could make it from Stilben to Stormcrest when they were kids, then he could hold out without complaining about a bit of grass.

The sun was setting past the mountain peaks when they reached the crossroads. It wasn’t much to look at, lovely view notwithstanding. There was a trough and a place to hitch horses, at least. Scattered in the grass off the roads were the remains of camps set up and abandoned. Charred wood from old cooking fires, stakes and tattered bits of canvas, and other refuse showed where previous travelers had bedded down for the night.

At the point where the two roads met, a single sign post helpfully indicated each direction. To the west, on the road they currently traveled, lay Emon. To the southeast, winding around the outskirts of the mountain, lay Kymal. Northward, in the opposite direction on the road to Kymal, led to Kraghammer in the Cliffkeep Mountains. And behind them, of course, was Westruun.

“We can stop here,” Martin said in a hesitantly neutral tone, like he couldn’t decide whether to make it a command or a request.

“Sounds good,” said Sasha.

Their nightly routine was still a bit clumsy and stilted, but it was beginning to take form as a proper routine. Martin tended to the horses while Sasha and Tim picked a spot and laid out their things for the night. Luckily there was still plenty of light to work by, and between the three of them they managed to set up camp without much of a struggle. Trail rations made for a bland but sufficient dinner; there wasn’t much else to be had.

“Straight shot to Emon, right?” Sasha asked, looking out to the road ahead.

“More days of wandering out in the open,” Tim said testily, chewing on a particularly tough bit of dried meat. “No towns or anything, so. Hope we’re all used to eating like this.”

“You could hunt,” Sasha said dryly.

“Sash, you know the plains aren’t where I’m at my best. I need cover.”

“Um, actually,” Martin broke in. “Technically both roads lead to Emon, so.”

“Both?” Sasha echoed.

“That one, I mean,” Martin pointed to the road that led south. “That way leads to Kymal, but eventually it bends to the west and passes through the Emerald Outpost before reaching Emon. It’s longer—it’d probably take at least another week—but there are more towns to stop in, and it’s not pure grassland all the way.”

“Ohh, Martin, don’t tempt Tim,” Sasha said, half-joking.

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Tim said quietly. It was a tempting offer, to be sure. But the longer they took to reach Emon, the longer it would take to reach Vasselheim and its safety. He couldn’t ask that of Sasha, not just for his own comfort.

“Though, now I think of it…” Sasha frowned, considering. “If we’re being followed… they haven’t caught up yet, have they? So maybe if we covered our tracks properly, they’d assume we went west to go straight to Emon. Maybe it’d be better to throw them off.”

“But the delay,” Tim reminded her.

“Right, right.”

“I’ve got a spell I could use,” Martin offered. Before either of them could answer, he pulled his pouch into his lap and dug through it. After a moment of searching he drew out a few things—a book, a small mirror, a palm-sized stone polished to perfect smoothness and etched with runes—before finding what he was looking for. Laying a set of four dice on the ground between them, he put everything else back in the bag.

“What sort of spell?” Sasha asked, instantly curious.

Martin shook the dice carefully in his palm. “It’s called Augury,” he answered. “Just a bit of light divination. I can ask about a course of action, and the spell will tell me if it’s a good idea or not.”

Sasha’s eyes lit up with interest. “The dice tell you?”

“Yeah. Sixes are good, ones are bad, and if it doesn’t have an answer for me they’ll fall on everything but sixes and ones.”

“Just as long as you don’t have to slice up an animal and read its entrails or something,” said Tim, leaning forward eagerly.

“Pretty sure that’s haruspicy, actually…”

“Bless you,” said Tim. “Let’s see it, then.”

“Right.” Martin shifted to sit crosslegged, pulling a second scarf from his pouch as he did so. He laid it on top of the grass, smoothed it out flat, and closed his eyes.

The air around them changed. Tim could feel it, practically smell it on the breeze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he became abruptly and sharply aware of himself, of the physical space he took up. He could feel his tongue in his mouth, limp and shapeless and cumbersome, he could feel the breath going in and out of his chest, and if he focused further he could almost feel his own heartbeat. He fidgeted uncomfortably, hating the awareness, unable to shake the idea that if he lost it, he might choke on his tongue. He might forget how to breathe. His heart might forget how to beat.

He felt small, and weak, and petty, and more than anything else he felt like everyone and everything that saw him knew it.

Martin opened his eyes, and cast the dice onto the cloth. They rolled end over end, finally settling after a few seconds had passed.

Four ones.

The spell ended without warning or fanfair, and Tim barely stopped himself from gasping for breath.

“Well,” Martin said quietly. “That’s… not what I expected.”

“What—” Sasha’s voice almost shook. “You rolled four ones, so I take it that wasn’t good?”

“I asked what would happen if we took the road straight to Emon,” Martin answered, frowning. “I don’t know why—usually for questions as broad as that, I get a mix of the two.”

“What about the other road?” Sasha pressed. “Can you ask again?”

“I can—yeah, I can cast it again, I’m about to sleep anyway.” Martin pursed his lips worriedly. “Just bear with me, I guess. I know it’s not fun to watch.”

This time, Tim was prepared when the feeling came to him. In fact, he rode it out pretty successfully, if he did say so himself. It wasn’t a nice feeling, but… well, if this what it felt like to borrow power from a god, the least Tim could do was get used to it.

This time, when Martin cast the dice, they landed on an even split of two fours and two ones.

“Guess that settles that.” Sasha heaved a sigh. “Looks like we’re taking the long way, then.”

“You could try casting it again tomorrow?” Tim said hopefully. “In case you got a false positive—or, negative or whatever.”

Martin still looked troubled. “Sure, yeah… And if it’s the same?”

“Then we take the long way,” Tim said simply. “I’d rather get a mix of good and bad than just the bad, thanks ever so much.”

“Yeah, that’s… probably for the best.” Martin put the dice away. “Wow. That’s… wasn’t expecting that.”

“Was that your first time casting that spell?” Sasha asked.

“Er, sort of, yeah.” Martin pursed his lips. “I think I mentioned I was very new? I’m still figuring it all out, and my connection can be… spotty, sometimes.”

“Well, it worked out this time,” Tim pointed out. “Good think you checked the paths when you did.”

Martin had first watch that night, and he seemed to make good use of it. As Tim bedded down, a wisp of scented smoke reached his nostrils, and he looked over to find that Martin had lit a stick of incense in the campfire coals. Thin gray wisps curled up from the tip, spreading the sweet smell to the whole crossroads. As Tim watched, sleepy-eyed, Martin dug something out of his pouch, held it in his palm, and focused.

For just a moment, the uncomfortable sensation from before returned. Tim shifted in his bedroll, fighting the urge to tuck his head under the blanket and sleep through the night like a frightened child. This time it passed quickly, tension snapping like a thread wound too tight.

Over by the campfire, Martin heaved a sigh put the incense aside to let it burn down. Tim wondered briefly about it, before sleep swiftly overtook him and he knew no more.

Sasha hated it when she woke before her watch was due to start.

Granted, she hadn’t traveled like this in years, but waking up before she was meant to was always a pain. She needed to be alert, she needed all the sleep she could get, so why was her body insisting on waking up before it was time?

She waited for the exhaustion to crash over her like a punishment, but to her surprise, all she felt was the softness of her makeshift pillow, the smooth patch of ground beneath her that she’d cleared of twigs and rocks before lying down, and the sturdy thickness of her cloak and bedroll. It was cold outside of them, the late winter chill leaking through in faint wisps. But she was warm, and the knowledge that the cold couldn’t reach her in here only made her drift deeper into drowsy comfort.

It was then that she heard the singing.

Low, soft, as faint as the cold. But it was there, quiet and soothing, folding her further into the comfort of rest.

Somewhat reluctantly, Sasha opened her eyes and lifted her head.

Martin sat by the glow of the burned-down campfire, head tipped back to watch the sky. Sasha could see his breath come out in pale clouds as he continued to sing, rocking slightly back and forth in time to the melody.

Beside her, Tim was breathing quietly and deeply. That in itself was a miracle, because no matter what Tim might claim, he snored.

Sasha cast her eyes upward to the moon, noting its place in the sky. It was almost her turn to keep watch. May as well get up; if she went back to sleep now, she’d only make herself drowsy and muddled when Martin did wake her. With some reluctance, she crawled out of her bedroll with her cloak wrapped tightly around her. Over by the fire, Martin went silent.

The coals were still warm when she joined him, and she sighed with relief when it chased the cold from her face. “Didn’t know you sang,” she said, keeping her voice low.

He shrugged. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Don’t think so. And it’s fine.” Sasha hoped he could see her reassuring smile. Human eyes were a bit spotty in the dark. “You didn’t have to stop, you know. You’ve got a nice voice.”

Martin fidgeted, muttering dismissively. “Not that good.”

“I mean it,” Sasha insisted. “I’ve heard people who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I almost went right back to sleep when I heard you.” He looked away, though she could see the beginnings of a smile trying its best to creep over his face. “If this cleric business doesn’t work out for you, you’ve got a promising bardic career.”

For a moment, the relaxed slump of Martin’s spine went rigid. It passed quickly, though not before Sasha noticed.

“Martin?” she said hesitantly, when he didn’t reply. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “It’s fine, really, just… was it that obvious?”

“Was…?” Sasha’s sleepy mind caught up, and her eyes widened. “Oh. You were a bard?”

“Ehh.” Martin shrugged again. “I went to school for it, at least. Wasn’t really much of a singer, though, that was more of a hobby.”

“Play an instrument, then?”

“Er… no.” Martin looked away, fidgeting again. “I was, uh. I-I mean, I told you I’ve always been interested in history and lore. But I was sort of—I wrote poetry.” He said it in a rush, clearly embarrassed.

“Ohhh.” Sasha tried not to sound too delighted. “A holy man, a singer, and a poet. You’re a man of many talents, Mr. Blackwood.” She was going for a laugh and got a smile, which—good enough. “Do you still write?”

“Not in a while. I don’t think I could write like I used to, if I tried. The whole bard thing…” Martin’s voice trailed off, his breath curling in clouds that faded and vanished. “It didn’t work out, that’s all. Didn’t even finish school.”

“I’m sorry,” Sasha said quietly, for lack of a better thing to say.

Martin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine. Lots of things haven’t worked out the way I wanted. The bard thing’s the least of it, really.”

“…Oh.” Sasha watched as Martin prodded at the campfire with a stick. “Can I ask what happened?” It came out quieter than she intended, and Martin took so long to answer that she wondered if he’d heard her at all.

“My mum got sick,” he said finally. “I had to come back home, take care of things, and… I ended up giving up a lot.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s been a while since she died.” Martin tossed the stick into the fire. “I’d hardly seen her for months when it happened. N-not that I didn’t try, it’s just… she was traditional, she didn’t like some of the things I… and after I went off to school for it she—I’d send her letters, but—and then by the time I went home…” Martin shook his head. “Sorry, that’s not—you didn’t want to hear that—”

“It’s alright, Martin, I was the one who asked.” Sasha hesitated, then carefully laid her hand against his arm. “I take it this is what you meant, when you said you didn’t have anything keeping you in Westruun?”

“Yeah, more or less.” Martin heaved a quiet sigh. “Just felt like I ended up alone overnight. Never had a lot of friends, and the few I did have… they’d moved on already.”

Sasha nodded. “One of them’s in Vasselheim, right?”

“Two, actually. I’d really like to see them again. I’ve—” Abruptly Martin went silent and sat up straight.

Instinctively, Sasha turned her attention outward. It didn’t take her long to spot what Martin had—it was hard to miss a person standing within spitting range of your campsite. With a flick of her hand, she whispered a message and aimed it at Tim’s ear.

“Wake up, there’s someone here.”

Tim was up in seconds, short sword in hand even as he blinked sleep from his eyes. His gaze landed on the tall, cloaked figure standing just beyond their camp, and he eased into a ready stance.

The figure lifted their empty hands, letting their cloak slip back to reveal no weapons at their side. “I don’t mean any harm. I saw your fire from a distance. May I join you?”

Sasha shared a glance with the others. Tim was as wary as ever around strangers, and Martin was watching the figure with obvious suspicion. She didn’t blame him; this could be some sort of trap. Just because they hadn’t been attacked in a couple of days didn’t mean they never would be again.

“I won’t stay long.” Their visitor had the sort of voice that carried even when speaking softly. “Just a moment to rest and warm myself, and then I’ll be off.”

Sasha looked to Tim again. The wariness was softening, just a bit. It… couldn’t hurt, could it? It wasn’t like there were many other places to stop and rest nearby.

“Martin?” said Sasha, because after all, he was the one paying them.

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” The traveler moved closer to the fire, choosing a spot to sit at a polite distance from the rest of them. The cowl went back, and the dim firelight fell upon a dark, handsome face. Deep black eyes seemed to draw in the light without giving it back. A fresh-looking scar curved up the side of his jaw to his cheek. His hood and cloak, draped neatly over his shoulders, were lined with black iridescent feathers.

“So, do you always wander around in the middle of the night unarmed?” she asked. “Seems a bit risky. I mean, we could be anyone.”

The stranger hesitated, and it was Martin who broke the silence. “Not everyone needs a weapon to be dangerous.” Unlike Tim, he hadn’t let his guard down an inch.

“I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself,” the man said to Sasha. “But thank you for your concern.” Then, turning his head, he met Martin’s suspicion with cool patience. “And I’m really not here to harm anyone, I assure you.”

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Tim broke in, cautiously friendly. “We had some trouble a couple of nights ago. Late-night ambush, you know how it is.”

“Yes, of course, I understand completely.”

“Great,” Tim said brightly. “So, on that note, what are you doing out here? Who are you?”

“You may call me Blake,” he replied, and Martin scoffed quietly under his breath. “Yes, you’re very clever, obviously it’s a false name.” White teeth flashed in a sheepish smile. “Please don’t be offended—we’ve only just met, after all. As for why I’m in these parts… that question’s a bit more difficult.” He toyed with his cloak, preening feathers with his fingers. “I suppose you could say I’m keeping an eye out.”

He might have left it at that, if Tim hadn’t broken the silence. “Gonna tell us what you’re looking for, or are you that dedicated to the alluring-cryptic-stranger bit?”

Blake raised an eyebrow at him. “Alluring?”

“I know what I said.”

That got a quiet laugh, much to Tim’s satisfaction. It was a brief thing, there and gone again the next moment. “Something dangerous,” Blake replied. “Potentially dangerous, at least. The sort of thing that might draw my lady’s attention.” The feathers flashed in the firelight again, black and iridescent. Raven’s feathers.

“You serve the Raven Queen?” said Sasha, and Blake smiled.

“I do.”

Sasha relaxed the rest of the way. The Raven Queen’s people were good, if a bit odd. Hard to find fault with people who took issue with undead abominations. “Well. Don’t think you’ll find anything like that here. It’s been quiet all night, hasn’t it, Martin?”

“Not unless your queen picks fights with owls,” Martin said dryly.

His tone was biting, but Sasha could see the way his hands trembled in his lap. Poor man was spooked, not that she blamed him after the last time they had late-night visitors. Tim must have noticed too, because he reached over to give him a secretive but reassuring pat.

Rather than being offended, Blake simply nodded to concede the point. “Well, you’re not wrong. That’s why I’m merely passing through.”

“Wait, what kind of danger are you looking for?” Tim asked sharply. “Should we be worried?”

“You’re safe for now, I think,” Blake assured him. “As for what the future holds, I couldn’t tell you precisely. It’s what I’m meant to find out.” He paused. “And, at the end of the day, it really isn’t up to me.”

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” Sasha pressed, but Blake simply smiled and continued to warm his hands.

Their visitor sat with them a few minutes longer, eyes hooded as he rested, before taking a breath and rising again. “And on that note, I must leave you. Thank you for allowing me a place at your fire, however brief.”

“Sure,” Sasha said uncertainly. “Good luck with your search, I guess.”

Blake smiled. For all that he was finished resting, it was the weariest smile Sasha had ever seen. “And good luck on your journey, wherever it takes you.” His black eyes flicked from Sasha to Tim to Martin. “All of you.”

Tim grinned again with all his teeth. It wasn’t threatening, though, far from it. Sometimes Tim just took one look at someone and decided to like them. “Thanks, Blake, or whoever you are. Hope we run into each other again.”

“Goodbye,” Martin said stiffly.

Blake nodded to them, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and set off into the night.

“Martin?” Tim said, once their visitor was gone. “If you know something we don’t, now’s the time to say it.”

“To be fair, that was pretty weird,” Sasha pointed out.

“He wasn’t human,” Martin said with a certainty that surprised her.

There was an awkward silence as Sasha and Tim exchanged a glance. Sasha coughed. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, Martin, but neither am I.”

Martin at least had the grace to look chagrined. “No, I mean—he was something else.” He pursed his lips, troubled. “I don’t know what he was, but he wasn’t—he wasn’t human, or elf, or tiefling, or… I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Sasha sighed. She was right back to feeling uneasy again. “Well, he’s gone now,” she said. “So, best thing we can do is get all the rest we can. Speaking of, it’s my turn to watch, so both of you go back to bed.”

“Are you sure?’ Martin asked worriedly. “I can stay up a little longer, keep you company.”

“Bed, Martin.”

Grumbling, he rose to comply. Tim clapped her on the shoulder and returned to bed, and Sasha was left alone by the fire, keeping watch while her companions rested.

It was odd, though. Sasha could see quite well in the dark. She prided herself on it, especially when she spent so much time joined at the hip to a human who couldn’t. But as she looked in the direction that Blake had taken, and then every direction besides, she couldn’t see where he’d gone.

He’d simply vanished, as if he’d melted into the shadows themselves.

Chapter Text

When dawn broke, Martin cast his Augury spell again, to the same results. Within an hour, they were mounted up and heading down the southern path.

“So that was weird, right?” said Tim, once he realized no one else was going to bring it up. “What happened last night? That was a weird thing to happen, and he was a weird person.”

“Didn’t stop you, did it?” Sasha answered dryly, and Tim put his hand to his heart, because honestly, she could be so rude sometimes.

“It’s called being polite,” he retorted. “Besides, I was just trying to make up for Martin.”

“I was just trying to guard the camp,” Martin grumbled. “You know, my job at the time?”

“No, it’s fine, Martin,” Sasha assured him. “It was good to be wary, because it was very weird, and we had no way of knowing his intentions.”

“Still don’t, in fact,” Tim added. “But what are the odds we’ll even see him again? He’s wandering the plains and we’re headed to Vasselheim.”

“With the route we’re taking, we’ll be spending plenty of time in the plains ourselves,” Sasha reminded him. “It’s a big place, but you never know.”

Tim tried not to pull a face. At least if they were going the long way around Ironseat, they’d spend more time by the mountains. “How much time did you say this would add to the journey?” he asked, with a glance at Martin.

“Should add less than a week,” Martin replied. “I’d say… between three and six days? According to the maps.”

“And Kymal?”

“We can make it by tonight if we hurry.”

“Oh we are absolutely making it tonight,” Sasha said firmly, nudging her horse into a trot. “We’ve got three to six extra days on the road, gentlemen! I’m not missing any opportunity to sleep in a real bed.”

“I mean, not to split hairs, but you wouldn’t be missing it, just delaying it,” Tim pointed out.

“No, she’s right,” said Martin. “If we don’t make it to Kymal tonight, then we’ll get there too early tomorrow to bother stopping.”

“Chop-chop!” Sasha barked over her shoulder at them, and Tim chuckled as he caught up to her.

“So!” he said, because it was apparently going to be up to him to keep conversation going. “What sort of disaster do you think would’ve befallen us, if we’d taken the straight path to Emon?”

“More bandits, maybe?” Martin suggested.

“Better bandits?” Sasha offered. “The last ones weren’t really up to scratch, were they.”

“Or, you know, you two are on the run from a criminal,” Martin pointed out. “Taking the straight path could’ve given them the opportunity to catch up.”

“True,” Sasha said with a nod. “Rentoul’s got a very one-track mind. If he’s figured out we’re heading for Emon, he’ll want to take the straight path.”

“Does that mean we’re in the clear for now?” Tim asked. “Think we’ve lost him?”

“Probably not,” said Martin. “The spell predicted weal and woe if we went this way.”

“It predicted—what?”

“Weal and woe. It’s sort of… the terminology, I guess? For the Augury spell. Weal for good results, woe for bad. Going straight west yielded only woe, but going south yielded both.” Martin paused. “So, we’re not really avoiding the bad, just… balancing it out with some good.”

“Bit vague,” Tim remarked. “The spell doesn’t tell you what kind of good?”

Martin looked embarrassed. “It’s not a very strong spell.”

“Well, you’re a cleric of the god of knowledge,” said Tim. “Couldn’t you just… I don’t know. Ask? Isn’t there a spell for that?”

It was an innocent question, but the look of miserable embarrassment on Martin’s face made him regret asking. “Well, yes,” Martin admitted. “There’s a spell called Divination. But I’m not strong enough to cast it yet.”

“Oh.” Awkwardly, Tim reached over and gave him a cautious pat on the shoulder. “Well, that’s fine. Not like we’ve ever known the future before. I’m sure we’ll figure it out when it comes.”

“Isn’t a weal like a welt?” Sasha asked.

Tim blinked. The dejection on Martin’s face was swiftly replaced with confusion. “What?”

“A weal,” she repeated. “That’s like an injury, right? When you get smacked so hard the skin looks all raised and swollen? That’s a weal.”

“It—it’s another word for prosperity!” Martin sputtered out.

“Really? I’ve never heard it used like that before.”

“I mean, sure, it’s a little antiquated, but—”

“Just seems like an odd choice. Like whoever wrote the spell down just wanted the alliteration.”

“Words can mean more than one thing!”

Tim stared longingly at the road ahead.

The sun was balanced on the edge of the horizon when the lights of Kymal flickered into view. The sky overhead was deep cerulean and purple, overcast but still lit by the sunset, and the partial loss of daylight was just enough to make the city lights stand out from the distance. At the pace they were going, they could make it to the city gates before the sun dipped completely out of view.

“Well, I for one am ready to eat and sleep,” Sasha announced.

“And bathe,” Tim added.

“And bathe,” she agreed with a nod. “Not in that order, though.”

“Tim, you’ve been to Kymal before, right?” Martin asked. “What do you remember about it?”

“Not much,” Tim admitted, thinking back. The job had been a one-way escort trip, so there hadn’t been much reason to stick around once the caravan had arrived. “Small for a city, but it’s got a decent night life around the Maiden’s Wish. I’m not much of a gambler, though, so I just stayed the night at a cheap little inn, then hopped on the next caravan headed back to Westruun. Not much to tell, really.”

“What inn was it?”

“It was attached to the Wish,” Tim explained. “They called it the Outrigger, if I remember right. Not too bad a place, if you don’t mind the noise.”

“I could do without noise,” he heard Sasha mutter.

“Too bad, Sasha, night life means drunk people.”

“Fantastic.”

Tim shrugged, grinning at the annoyance on her face. “Hey, the people here work hard and play hard, and I can respect that.”

The closer they got to the city, however, the more the quiet persisted. Even as they approached the city gates—neither as high nor as imposing as the walls that surrounded Westruun—Tim could hear none of the music and nighttime revelry that he remembered from his past visit. The gates stood open, but at Tim looked around, he couldn’t see a single guard.

“Odd,” he murmured. “Where is everyone?”

“Gatehouse,” Martin said. He pointed to the stone structure built into the wall beside the entrance. The windows were well-lit; when Tim looked, he spotted the missing guards watching from inside. “They’re keeping watch, but they’re not coming out.”

“Huh. Wasn’t like that last time.” Within moments they were through the gate and stepping onto the still streets within. The gatehouse door remained firmly shut.

“Bit quiet for a city with a night life, too,” Sasha pointed out. “I’m not sure I like this. Martin?”

Martin’s gaze lingered on the gatehouse. “Let’s find that inn,” he said after a moment. “If something’s happening, people are bound to be talking about it. Lead the way, Tim.”

“Right.” Tim guided his horse forward. “Give me a minute, it’s been a while.”

Even with the streets empty, it wasn’t hard to find the Maiden’s Wish. Whoever had built the place knew to put it right at the center of town, in the middle of a cluster of inns and drinking dens. It was a very convenient arrangement for the customers. In Tim’s memory the lights were a bright mix of oil lamps and mage lights, and the whole center of Kymal bustled with rowdy day laborers and tourists taking advantage of the food, drink, and games.

The lights were still as bright as ever. Even the windows seemed well lit, though most of them were shuttered. In spite of this, the streets were deserted, and when they reached the Outrigger Inn, a sign hanging on the front door read NO VACANCIES.

“Not a great sign,” Martin said, with a nervous look at the sky. There wasn’t much daylight left. “I don’t like the idea of wandering around after dark in this place.”

“Let’s keep moving, then,” Tim said tightly. “There’s bound to be somewhere with space.”

The next two inns they checked had similar signs up, and the third was fully locked and shuttered, but as they approached the fourth, the front door was flung open. Bright light spilled from the entryway, and a voice hailed them within.

“Hey!” A woman stood in the doorway, whisper-shouting urgently to them. “What in the Nine Hells are you three doing out here?”

Martin was already dismounting. “We’re just looking for a place to stay,” he replied. “Do you have room?”

“Yes we’ve got room,” she said in a rush. “Just—hurry up and get inside, alright?” She turned back and shouted to someone within, and moments later a pair of nervous-looking young men joined her. “They can see to your horses, I’ll take your payment inside.”

Tim hurriedly dismounted and grabbed his saddlebags, as the others did the same. The two stablehands took the reins of their mounts from them, and the innkeeper impatiently waved them all inside.

The main dining area was brightly lit and fairly crowded, but the mood was quietly grim. Conversation was hushed. Drinkers were sullenly quiet, not rowdy. A few customers looked up at them with vague curiosity that faded quickly. The innkeeper led them up to the counter, then ducked behind it to pull out a customer ledger and a money box.

“We’ve got one room available,” she said. “Two beds, but I’m sure the three of you can sort that out amongst yourselves.”

“Well—” Sasha began.

“The important part is, if you want to stay the night, you keep the lights on,” the innkeeper went on. “If those lights go out, the three of you are out on the street, understand?”

“Now wait a second,” Tim said sharply. “That’s a lot of demands for one night in one room.”

The innkeeper glared at him. “You can take it or leave it,” she snapped. “If you don’t like it, feel free to grab your horses and try your luck back out in the streets. In case you didn’t notice, the sun’s gone down already. I’m already risking having my stablehands out this late as it is.”

Martin looked taken aback, and Tim felt his temper flare. He opened his mouth, only for Sasha to elbow her way forward.

“Okay, wait—just—hold on.” Sasha took full advantage of her horn-enhanced height as she addressed the innkeeper, but she kept her tone carefully civil. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, we’re just a bit confused. We’ve been on the road all day, and we only just got here.” She glanced around at the subdued crowd in the dining area. “You’re talking like going outside at night is dangerous.”

The innkeeper scoffed quietly, but her irritation softened. “That’s because it is. D’you three want the room or not?”

A helpless look passed between the three of them. Sasha shrugged. Tim frowned but nodded reluctantly. “We’ll take it,” Martin said at last, already digging around for his purse. “How much?”

The woman traded payment for a room key, then put the money box away and marked something down in her ledger.

“There’s something going around in the city,” she said. “Some sickness, or curse, or something. Only seems to go after people who go out in the dark. So, people have been staying inside at night, locking the doors and keeping the lights on. Seems safer that way.”

Tim remembered the lack of guards, the shut and locked gatehouse, the silent streets beyond. People, in his experience, didn’t usually agree on things that fast. “How long?” he asked.

The innkeeper shrugged. “A few weeks,” she replied. “It started off with just a few, but it’s been happening to more and more people. A few have died, so. People are starting to get scared.”

“Is it really wise to gather like this?” Sasha asked. “If it is a sickness?”

“I don’t think it is one,” the woman said flatly. “At least not a normal one. People don’t pass it to each other, they just go out in the dark and don’t come back, until someone goes looking and finds them tucked away somewhere, collapsed or unconscious.” She kept her voice low. “It’s happened less since people stopped going out at night and started keeping the lights on. Since there’s no way to figure out what’s causing this without going out and looking for it… well. We’re hoping it keeps whatever this is under control. The Margrave’s sent for help in Emon, but who knows how long that’ll take?”

Another customer called her away after that, leaving the three of them to bring their things up to their room for the night. As promised, it had two beds. Without a word, Sasha and Tim moved to take one.

“Are you sure?” Martin asked. “I can always—”

“What, sleep on the floor of the room you’re paying for?” Sasha asked. “It’s fine.”

“We’ll behave ourselves,” Tim said dryly, and accepted Sasha’s elbow to the ribs. “Now, as tired as I am, I’m also hungry, and I’d love to wash out the taste of trail dust. So.” He motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

It was even harder to find an empty table than it had been to find an inn with a vacancy. When they finally managed to sit down with food in front of them, they were sharing space with strangers. Tim rubbed elbows with Martin on one side and a bearded human on the other. Across from them, Sasha managed to squeeze in when a grizzled halfling woman moved over for her.

“Thanks,” she said, and the halfing grunted over her stew.

Martin eyed him hesitantly for a moment, gathering his nerve. “Um, excuse me,” he said politely, and the halfling reluctantly glanced up. “Sorry, we’re not from here—”

“I can tell,” the halfing replied dryly.

“Right, yeah. I was just—I’m curious about this curse.” Martin fiddled nervously with his fork. “Would you mind telling me about it?”

When the woman hesitated, considering it, Tim decided to chip in. He wasn’t sure where Martin was going with this, but it couldn’t hurt. “You might as well tell him,” he said. “He’s a cleric, you know. Specializes in knowing things. He might know something about this.”

After a moment, the halfling nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“The innkeeper described it as a sickness,” said Martin. “So, what sort of symptoms are there?”

“Nothing fancy,” the halfling replied. “Just weakness, really.”

“Weakness.”

“Yeah. Happened to my sister. She took the dog out one night, and stayed out there long enough for me to worry.” The halfling’s expression darkened. “When I found her, she was barely awake. I almost had to carry her back inside. She was pale, almost gray—gods, she looked like a corpse. Weak as a new kitten, too.”

“And everyone affected has been like that?” Martin asked, voice gentle.

“More or less. The ones that survive, anyway.” Her mouth tightened. “Some people have gone out at night and don’t get found until morning. Dead, without a mark on ‘em. Just pale and stiff. It ain’t natural.”

“That sounds horrible,” said Sasha. “Is anything being done about it?”

“The Margrave’s doing his best,” the halfling said with a shrug. “Set a curfew, keeps the lanterns lit, sent word to Emon.”

The man sitting next to Tim scoffed. “There’s not much he can do. The most trouble we usually see is drunk and rowdy gamblers, not this.”

“At least we’re seeing less of the drunk and rowdy gamblers,” the halfling snorted.

“Yeah, and now we’re getting out-of-towners asking about the creepy nighttime curse instead. You win some, you lose some.”

“You get a lot of nosy questions, I take it,” Tim remarked.

“We had somebody harassing Stephanie yesterday,” the halfling said, pulling a face. “Remember him?”

Her tablemate scowled. “No. When was this? Is Steph alright?”

“I told you about this yesterday, remember?” the halfling said. “Scrawny half-elf, dark hair, weird-looking scars, creepy stare? He wouldn’t stop asking her about her wife, and then he flat-out vanished. Nobody’s seen him since.”

“Huh. Good riddance.”

Martin, frowning, leaned forward. “Sorry, did you say—”

The door to the inn burst open and slammed shut in quick succesion. Tim’s hand was already at the handle of his knife as he turned to find one of the stablehands slumped against the door, breathing heavily.

Only one of the stablehands.

“Andy?” the innkeeper called over. “What’s going on? Where’s your brother?”

Andy looked fearfully to one of the windows. “I-I don’t know, I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought he was with me. I thought he was right behind me.”

“What do you mean he…” The innkeeper’s voice trailed off.

Frightened tears were already springing to the stablehand’s eyes. “We—we were putting the horses away. And the shadows—they moved. I saw them move, I swear.”

Martin was already up and out of his seat. “Show me.”

Andy gaped at him, round-eyed with fear. “W-what?”

“Yeah, Martin,” said Sasha, though she was also rising from her seat. “What?”

Martin turned around and met her eyes squarely, before shifting his attention to Tim. “I think we should probably check on the horses,” he said carefully. “Don’t you?”

Bewildered, Tim looked to Sasha. She looked uneasy, even as she jerked her head in the direction Martin was taking.

“He’s paying,” she reminded him.

“Fuck, he’s paying,” Tim muttered as he rose from his seat and followed.

It was only with all three of them coming along that Andy the stablehand agreed to go back out to the stables. Even then, Tim noticed that he kept as close to the center of the group as he could. This left Martin in the lead, which was less than ideal since Martin barely knew where the door to the stables was.

It was fully dark out. The streets were lit with lamps and magic, casting long shadows into the streets. Tim kept an eye on them, but the only movement he saw was that of their own shadows as they made their way into the inn’s adjoining stables.

Their horses were stabled already, but their tack was left strewn across the ground. In the midst of the mess, slumped against the door to one of the stalls, was the other stablehand. With a cry, Andy broke away from the group and ran to his side, muttering frantic assurances as his brother crumpled against him. Martin reached them next, one hand on his chest and clutching a glowing point beneath his clothes. His hand glowed with the same soft greenish light as he put his hand to the man’s shoulder. The other stablehand stirred, then jolted awake and flinched back with a strangled cry. Martin pulled his hand back and stepped away, murmuring an apology, but the younger man was too busy quietly panicking to listen.

Sasha kept close to Tim’s side at first, turning so that they had an eye on each other’s blind spots. The path between the stalls was illuminated by dim but steady light from three wall sconces, but there were plenty of shadows to go around, and the stalls themselves were dark.

“See anything?” Sasha asked quietly.

“The lamps don’t flicker,” Tim replied.

“What?”

“The lamps don’t flicker,” he repeated, keeping his voice low so that the stablehands wouldn’t hear. “There’s no way they would’ve caused the shadows to move.”

“Our shadows move when we do,” she pointed out. “They could’ve scared themselves. Not like it’s hard, with the whole town hiding when the sun goes down.”

“Nice theory,” Martin remarked as he joined them. “It’d make a lot of sense if our friend there wasn’t—how’d that halfling put it? Weak as a new kitten.”

“You’re sure?” Sasha asked. “He wasn’t just fainting out of stress, or—?”

“Stress doesn’t cause necrosis,” Martin said flatly. “Also, we should probably help.”

He was right. Between one stablehand trembling with fright and the other with exhaustion, it took all three of them to clear away the mess. The horses were already rubbed down and fed; all that was left was wiping down and hanging up their tack.

“Think we’re safe?” Tim asked, when he and Martin were both out of earshot of the shaken stablehands.

“Not really,” Martin replied. “But as long as we all stay in the light, we should be—we won’t be caught by surprise.”

“Caught by surprise?” Tim echoed. “By what?”

On the far end of the stable, where Sasha was hanging up her saddle, the lamp sputtered and went dark. She froze, one hand straying to the handle of her rapier. Then, without warning, she swayed, staggered, and nearly fell to her knees before catching herself against the wall.

Martin charged forward, axe drawn. His lips were moving, whispering a spell that Tim couldn’t hear. Bright, almost blinding light burst from the axe in his hand, scattering the darkness around Sasha and the burnt-out lamp.

A single shadow remained, as if in defiance of Martin’s spell. It hovered in the middle of the floor, ghostlike, though it had no clear form or face, and Tim could only barely see through it. Tim saw Sasha recoil from the sudden brightness, straight into its hazy, outstretched hands.

“Sasha, behind you!”

She was clearly weakened, but her reflexes had always been good. Sasha turned, and in a single fluid motion she drew her rapier and stabbed at it. The blade went through it with no resistance, and the living shadow barely faltered.

Tim overtook Martin, drawing his own sword. As he stepped into the light cast from Martin’s axe, he couldn’t help but flinch. It made him feel the way the open plains did—exposed, unprotected, longing for the comforting safety of cover and darkness. Gritting his teeth, he shook the feeling off and lashed out with his short sword. It felt like slashing through mist; the blade passed through something, but the darkness slid seamlessly back into place.

It reached for Sasha again. The rapier slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground. Tim barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground, too. Grayish-black bruises bloomed on her skin, spreading like thin ink. Tim pulled her back, and the shadow followed, eager and hungry.

“No,” Martin spat out. His voice punched through the air like a physical weight. “You can’t have her.”

The light blazed brighter. The shadow recoiled as it burst into flames, form twisting in pain as the fire ripped it apart.

And then the stables were still and silent again, apart from the quick, frightened breaths of the stablehands behind them.

Slowly, Martin reached up and cast another light spell to the burned-out lamp. “We should go,” he said shakily. “There’ll be more of them nearby.”

The stablehands stayed close to them, never leaving the circle of light from Martin’s axe. Tim let Sasha use him for a crutch as they went; a healing spell from Martin took away the bruising where the shadow had touched her, but she still leaned heavily on him and trembled from the effort of walking.

All eyes were on them when they returned to the inn. The innkeeper was there to meet them, eyes roving over them all with unease and concern.

“We were attacked,” Andy blurted out. “By—I don’t even know what it was. It was like the darkness was walking.” His wide eyes turned to Martin. “I saw him, though. Don’t know what he did, but he destroyed it with one spell.”

“I’d say it was a group effort,” Tim broke in. Because really, he and Sasha had managed a couple hits on it before Martin burned the thing.

Though he couldn’t argue with the results.

Martin fidgeted as all the attention turned to him. “It’s not a sickness or a curse,” he said, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. “They’re called shadows. They’re a type of undead, sort of a ghost the feeds on strength and vitality. They’re not exactly—I mean, you can sleep off the effects and be fine, but they kill by draining their victims completely. A-and they’re weak to holy spells. So if you can get ahold of any clerics, or paladins, that sort of thing…” His voice trailed off.

The innkeeper moved first, ushering her stablehands into chairs before going back behind the counter. Taking up the money box, she removed their payment and placed it on the counter. “That’s a night and a meal on the house,” she said shortly.

“You really don’t—” Martin began.

“You three protected my employees,” she snapped. “And that’s something we can tell the Margrave in the morning. You’ve paid for your night.”

“Thank you,” Martin said meekly.

At Tim’s side, Sasha stirred. “So I can sleep this off?” she asked, words slurring together.

“It’d be best if you did,” Martin replied.

Her head sagged with relief. “Right… wait, we still haven’t eaten.”

The innkeeper’s weathered face softened. “Your food’ll be cold by now. I can have a tray sent up to your room.”

The three of them escaped upstairs before any of the inn’s other customers could stop and question them. Once the door was shut behind them, Tim deposited Sasha gently on a bed. He only meant to put her down for a moment, but almost immediately she rolled over and went to sleep with her shoes still on. Tim tugged them off himself, and she never even stirred. Just to be safe, he felt her pulse.

“She’ll be alright,” Martin assured him.

“You’re sure about that?”

Martin nodded. “Shadows consume life force and drain your physical strength. They can only kill by draining you completely. She’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

“…Right.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin went on, hands twisting together. “I should’ve been faster, I didn’t mean for either of you to be in danger—”

“It’s—Martin, it’s fine,” Tim cut him off. “We knew it might be dangerous. That’s why you hired us, isn’t it?”

“For bandits and highwaymen, not the undead!”

Tim shrugged. “Things happen. We survived. You said yourself she’ll be okay.”

Martin shrank into himself, unconvinced.

“There was one other thing you said, though,” Tim went on. “Back in the stable?” Martin frowned, clearly struggling to remember. “I’m not sure ‘said’ is the word, actually… I mean, I don’t know much about magic, but it sort of looked like you were saying it to cast a spell. If that’s even how it works.”

“Spells can have verbal components, yeah,” Martin said carefully.

“Anyway, you said ‘you can’t have her’,” Tim went on. “To the—the shadow. I didn’t think much of it at first, I figured it was just something you said to warn it off killing her. But was there more to it than that?”

Martin’s face turned grim. “I didn’t mention this downstairs,” he said. “Maybe I should’ve, but it felt like a big risk. Especially with all those frightened people, all clustered in one place. But killing is how shadows spread. If someone dies from being drained, a new shadow will rise from the corpse within an hour.”

Tim frowned. “You’re right,” he said reproachfully. “You should have mentioned it to them.”

“I didn’t want to spread paranoia on top of the fear that’s already there.” Martin shrugged helplessly. “There’s no way to prevent a new shadow rising. And they’re not very strong, but they’re hard to fight. The only thing that really harms them is radiance. As long as word gets to the Margrave about what they’re dealing with, they can send for help. But, honestly?” He glanced to the lamp, still burning brightly. “As far as I can tell, they’re as safe as they can be. Keeping lights on, staying together, staying inside at night… and now they know that holy magic works against them. At least that’s information they can actually use.”

There was a knock at the door. Tim answered it and found the innkeeper bearing the promised dinner tray.

“Your friend will be all right?” she asked as she carried the food to the table inside.

“She will,” Martin assured her with a smile. “Sleep’s the best cure for a shadow attack.”

“Good. And thank you.” The innkeeper looked both of them in the eye in turn. “Will you be staying long?”

“Just passing through,” Martin replied, a little guiltily.

“Hm. Well, all the same. You’ve been a great help.” She inclined her head to them. “Good night to you both.” With that, she was gone.

Tim looked over the tray. Three bowls of stew, fresh hunks of bread, sweet rolls, grilled vegetables. His stomach took that moment to remind him of how empty it was. With a sigh, he passed a bowl to Martin and picked up his own. Sasha would appreciate a roll in the morning.

“Still have to wonder why,” he mused. “I mean, it can’t be every day a bunch of life-draining ghosts show up and take over the place.” He looked to Martin, who was frowning over his bowl. “Can it?”

“Not that I know of,” Martin said. “It’s weird, for sure.”

They left the lamp burning when they went to bed. It was only one of the reasons that Tim took so long to fall asleep.

Sasha slept well into the morning.

When she woke, her eyelids stuck together and her neck was horrendously stiff, but she felt as if she’d been unconscious for a week. If she’d dreamed anything, she couldn’t remember it.

Most importantly, she was ravenously hungry. It couldn’t even be the comfortable itch that she usually felt between a good night’s sleep and a good breakfast. No, this was the sort of hunger that made her curl up with a quiet groan, and wonder how she was supposed to make herself eat when the hunger itself was making her nauseous.

“Sasha?” Footsteps, heavy but cautious, approached her bedside. “Are you awake?”

With some effort, Sasha poked her head out from under the covers, wriggling to free her horns from the bedsheets. She squinted, vision slowly focusing until the sight of Martin came together before her. “Please tell me you’ve got an anti-nausea spell somewhere in there.” Her voice cracked horribly.

“Afraid not.” Martin set something down on the bedside table. “Brought tea, though. The innkeeper let me borrow the kettle. Should wake you up and settle your stomach.”

“Ohh, wonderful.” Sasha sat up with a groan and rubbed her eyes until she was sure she could see straight. Then, once she trusted her hands not to tremble, she took the offered cup and sipped at it carefully. Martin’s hands hovered nearby, ready to help steady hers if need be.

True to his word, the tea soothed her stomach, and after a few more sips she found it easier to keep her eyes open. It wasn’t exactly the way she liked her tea, but it did the job. Besides, with her stomach this tender, a spoonful of honey probably wasn’t the best idea.

Sasha let out a sigh of relief. “It’s good,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Least I could do. I can’t imagine it’s fun, having the life and strength pulled from you like that.”

Memories of the previous night returned, for better or worse. Sasha grimaced and pushed them back. “How late is it?” she asked. “You could’ve woken me.”

“It’s really best that I didn’t,” Martin replied, sitting down beside her. “That thing got at least two hits on you.”

“Two hits of me, more like.”

“Right, yeah. The point is, it took a lot out of you. You needed the rest.”

“Well, at least it’s simple,” Sasha remarked. “And I slept like the dead, pun intended.”

“You really did,” Martin agreed. “I had to reassure Tim at least a dozen times that you’d actually wake up this morning.”

“Ah, he worries. Where is Tim, by the way?”

“Ordering breakfast for you,” Martin replied. “There’s some bread and a sweet roll left over from last night, if you’d rather sit a while longer.”

“Nah.” Sasha struggled up. “I’m starving and I need—well.” She looked down at herself, realizing that she’d fallen asleep the moment she’d touched the bed. “First I need a wash and a change.”

Martin gave her one of his lopsided grins. “I’ll go wait downstairs for you, then. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Martin.”

Ten minutes later, clean and in fresh clothes, Sasha swept downstairs to find Tim and Martin waiting for her at their table from last night, examining a map between them. With sunlight streaming in through the windows, the inn was much less crowded and the general mood was a great deal lighter.

Tim clapped her on the back as she sat down. “How do you feel?”

“Ask me again in about five minutes,” she said, and immediately tucked in. After the first bite, what little was left of her nausea vanished.

“So, now that we’re all here,” said Tim. “The next major city on the way to Emon is the Emerald Outpost, and it’ll take the better part of a week to get there. Martin says there’ll be little villages to stop at that aren’t marked, though, so we’re probably good on supplies for now.”

“So we’re all set to leave?” Sasha asked.

“Probably, yeah.”

Sasha paused. “And there’s… y’know, nothing more we can do to help here?”

Tim made a face. “I know the feeling, Sasha, I really do. But I don’t think we’re really equipped to deal with a ghost infestation. Unless you’ve got some holy magic somewhere in there?”

“Nope,” Sasha sighed. “I can do magic missiles no problem, though.”

“That would work,” Martin said thoughtfully. “Not as well as a holy spell, but…” His voice trailed off, and he continued frowning at the opposite wall.

“Everything alright there, boss?” Tim asked.

It took some time for the question to register. “Fine,” Martin said after a long pause. “Just thinking. Got something stuck in my head, probably nothing, but—”

“Um. E-excuse me?”

Sasha turned, mouth too full to speak clearly. There was a woman standing near their table, hands twisting in the hem of her cloak. When Sasha caught her eye, she stared back with a steadiness that Sasha could tell was forced.

“Good morning?” said Tim. “Can we help you?”

“I’m not sure,” the woman replied. “Maybe. I-I hope so. I’m sorry, my name’s Stephanie, I’m—my wife and I run the map shop in town? And I heard that, that you fought one of those things last night. One of the shadows.”

Sasha swallowed her mouthful. “Word travels fast.”

“It’s all anyone’s been talking about.” Stephanie’s eyes flickered downward, then back up again.

Martin sat up straighter, and the thoughtful haze cleared from his face. “Sorry, would you like to sit down?” he asked, gesturing to one of their table’s empty chairs.

“Thank you.” She sat, though she remained stiff and upright. “I’m sorry to bother you, I know you all must be busy. But I don’t know what else to do.”

“Kymal has guards and a Margrave for a reason, doesn’t it?” Tim pointed out.

“They’re too busy with the curse—sorry, the shadows,” Stephanie replied. “And even if the Margrave sends out word, it might be too late. I can’t afford to wait any longer.”

The three of them exchanged glances. “So, wait,” said Tim. “This doesn’t have to do with the shadows?”

“It—I don’t know. Maybe it does. I’m just not sure anymore.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Sasha suggested.

Stephanie nodded and took a deep breath. “My wife is a cartographer,” she said. “She travels a lot. Likes to keep her maps up to date. A little over a year ago there was an earthquake in the area, centered around the Ironseat Ridge, so, she’s been wanting to survey it, see if the landscape had changed. She didn’t get around to it until a week ago. My brother went with her—he usually helps her with these things.” She paused. “We have sending stones—Erin always checks in every day when she’s away. But I haven’t heard from them in almost three days.”

Tim leaned forward. “You said they were headed for the Ironseat Ridge.”

“They got there,” Stephanie replied. “The last I heard from them, they found an open mine shaft by one of the old mining camps around the ridge.” Her knuckles were white. “I don’t know if these shadows are connected. But I’m afraid they might be.”

“Um, Stephanie?” said Martin. “Odd question, but, has anyone else asked you about this?”

Her face froze. “Yes. Just yesterday. A half-elf I didn’t know. Nobody seemed to know him.”

“Could you tell me what he looked like?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know how much I can tell you,” she admitted. “It’s not like I was trying to memorize his face. He had this way of staring—not in an untoward way or anything, he just… stared. Like I was some puzzle he was trying to solve. I didn’t like it, so I did my best not to look at him.”

Martin nodded, frowning.

“So… can you help?”

“Yes,” Martin replied, shocking both Tim and Sasha. “I can’t promise I’ll find anything, but if the guards in town are busy then I can at least have a look around the ridge.”

“That would be enough.” Stephanie’s eyes widened in gratitude. “That would be more than enough, thank you—”

“I can get to the ridge and back in a day,” Martin told her. “Where can I find you later?”

“Our shop’s just west off the market street,” Stephanie told him. “Ask anyone and they can point the way for you.”

“Alright.” Martin nodded decisively. “Hopefully I’ll have news for you by tonight. But for now… try not to worry? This doesn’t have to mean trouble. They could’ve lost their sending stone and decided not to return without finishing up.”

Stephanie’s answering smile was bleak. “I hope so,” she murmured, without much hope.

Once she was gone, Tim leaned forward on the table. “You’re sure about this?” he asked. “Because it sounds like an awfully big risk to me.”

“I can go alone,” Martin said with a shrug. “I was going to suggest it, actually. You two could take a day, and I can ride out to the ridge—”

“Martin, no,” Sasha said firmly. “In case you forgot, you hired us to keep you out of danger.”

Martin scowled, almost petulantly. “Well you certainly can’t keep me from going.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Sasha sighed. This wasn’t really what she would have wanted, but… well, they did technically work for him. Couldn’t be helped. “But either way, you’re not going out there alone.”

“Remember that we sort of need you to get us to Vasselheim,” Tim said dryly.

That deflated him immediately. “Oh, right.” Martin hesitated, looking embarrassed. “Then, I guess—I mean, we could always just…”

…not do it, he didn’t say. That felt important, somehow. He didn’t say it out loud. When Sasha met his eyes expectantly, all she found in them was quiet defiance.

Sasha swallowed the urge to sigh. “You’re clearly set on this,” she said. “Okay. As far as we know, Kymal’s the only place with a shadow problem. If we do this, then we’d be setting out in broad daylight, and on horseback we can make a whole round trip within a day. It doesn’t seem like too much of a risk, and if that changes then we can change our minds later.”

“We still don’t know how far these shadows have spread,” Tim reminded her. “For all we know they could be infesting the whole area, not just Kymal.”

“Not likely,” said Martin, without meeting their eyes. “All the food’s here.”

That somber note sunk them into silence for a while. Burying her discomfort, Sasha took the opportunity to hurry through her breakfast. If they were making a day trip, then the quicker they set out, the better.

“So, that half-elf she mentioned,” Tim spoke up. “Is that someone you know?”

He threw it out so casually, and Sasha was sure he only said it to fill the silence. But Martin froze at the question, looking for all the world like a deer staring down the shaft of an arrow.

“M-maybe?” he squeaked out. “I’m actually—honestly, probably not. But at the same time, ‘thin half-elf who asks too many questions’ sounds like someone I know, and—and charging off after someone who might need help is definitely something he’d do.” His eyebrows drew together. “But I don’t know why he’d be here.”

“Is this one of your friends who ran off to Vasselheim?” Sasha asked.

Martin seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, before he finally nodded. “Yeah. H-haven’t seen him in ages, and it’s a long shot, but…”

“But there’s still a chance someone you know is here and in trouble,” Tim finished for him. “Even if it’s a small chance.” He was staring down at his plate as he spoke, so he missed the odd look Martin gave him.

“Right,” Martin said hesitantly. “Exactly.”

“Well then.” Sasha pushed her empty plate away. “If we want to get back before dark, then we’d better get a move on.” Martin popped out of his seat like a cork in water, and she reached out to press him back down into it. “Hold it. First, I need you to listen to me for a second.”

“Y-yes?”

“You were very brave last night,” she said. “But also really, really lucky that we happened to be up against something weak to your spells. You get that, right?”

Martin’s face did a complicated little maneuver before settling on sullen embarrassment.

“I’m serious,” Sasha pressed. “Just because you have a sort of… elemental advantage, doesn’t mean you can afford to get cocky. We were up against one shadow last night. We don’t know what’s waiting for us at that mine.”

“Could be nothing,” Tim remarked, shrugging when she glared.

“Could be nothing,” she conceded. “Or it could be a swarm of those things. The point is, we all need to be cautious.” She caught Martin’s eye and held it steadily. “You especially. Got it?”

“Right. Yeah.”

Sasha nodded. “Alright then. Let’s go track down the mapmaker.”

Chapter Text

Tim was in his element.

Once they left the flatlands behind and headed into the rockier Ironseat range, he felt something settle within him, as firm and unwavering as the mountains they rode among. He might not know Ironseat itself, but he knew this kind of terrain.

They were making good time. The old mining roads were long abandoned and overgrown, but once Tim managed to find the skeletal paths left behind, the way ahead was clear. The central ridge loomed large before them, drawing closer with every minute.

“Are you sure you haven’t been this way before?” Martin asked. “You said you’ve only been out as far as Kymal, but…”

“This place is tame compared to the Stormcrest Mountains,” Tim answered. “Hasn’t been too many years since people used these roads regularly, so they’re pretty easy to follow.” Leaning down in the saddle, he snagged a broken branch and indicated all the disturbed undergrowth in the path ahead. “Helps that people have been through here recently.”

“If you say so,” Martin said uncertainly.

When his head was turned, Sasha took the opportunity to roll her eyes at Tim. Glaring at her without much heat behind it, Tim guided his horse closer to her.

“You’re being rude again, Sasha,” he murmured, dropping his voice so that Martin couldn’t hear.

She looked away, embarrassed. “I know, I know, just… he wanted to come out here alone. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I mean—look. Credit where credit’s due. We’ve been in two fights so far and he’s held his own. Saved my life last night, even.” She fidgeted in her saddle. “But he’s still a wide-eyed city boy on his first trip away from home, you know?”

“We don’t know that, exactly.”

“I’d bet money on it.”

“Mm.” Tim pursed his lips. “Guess we’re sort of out here on a whim, aren’t we.”

“Maybe. There are people in danger.”

“Yeah, but Martin only wants to look for them on the off chance that—” Sasha elbowed him sharply, and he glanced over to find Martin watching them worriedly.

“Is… something wrong?” he asked. “Thought I heard my name.”

Tim tugged his reins again to bring their horses closer. “Just wondering about this friend of yours, I guess,” he answered. “Any idea why he’d be here instead of Vasselheim?”

While Martin took time considering his answer, Tim turned his attention back to the road ahead. At some point the roots of a tree had grown into the road, forcing them to steer around it. The path beyond was even less clear, as the ground turned to bare, cracked rock in nearly every direction.

“It’s like I said,” Martin replied at last. “It’s probably not him at all. But if it was, I’d say it’s because—well, this whole shadow thing is a bit of a mystery, you know? He likes mysteries. A little too much, to be honest. Gets him in trouble.”

“I know the feeling,” Sasha said, in a voice as dry as the stones around them.

Abruptly Martin drew back on his reins, forcing his horse to stop. “Should we go back?”

Tim halted as well. “Martin—”

“No, you—” Martin bit his lip. “I need a straight answer. If—if you think this is a terrible idea, if it’s really not worth doing, then—”

“Martin, it’s really not—” Sasha tried.

“—instead of just whispering about it behind my back, just tell me,” Martin went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I know I can’t do this, a-any of this, by myself. I know that. That’s why you’re here. So tell me if this is more than you’re willing to put up with, so we can address it now. The last thing I want is you two biting your tongues just so you can resent me for it later.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to Sasha first. She looked at least as embarrassed as he felt.

“Well?” Martin pressed.

“It feels hasty,” Sasha finally answered. “But… I guess I’m not really one to judge, when it comes to making hasty decisions.”

“I do think it’s worth it,” Tim added. “Between the people we know are in danger, and the possibility that one of them might be your friend.”

His instincts insisted it was high risk for no reward. I wouldn’t hesitate for Danny, he thought, and they quieted.

Martin, at least, looked somewhat mollified. “You’re sure about that?”

“Can we really be sure of anything?” Sasha asked.

“Guess not,” Martin muttered.

He looked ahead, and Tim followed his gaze. They were nearly to the ridge, and with it the old mining camps.

“Could you do the thing you did before?” Tim asked. “Roll the dice, see what comes of this?”

Martin pursed his lips thoughtfully and nodded. “Let’s find that camp first.”

The path turned dusty, which was a blessing for Tim. Dust meant tracks to follow. Dust meant prints left by two sets of hooves and one set of boots, leading him directly to the mining camp that Stephanie had told them about.

He spotted the horses first. A pair of them were tied to old hitching posts in the camp. Saddles, packs, and tack had been hastily removed and dumped on the ground nearby. The ropes tying them to the posts were long enough to let them reach the shade, and the scrubby grass that grew from the hard-packed earth, and the single water trough.

Sasha eyed the trough suspiciously. “That… can’t be good for them, can it? How long has the water been sitting there?”

Tim had already dismounted and was inspecting it. There was no sign of the usual scum and detritus that gathered in standing water over long periods. “Not long. I’m willing to bet this was filled pretty recently. Probably from that creek we passed on the way in. I can still hear it.” He passed his reins up to her.

She took them. “Still.”

Martin dismounted, reached in, and dipped his finger into it. The water rippled, and in an instant it was impossibly clear—so clear that Tim couldn’t even see his reflection in it anymore. He looked away, vaguely unsettled.

“There,” Martin said simply, shaking his hand dry. “Now it’s good enough for anyone to drink out of.”

Sasha looked incredulous. “Martin, did you just bless the horse water?”

“Wh—no! I purified it, that’s all. You seemed worried.”

Tim drifted onward, picking up the trail again beyond where the horses were left. The footprints were faded, the dust smoothed by the wind, but they were there, leading around the ridge. He rounded a corner and came to a halt, straightening up in a single motion as his eyes were drawn from the ground to the slanting wall of stone before him.

“Guys?” he called back. “I think I found it.”

They caught up with him, both on foot—they must have tied the horses up with the others. Martin lagged behind, digging into his pouch, so Sasha was the first to catch up and see what Tim was looking at. “What—oh. Yeah. Think you did.”

The open mine shaft yawned before them. Sunlight reached a few paces inside before the darkness swallowed it—Tim could make out the faint outlines of stone walls and broken-down, skeletal mining carts, and no more than that.

The footprints led inside. Two sets, old and faded. One more, no more than a day old.

Without a word, Martin knelt and cast his handful of dice. Apprehension crawled up Tim’s spine as he watched them roll over and over again, until every single one came to rest in the dust.

Four sixes.

“That’s… good, right?” Sasha asked.

Martin retrieved his dice and slipped them back into his pouch. “All weal, no woe,” he said. “I’d say that’s good.” Reaching down again, he picked up a fist-sized rock and hefted it in his hands. At his touch, the rock began to glow brightly enough to cut through the darkness within the tunnel. Without a word he passed it to Tim, then found another stone and did the same.

“Need one, Sasha?” he asked.

“I think I’m good.” She tapped the side of her face. “Can’t go wrong with these eyes.”

Martin took a deep, steadying breath. His shoulders squared. “Right, then. Let’s see what this tunnel has for us.”

They moved single-file through the tunnel. It wasn’t so narrow as to be claustrophobic—all three of them could have walked side by side quite comfortably—but it made the most sense for Tim to take point and Sasha to watch their backs.

The glowing stones lit the way well enough, but before long Martin whistled up a pair of floating lights as well. One of them hovered at Tim’s shoulder, the other at Sasha’s. Between the two spells, the path ahead was well lit. Even as they dodged around the rubble and ruins of abandoned mining operations, none of them ever stepped into the darkness.

When they hit their first fork in the road, Tim held up a hand for them to stop. Then, after inspecting both paths thoroughly, he drew his dagger and slashed an arrow into the wall before moving on into the path to the left.

“This way.”

“You’re sure?” Sasha murmured. She kept her voice low, but it still echoed faintly.

“There’s no wind down here disturbing the tracks,” he replied. “Plenty of patches of dirt to catch all the boot prints.” Tim continued to lead the way, one hand holding his light aloft, the other resting comfortably on the handle of his dagger.

“How long have the Ironseat mines been abandoned?” Sasha murmured.

“Dunno,” said Tim. “Years, from the looks of this place.”

“Seventeen years,” Martin said. “There was a quake in the area, and it damaged the support beams in the deeper tunnels. Made them unsafe.”

Sasha almost stumbled over a scrap of fallen timber. “Wait, are we safe?”

“Should be,” Martin replied, way too nonchalantly for what he’d just announced. “The active mining was deeper than this, and those were the areas that were dangerous. Apparently it caused a lot of strife between the workers and the owners, and they spent so much time just shoring up the tunnels that money dried up, and the operation just sort of ended.”

Tim glanced back. “How do you know all this?”

To Sasha’s surprise, as well as some amusement, Martin flushed visibly. “It’s local history,” he mumbled, a bit defensively. “It’s an interesting subject.”

“Of course it is,” Sasha said, beaming at him.

“Heads up,” Tim warned, and the tunnel opened up to a wider chamber.

While the trek through the tunnels had been broken up by the odd fallen tool or wagon, the chamber was so filled with rubble that parts of it were blocked from view. Piles of dirt made up the most of it, most likely dragged from deeper within as tunnels were excavated. A few broken-down wheelbarrows were left upturned among them as well. Most importantly, in Sasha’s opinion, none of the wreckage included pieces of the support beams.

Up ahead, three tunnel openings stood wide like open mouths in the chamber wall.

“Tim?” said Sasha. “Can you tell us which way they went?”

Tim frowned down at the ground, sweeping this way and that with his light. “It’s hard to say,” he said. “The tracks aren’t as clear.”

“Guess there is more trash on the floor,” Martin remarked.

“Not just that. The tracks themselves are different…” Tim’s voice trailed off. He ventured further in, only to stop when Martin and Sasha followed. “You two, stay back. I’ve got to pick up the trail again, and I’m not gonna be able to with you two adding in new footprints.”

“I don’t think separating is a good idea,” Martin fretted.

“Relax, will you? It’s not like I’m sending you back outside. Just—stand by the wall and don’t hover over me, alright?”

Reluctantly, Martin complied. Sasha went to stand with him as Tim resumed his inspection of the chamber and tunnels.

“So,” Sasha murmured. If she pitched her voice just right, she could keep it from echoing and reaching Tim.

“Yes?” Martin sounded weary.

“Just wondering,” said Sasha. “If all these missing people are here. Which, if Tim’s right—and he probably is—they probably are. Obviously there’s a reason they’re still here, something’s keeping them here, they’re trapped or wounded or—or dead, hopefully not. Do I have that about right?”

“Sounds about right.”

“So, what’s gonna stop us from joining them?” Sasha asked.

“Hopefully,” Martin replied, “the fact that we’re not one mapmaker and her brother-in-law.”

“Alright, fair enough,” Sasha conceded.

“Hey Sash,” Tim called over. “What do you make of this?”

The object sailed through the air toward her, and Sasha caught it one handed and turned it over in her palm. It was smooth and looked hand-carved, and aside from the thin dusting of grime, looked fairly new.

“I think I know what that is,” Martin said grimly. “But I could check and make sure.”

“No need,” Sasha sighed. “I can do it myself, and you’re the healer, remember. Save your spells.”

Within moments of casting, the stone in her hand lit up, and her awareness along with it. Martin’s lights—both the glowing stones and the Dancing Lights floating in the air—jumped out at her, as well as a few other points on him. Starbursts of divine energy emanated from the holy symbol tucked under his scarf and a few items in his bag, probably the dice he used for Augury. Another, smaller point of transmutation magic originated somewhere in his bag. The pyrotechnic wand in her own possession was pure evocation, and Tim’s warding amulet against Charm spells shone out to her from across the room.

But the center of her attention was the stone in her hand, and the transmutation and evocation magic infused into it.

“That’s a sending stone, alright,” she said. “Tim, where’d you—?” She paused, frowning as she looked around. “Tim, where are you?”

“Over here,” he called back, and she spotted him waving from near the rightmost tunnel mouth. “This place is a wreck. Dirt’s kicked up and some of the damage on this wood looks fresh.”

It was getting harder to see him. Why was it getting harder to see him?

Sasha looked to Martin, and to the light-infused stone he still held.

“How long have we been down here?” she asked.

“About an hour,” Martin replied.

“And how long does that Light spell last?”

“About an—ah.” Martin tapped his finger to the stone, and it lit up again. “Hey, Tim?”

“Yeah?”

Renewed light spread through the chamber, just as the stone in Tim’s hand went dark. The light barely reached him, but it was enough, just barely enough to illuminate the shadow hovering behind him, reaching for him.

Tim met her eyes, saw the look on her face, and paled.

“Behind you!” Martin yelled, but Tim was already whirling around, lashing out with the knife in his hand. The blade hit the shadow—Sasha could swear that it hit—but the creature barely wavered before it lunged like a striking snake.

Her skin crawled with phantom chills. She remembered how its touch felt, like water so cold it burned, slipping beneath her skin and filling her veins. Tim’s dead-white face brought her hand up, blazing with magic.

Three glowing darts sailed from her fingertips and struck the shadow, lighting it up like fireworks. For a moment Sasha thought her spell had torn it apart with pure force, before the darkness coalesced into a solid shape again. Holy fire overtook it before it could strike again.

Martin’s hand was on Sasha’s arm in an instant, drawing her along as he closed the distance between them and Tim. Once they had reached his side, he renewed the Light spell with a touch, and the three of them stood with their backs to one another.

The glow took up nearly half the chamber and crept down the nearest tunnel mouth as well. As Sasha watched, she began to make out movement at the very edge. The darkness was drifting in, smokelike, as the shadows watched them from just outside their circle of light.

Sasha groped to the side until she found Tim’s chilled hand, gripping it until the warmth began to return. “You alright?” she asked.

“That… did not feel too good,” Tim replied, slightly winded. “Nope. Didn’t like that one bit.” He squeezed her hand back. “But—now we know there are shadows here. Which—honestly? Not surprised.”

Shadows drifted closer, no longer hidden but still unharmed by the light that the stones gave off. Martin sent another plume of holy fire at one, scattering them again.

“We—” He hesitated, gnawing at his lip as he watched the shadows that stalked them. “We could—we can go back.” He bit the words out like it hurt him to say them. “We have the sending stone, and that’s—it’s not great, but it’s something we can give Stephanie when we get back to Kymal.” He sent out another plume of fire, scattering the shadows again. “The light won’t keep them back for long. Eventually they’ll get bolder. There’s something else I can do to keep them away more permanently, but I can only do it once, so… we can go back.”

“That’d be the smart thing,” Tim murmured, though he didn’t sound nearly as relieved about it as he could have.

He sounded no more enthused about the idea than Sasha felt, in fact.

“Wait.” Gods, why was she doing this? This wasn’t smart, not even remotely. “Wait, but—we could go further.”

Why wasn’t Tim arguing with her? Tim was supposed to be the sensible one. But now he was just looking at her, while Martin kept an eye on the shadows.

“It’s just—the Augury spell, remember?” Sasha waved at Martin. “It said good things if we went into the mine, didn’t it? I don’t think walking for an hour before getting chased out by shadows counts as good, do you?”

The chamber was silent for a moment, except for the indistinct whisper of shadows.

“You’re sure?” Martin asked, but his eyes were bright and eager.

“Tim?” Sasha turned to him. “Do you know which way they went?”

He nodded once. “Tunnel to the left. We’re all sure about this?”

Sasha’s fingertips burned, already primed with another volley of magic missiles. “I vote yes. There’s got to be something else here.”

They stepped into the tunnel together, and Sasha felt the temperature in the air drop.

Shadows danced and thrashed against the wall as the creatures plunged forward into the light. Sasha let loose the spell, and was rewarded when the missiles punched holes in at least two of the attacking shadows. But still they came closer—Sasha counted four, maybe five venturing into the light. One of them lit up with holy fire and vanished, but they did not stop.

“Still going forward?” Tim gritted out.

Sasha hesitated, teeth grinding together. It wasn’t too late. This was stupid. There was nothing to be gained here—

From deep within the tunnel, as if in answer to her thoughts, came the echo of a distant scream.

Three pairs of eyes met. The answer was clear.

“In for a copper,” said Sasha.

Tim’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “Run, but stay together.”

Sasha latched on to the Tim’s sleeve, and together the three of them took off into the waiting darkness.

As ideas went, he’d definitely had better ones.

He’d had a lot worse, of course, but that didn’t mean much when he was still stuck in the dark while this swarm of half-living shadows took free sips of his life force.

The lamp in the mapmaker’s hand was flickering low, casting wild, thrashing shapes against the walls of the chamber. Their attackers wheeled closer and recoiled whenever he managed to get a strike in, adding to the visual chaos. At times he could barely tell the difference between the shadows on the wall and the ones off it.

(But always, in the end, his vision cleared and he struck true.)

Behind him, the mapmaker held on to him and quietly sobbed. And—honestly, good. If she was crying then she wasn’t dead, and if she wasn’t dead then there was a chance that this all wasn’t for nothing.

A small chance. Still good to keep it mind with the way the shadows swarmed them like vultures, like they knew it wouldn’t be long before they finally dropped.

The hand gripping his sword was starting to tremble. He was frigid from the shadows’ touch, limbs stiff and sluggish, like there was thick mud where his blood should have been. Every part of him sagged heavy with exhaustion—every part but the eyelids, actually. His eyes stayed clear, even after hours of this.

Guess I should be grateful you’re giving me that, he thought, with no small amount of bitterness.

As if in response, a stab of alien fear sent him whirling around, letting momentum bring his sword around in a chopping arc. The blade blazed with eerie light, carving through the attacking shadow like solid meat. The shadow vanished.

Probably wasn’t smart. He only had a few of those in him at a time.

Still, his patron’s intervention had bought him a few more moments of breathing room. He made a break for the other side of the chamber, half-stumbling over the broken remains of a cart. The mapmaker’s fingers dug painfully into his arm as she hung on and kept pace with him, half-blind in the fading light.

Another shadow lunged in. He swung and missed, and it struck the woman like a snake. She staggered against him, and the lantern slipped from her fingers and shattered on the ground, snuffing out the last of the light.

His eyes adjusted to the pitch-darkness. The mapmaker’s did not. When she screamed, he flinched. It was costly; another shadow struck, and she slumped against him so suddenly and heavily that, for a split second, he thought that was it. But no—the shadows weren’t much louder than a breeze, so he could still hear her shallow breathing. Her strength was sapped, and she was too exhausted to cry anymore, but she was alive.

They were halfway to the mouth of the tunnel, and it may as well have been miles. He slung his free arm over her shoulders, tucking her close before the nearest shadows could make a move for the weaker prey. One of them loomed in front of them, blocking the way out. He swung again, lighting up the chamber in sickly shades as his magic tore the shadow apart.

Ice flooded his veins again. He stumbled, the hilt slipped from his stiff, icy hand—

The chamber lit up.

Harsh, green-tinged illumination threw the attacking shadows into stark relief. There was another that he hadn’t seen, just behind him to his left, and he didn’t have time to grab for his sword so he simply threw himself between it and the woman at his side.

A bolt of light shot toward him from the tunnel, and he ground his teeth against the terror of an oncoming spell. But it hurtled past him, blazing with flamelike radiance, and ripped through the shadow before it could touch him.

He blinked, bleary-eyed and shocked, and followed the still-glowing trail back to the man who had cast it. Piece by piece he took him in.

A cleric, his weary mind supplied. Tall, broad, heavyset, and dressed simply in a gray coat and a dark green scarf. black hair, olive skin, and dark, angry eyes. A book tucked in his hand, a holy symbol blazing beneath his throat.

He wasn’t alone. There were two others with him—another human with a longbow string drawn to his ear, and a tall tiefling woman with skin the color of burnished copper and curved, backswept horns.

As they approached, the cleric’s eyes fell on him, first wide and curious, then subdued. Disappointed, perhaps? That figured. People were never very happy to see him.

Either way, that was healing magic flickering at the cleric’s fingertips. Without hesitating, he pushed the mapmaker toward him. “Help her first, she’s worse off than me—” The cleric complied, and relief filled him when the unhealthy gray tinge began to fade from her skin.

Another attack from one of the shadows behind him nearly drove him to his knees, but the cleric caught him before he hit the ground. The ice in his veins thawed, healing magic burning away the necrosis. He still felt weak and sluggish, but at least it hurt less.

“There’s so many of them,” he heard the tiefling grit out. “Please tell me you can do something about them, Martin.”

The cleric didn’t let go of him, probably not trusting him to stay on his feet, which—honestly, couldn’t blame him. The cleric did, however, shift his grip on the book in his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, the cleric spoke.

“Did you know they’re from the Shadowfell?”

There was an odd, heavy timbre to his voice. It seemed to reach every corner of the chamber, as if the shadows surrounding them were the sort of creatures that cared about what you had to say. Still, it was the kind of voice your really listened to, no matter who or where or how you were.

So he did.

“That’s a plane, you know—it mirrors the material plane, like the Feywild does. But, while the Feywild’s a place bursting with life and wild arcane magic, the Shadowfell’s all death and decay and darkness. It’s like a distorted echo, a dark reflection of the world as we know it, full of mountains and forests and cities that are familiar, but warped. Wrong. It’s said the Raven Queen has a stronghold there…”

It went on that way, nothing he didn’t already know, but still he listened, and that was when he realized what he was hearing.

It was a prayer.

No sooner did he realize it, than the light blazed, and razor winds whipped out from the point where the cleric stood. They passed harmlessly through the tiefling and the human, through the mapmaker, and even through him. The shadows caught the brunt of it, and as he watched through drooping eyelids, every single one of them was flung back and away from them.

Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. But it was the normal kind of darkness. The shadows were fleeing.

In the silence that followed, he could breathe again.

The half-elf was leaning on Martin so heavily that Tim wasn’t sure whether he was still conscious. The woman wasn’t much better off, though she’d at least stopped trembling now that the shadows were gone.

If they really were.

“Is… is that it?” he asked, eyeing their surroundings warily. “Did you get rid of them?”

“For now,” Martin replied. “I chased them off, but it won’t last forever.”

“Right.” Tim relaxed by increments. The half-elf shifted, drawing his attention again, and he nodded to him. “What about him, then? Do you know him?”

Martin’s face twisted up in mingled disappointment and embarrassment. “No,” he said.

“Ah, well. Can’t argue with the results.” No wonder the dice had told them good things—if they hadn’t come down here, these two would be dead for sure. “Anyway, we’d better—Sasha?”

“Just having a look around,” she called over her shoulder.

“Sasha, did you not hear him?”

“I’ll be quick!” She shot a glare at him before continuing her inspection of the chamber. “In fact, it’ll be quicker if you help me.”

“Do we have time?” Tim asked, directing the question toward Martin.

He hesitated before answering, “We’ve got time for a short rest. Just a short one. But it should be enough to shake off the effects of the draining.”

“Good,” Tim said firmly. “Right. Let’s find a place to sit then, miss.”

The woman shifted against him. “Okay. S-sorry… who’re you?”

“Name’s Tim,” he replied. “Are you—hang on, let’s just… set you down right here.” Gingerly he helped her sit down against an upturned wheelbarrow, then crouched beside her. “Right. Are you Erin?”

Her eyes came into focus on his face.. “Yes. How…?”

“We ran into your wife back in town,” he replied. “She asked us to come looking for you. So—here we are.”

She stirred, waking up further. “Stephanie? Is Stephanie alright?”

“She was fine when we left,” Tim assured her. “She told us you and her brother were here…?”

Erin’s face was bleak.

“…Ah.”

“He’s… back there, we had to…” Erin cast a tired look back at the tunnels that led out of the chamber, further deep into the mines. “Do you think we could…?”

“Shit.” The half-elf straightened up, stepping away from Martin.

“H-hang on, maybe you should sit down—”

“No.” The half-elf retrieved his dropped weapon, a longsword with a twisted wirework hilt. “The body’s just in the tunnel here.”

Martin chased after him. “Okay, yeah, great, we can retrieve it, just—you look like you’re about to fall over, so just wait up, will you—”

Tim watched them go. “Interesting guy.”

“I don’t…” Erin frowned. Already she was beginning to look a little less wiped out. “I’ve never met him before.”

“Seems to be the standard with him, so far.”

“He saved my life,” she said simply.

Light flared from the tunnel where Martin had vanished with the strange half-elf. By now, Tim was familiar with the glow of Martin’s magic. It was an odd light, close to fire but not quite right. He rose up, one hand on his sword, as the two of them returned. Between them, they carried the body of a man.

“Everything alright?” Tim asked carefully. Beside him, Erin broke down into silent tears.

“Yeah,” Martin answered. “Just—yeah. It’s all fine.”

“Shadow rose up from the body,” the half-elf said shortly, ignoring Martin’s disapproving look. “Dealt with it.” Without another word, he seated himself on the ground and let his head hang low.

Weird-looking guy, in Tim’s opinion. He was almost as tall as Martin, but with a leanness that brushed up against scrawny. His eyes were sharp and brown, so pale they were almost amber. Everything about him was scruffy and battered, from his tangled dark hair to his clothes to the scar tissue that crept up from beneath his collar. Even his pointed ears sported nicks and scars. The marks on his hands were too dark to be scars—tattoos, maybe?

“Is anyone else hurt?” Martin asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Tim glanced around, then shook his head. “Better save your spells.”

“Tim,” Sasha called over. “Come look at this.”

“Alright?” Tim asked Erin. She nodded wordlessly, and he rose to join Sasha near the center of the chamber. Martin followed just a beat behind him. “What is it?”

Sasha waved her hand at the floor. “I think it speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

At some point in the fairly recent past, the center of the room had been cleared of rubble. The purpose was clear enough: etched into the floor was a circle, about twenty paces in diameter, filled with sigils and scribblings that Tim couldn’t make heads or tails of. At the very center of it sat a perfectly round, smooth black stone, just small enough to fit in someone’s hand.

“Well,” he said. “That looks important. Couldn’t tell you what it means, though. Is it anything you recognize?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“That’s a summoning circle, I think,” said Martin. “Not something you really see in a mine.” His face was unusually grim as he scored the toe of his boot through a few lines. “I’m betting we’ve found the source of these shadows.”

“Not bad.”

Tim jumped. He hadn’t heard the half-elf approach. But there he was, standing with them and staring down at the circle with a scowl. Before he could reply, the half-elf wandered to one part of the circle and scuffed through one of the symbols.

“That’s the sigil for the Shadowfell,” he said. “Which, if you’ll recall from your cleric friend’s prayer, is where shadows come from.”

“Prayer?” Sasha echoed, with a baffled look at Martin. “That was a prayer?”

“Well… yeah, sort of.” Martin looked embarrassed. “It’s just, I’ve never been all that religious—”

“You’re a cleric.”

“—but it, it works, alright? Spouting off knowledge that I’ve learned…” Martin cast a pleading look in Tim’s direction. “Look, it makes sense and it works.”

“It kind of does,” Tim pointed out. “Ioun’s a knowledge goddess, after all. And it did very much work.”

“Guess so,” Sasha conceded. “Guess I was expecting something more along the lines of lord and/or lady bless this axe, so that I may lop off some bastard’s head in thy mercy—”

“Sasha, come on,” said Tim, nudging her lightly. “Martin, what about that stone in the center?”

“Er…” Martin approached it, staying cautiously out of arm’s reach of it. “Hard to say. Some kind of focus? I don’t think summoning circles really need focuses like this, though.”

“They don’t, usually,” the half-elf spoke up again. “Not for a job like this.”

Martin looked up at his approach, frowning in confusion. “What do you mean?”

The half-elf crossed his arms. “Best I can tell, both from the circle and the day I’ve been having, all this thing does is summon shadows into the material plane. It’s sloppy work. Doesn’t call for enough power or precision to need something like a focus.”

“What do you think it is, then?” Sasha asked.

“Oh, I dunno.” The half-elf shrugged. “I’d find out, but I’m tapped out of magic at the moment.”

“Oh! I can do that.” Sasha snapped her fingers. Light flickered in her eyes for a moment as she squinted at the orb, then at something in her hand, then the orb again. “Hm. Divination magic, looks like.”

Martin had his handaxe drawn. “Could be a scrying tool…”

It was a stroke of luck. Tim was only looking at the orb because Martin was about to poke it with the head of his axe. Right at that moment, something flickered in the depths of the orb. Tim stepped forward, mystified, as it settled into an image—light, and a pale eye blinking open from within the smooth dark stone.

Martin yelped in alarm and brought the axe down on the orb, smashing it.

Tim jumped, Sasha sprang back, and even the half-elf flinched.

“Martin!” Sasha hissed.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Martin’s knuckles were white as he gripped the axe handle. “Startled me.”

Sasha nudged one of the fragments with her toe. “Well, whatever magic was in it before, it’s gone now. Thanks, Martin.”

“Someone was watching us!”

“We could’ve found out more!”

“I think I’m with Martin on this,” said Tim, shrugging off Sasha’s glare. “Look, whoever left the circle clearly isn’t our friend, and I don’t think I want them watching us, whoever they are.”

“I guess that’s true,” Sasha grumbled. “Still, that was reckless.”

“Sorry.”

“Well I thought it was great,” the half-elf offered, kicking a shard of stone. “Obliterated that thing in one hit. Very nice.”

“Thank… you?”

“Did you find anything else?” Tim asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Sasha held up another stone, this one smaller and palm-sized, smooth and carved with simple-looking runes. “Found this just lying around. I thought it was a regular rock at first, but… I mean, just look at it. There’s no way a rock ends up like that naturally. Too clean, too. This isn’t yours, is it?” She held it out to the half-elf.

He reached out and took it, and Tim got a better look at the marks on his hands. They were black, stylized eyes—a tiny one on each knuckle, and a larger more intricate design on the back of his hand. “Not mine,” he said, turning it over and inspecting it. “Don’t know exactly what spell these runes are for, but based on complexity… something cantrip-level. This isn’t heavy-duty spellwork.”

“Wait, let me see,” Martin spoke up, reaching into his pouch. As the half-elf passed it to him, he drew out another stone, slightly smaller. As he held the two of them side by side, even Tim could see that the runes matched.

Martin returned his own stone to his bag. “That’s a Message stone,” he said.

“Is that like a sending stone?” Sasha asked. “For communication?”

“No. It’s a bit of a misnomer, actually.” Martin turned it over in his hands. “It holds a modified version of a Message spell—instead of sending it to someone, it retains it. Here, I’ll show you.”

He swiped his thumb over, and it glowed. Moments later, The sound of wind, running footsteps, and distant sobbing emanated from the stone. Quickly, Martin swiped it again, silencing it.

“So it captures sound, then?” Tim asked, breaking the uneasy hush that followed.

“…More or less.” Martin passed it back to Sasha. “I saw those all the time at the Alabaster Lyceum. Students use them to record lectures.”

“Huh.” Sasha pocketed it. “Interesting. Wait, you’ve been to the Alabaster Lyceum?”

Martin flushed. “Just for a couple years. I-I didn’t finish…”

“No, I just mean… that’s all the way in Emon.”

“Yes?”

Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Oh,” she said at last. “Well, anyway, that’s all I could find in here.”

“Great,” said Tim. “Let’s leave, then. Unless anyone else has any last-minute errands they’d like to run?”

“Don’t know about all of you, but I’ve had my fill of this place,” the half-elf said flatly. “So if we’re done here?”

Martin hesitated as he turned away. “Think we’ve scratched out enough of the circle to make it useless?”

In the midst of turning, the half-elf slipped a wand from his belt, pointed it at the circle, and fired off a shot. A controlled explosion of fire tore into the ground before dissipating, leaving nothing but a pit of scorch marks behind.

“Have now. Shall we?”

After a brief rest, Erin’s condition had improved. She was still pale, but the gray tinge was gone from her skin. When the half-elf offered her a hand, she took it and let him help her to her feet.

“Can you please—” She cast an agonized look at the dead man lying nearby. “We can’t leave Luke. Please?”

“We won’t,” he replied.

Tim was already kneeling by the body. “I’ve got him,” he said. Luke wasn’t a heavy man, thank the gods.

“Are you sure?” Martin offered.

Tim shook his head. “You’re more use than I am, if those things come back.”

With Martin lighting the way and Sasha’s sharp eyes watching the rear, they left the darkening chamber behind.

The return to Kymal was a bittersweet one. Evening was approaching when they rode in, and there were few people still lingering on the streets. Erin led them straight to her home, where Stephanie was waiting for them anxiously. The relief in her eyes when she saw that her wife was alive was just as palpable as the glassy pain when she saw that her brother was not.

Sasha turned her eyes away when the tears started, grinding her teeth. Erin hadn’t said much about what she went through, but she couldn’t help but feel that maybe, if they’d been just a bit faster…

She carried that thought with her all the way back to the inn, and the only empty table left in the dining area. It wasn’t until food arrived that the churning in her stomach finally let up.

They’d saved one person. That was one more than would have been saved if they hadn’t acted at all. No wait, make that two, counting the half-elf.

Speaking of whom…

Sasha watched, her cider cup halfway to her lips, as that very half-elf held a hushed conversation with their innkeeper. Whatever they were talking about, it didn’t look pleasant.

“So… what now?” Tim asked quietly.

“I think we move on, first thing tomorrow,” Martin replied. “We filled in Erin and Stephanie on what happened, and they’ll probably tell the Margrave in the morning. I mean, much as I’d like to stick around and help more… there really isn’t much more we can do.”

The half-elf had abandoned whatever he was discussing with the innkeeper. Now, frustrated and resigned, he was headed for the door. Right out into the streets that, most likely, would be full of lurking shadows soon.

Pointing, she whispered a Message to him. “You might as well come over here. We’ve got room at the table.”

She saw one of his pointed ears twitched, and he turned and found her watching him from across the room. After a moment’s hesitation, looking over his shoulder like there was anyone else she could possibly be talking to, he slunk over to their table and slid into an empty seat.

“Oh, hey again,” Tim greeted him.

“Evening.” The half-elf shot a wary glance at all three of them in turn.

“Were you having a tiff with the innkeeper?” Sasha asked. “Looked serious, whatever it was.”

The half-elf met her eyes coolly. “I was staying here, the night before last. Apparently someone took the room I was in, so I was about to go out and try my luck elsewhere.”

“…Ah.” Tim winced.

“Matter of fact,” he went on, “I’m on a bit of a time limit, finding somewhere else to stay. Places don’t stay open after dark, around here.”

“We’ve got room, if you need,” Martin offered, even though with three of them already squashed into the same room, they really didn’t. “Well. We could figure it out.”

“Thanks,” he said hesitantly. “You’re sure about that?”

Tim leaned his chin on one hand. “Well, we already went to the trouble of dragging you out of a mess of shadows,” he pointed out. “It’d be a bit of a waste to toss you back to them after all that.”

“Right.” The half-elf looked a bit dubious, but he wasn’t getting up to leave.

“So what’s your name, then?” Sasha asked. “I’m Sasha, this is my very good friend Tim, and that’s our… er…” She squinted at him. “Employer? Is that what we’re calling you?”

“If you like?”

“Martin,” Tim broke in. “That’s Martin.”

The half-elf blinked slowly as he took each of them in, as if carefully measuring them against some metric that Sasha didn’t know. “Gerard,” he said carefully. “You three aren’t from Kymal, then?”

“That obvious?” said Tim. “Yeah. Just came in from Westruun, actually. Sasha and I were between jobs, so we took up a bit of mercenary work. At the moment, we’re accompanying Martin.”

“Sorry—” Martin broke in. “Gerard, are you hungry? Feel free to order something, it’s all on me.”

That did the trick. Either clerics were naturally trustworthy or Gerard was just that hungry. He seemed to relax at the offer—slowly, in little steps—and took Martin up on it readily enough.

Tim, who wasn’t born yesterday, waited until their new friend had food in front of him before asking, “So, Gerard. What’s your story?”

“A long one,” Gerard said flatly.

Sasha’s eyes lit up. Dodging questions only made her itch even more for the answers. “If I’m understanding things right,” she said. “You ran into that mine by yourself and found those two, and then you kept that woman alive until help arrived. So you’re clearly not bad in a fight.”

“I’ve got a talent for staying alive.”

“I figured as much. What sort of fighter are you? You’ve got to be a spellcaster of some kind, to make it that long.”

Gerard hesitated, weighing his options. Then, with all the cautiousness of a man putting a toe on a freshly-frozen pond, he answered, “I’m a warlock.”

Even more interesting. It certainly explained the caginess.

“That’s a risky life,” Martin said.

Gerard stabbed at his plate with a fork. “Can’t complain. I knew what I was getting myself into, more or less. And, much as I hate to admit it, I’d have died months ago if it weren’t for the Ceaseless Watcher.”

“Ceaseless Watcher?” Sasha echoed, before Martin could reply. “I take it that’s what the eyes are about.”

“Pretty much. I dunno. Felt right, at the time. So where are you three headed?”

That, in Sasha’s opinion, was a pretty transparent subject change, but she let him have it. “We’re on the way to—Vasselheim…” She shot a look of confusion at Martin, who hadn’t quite muffled a noise of protest. “Something wrong?” He pursed his lips and didn’t answer.

Gerard, on the other hand, was looking at her intently. “Vasselheim? The ancient city in Issylra?”

“That’s the one,” Tim replied. “Martin’s on his way there, and we’re tagging along to keep him in one piece.”

Something new flickered to life in Gerard’s eyes. Interest. Eagerness. A bit of hope, maybe? “Got room for one more in your little party?”

Tim’s eyebrows rose. “Wait, really?”

“You’re sure about that?” Martin asked coolly. “It’s a holy city. Warlocks might not get the warmest reception.”

“Sounds more like a me problem than a you problem,” Gerard said with a shrug. “Look, it’s just a question. If you want me gone, say so. But, as your tiefling friend put together, I’m not bad to have in a fight. So…”

Tim snapped his fingers. “Hey! This could be the weal!” Both Martin and Sasha turned to stare at him. “You remember, the Augury spell? It did say good things would happen if we went into that tunnel. Maybe Gerard here is one of them.”

“I thought finding Erin was the weal,” said Sasha. “Which, I still say it’s a weird word to use—”

“Yeah, of course.” Tim waved her off, and she stuck out her tongue at him. “Martin, as the more-or-less leader of this little expedition, what do you say?”

Martin hesitated far too long for comfort. He was eyeing Gerard with something like discomfort, verging on distrust. Sasha didn’t think that was quite fair, but then, he was a cleric. Maybe holy warriors that drew their power from the divine had opinions about pacts and warlocks.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Guess it can’t hurt.”

It was the faintest praise Sasha could imagine, and she had to wonder if Gerard heard the reluctance in Martin’s voice. He didn’t say anything, though, so she wasn’t about to bring it up.

Beyond the walls of the inn, the last of the light slipped behind the horizon. Within it, the lights stayed on all through the night.

Chapter Text

The first new problem was solved almost as swiftly as it appeared. With four of them but only three horses, Sasha simply shared a mount with Tim and left the third free for Gerard.

Gerard put up a fight about it, but it was mostly for appearances’ sake. There was no other ready solution that didn’t involve acquiring another horse, and Gerard wasn’t about to put that on Martin, especially after the previous night.

No one had exactly insisted that he take one of the two available beds, of course. But Tim and Sasha had cuddled up in one while Martin had set himself in a chair and refused to leave it for the rest of the night, without a word spoken about it to one another, much less to Gerard. The demand had been pretty clear.

So, by the time the horse issue came up, Gerard knew better than to argue about it.

Well, except—

“You can leave your things on it,” he said, when Sasha began to mess with saddlebags. “I don’t carry much, so there’s room.” She hesitated, and he added, “Better if you don’t put too much weight on one horse, too.”

“Good point.” A moment later there was a fine-taloned finger in his face, and Sasha’s toothy smile was only a little bit joking. “Touch my stuff and I’ll lop your hands off.”

“Noted.”

People in Kymal rose with the sun these days, so their departure from the city had witnesses. Suspicious eyes raked over Gerard as they passed. Word must have got around that he was bothering the mapmaker’s wife.

“He with you?” one of the gate guards asked, directing the question at Martin.

When Martin shot a look in his direction, Gerard ducked down to focus on untwisting the reins in his hands. “Is there a problem if he is?” Martin asked carefully. Probing for information. Should I be worried? Is that one a danger?

“He was causing trouble, a couple of days ago,” the guard replied. “Harassing some people in town. If he’s with you—”

“Hey, he wasn’t—” Tim began.

“He wasn’t with us until yesterday,” Martin broke in. “But he is now, and we’re leaving. If that’s all right?”

The guard studied him, then Gerard, before finally shrugging and leaning back on his pike. “Fine by me, he’s your problem now.”

And that was that.

He might have to be careful about that sort of thing for the rest of the journey. Being an inconvenience was a good way to get tossed out, and if Martin was the one in charge of this trip, then he was already on shaky ground.

Gerard wasn’t stupid. He knew perfectly well when he wasn’t wanted.

But, in spite of the cleric’s obvious reservations, he hadn’t been chased off yet. And as long as he wasn’t dead weight or an active nuisance, that might even continue.

Sasha looked up at the sound of firewood hitting the ground.

It was a little alarming, she reflected, that she hadn’t realized Gerard had left until seeing him return. He hadn’t been gone long, only twenty minutes at most. Martin wasn’t even done tending to the horses yet.

But here he was, returning with an armload of kindling and, more surprisingly, a pair of dead rabbits. They’d be gamy this time of year, but fresh meat was nothing to sniff at.

Tracking their supplies had ended up her job, as it usually had when she and Tim were on their own. They’d restocked before leaving Kymal, and by her judgment their food would last them a week on its own. On their current course, they wouldn’t see another major city until the Emerald Outpost on the other side of the plains. Foraging and hunting meant stretching their supplies further, in case they couldn’t buy more from villages and settlements they passed along the way.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Tim spoke up, reaching for the firewood. “It’s usually me that has to do this.”

“It’s damp,” Gerard grunted, setting the rabbits down.

Without looking up from her inventory, Sasha snapped her fingers and was rewarded with the faint smell of ozone. She waited another minute as Tim arranged the now-dry wood in their makeshift fire pit. When he stepped back, a second snap of Sasha’s fingers lit the wood.

“Right,” Gerard muttered.

“Doesn’t cost me a thing,” Sasha said primly. “Thanks for the rabbits.”

“You’re welcome. I basically tripped over the things anyway.”

Between the fresh meat and the still-plentiful supplies, Tim managed to throw together a decent stew. As night fell, the four of them sat around the crackling fire and ate their fill as it burned low.

The last bit of sunlight slipped behind the horizon when Gerard shifted. He sat up straighter, head high and alert, one hand on the longsword he kept within easy reach.

Martin noticed as well. “What is it?”

“Not sure.” Gerard’s eyes narrowed. “But there’s something out there.”

“Just me again, I’m afraid.”

Gerard half-drew his weapon, steel rasping sharply in the scabbard. Tim bit back a curse as he nearly knocked the pot into the fire. In a purely reflexive move, Sasha had one of her knives out.

Calmly, as if nothing had happened, Blake swept his cloak back and sat down among them. When his steady gaze passed over her, Sasha couldn’t help but notice that his eyes did not reflect the fire.

“Sorry to intrude again,” he said.

The four of them exchanged glances. Tim looked stunned. Gerard was silently looking to them as if for some sort of cue. Martin had his axe resting against his lap in a nonchalant threat.

Of them, Tim was the first to find his voice. “Uh. Stew?”

“If you can spare it.”

Uneasy silence held as Blake accepted a bowl, as calm and nonchalant as if numb to the tension his own presence caused. Gerard was still watching the rest of them in helpless confusion.

Eventually, Blake set the empty bowl aside. “My compliments to the cook.”

“Thanks,” said Tim, with a brief reflexive grin. “So…”

“Did you want something?” Martin broke in coolly.

Blake’s dark eyes took each of them in with polite curiosity. “I couldn’t pass up the chance at good company. Or good food.”

The unimpressed expression on Martin’s face might have been funny if Sasha hadn’t been feeling the exact same way.

“And,” Blake went on, “I couldn’t help but notice the, ah, commotion in the area. Imagine my surprise when I found the three of you—” he paused again, with another glance at Gerard “—sorry, four of you—right in the middle of it. Hello, by the way. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Gerard had gone from looking to the others for cues to staring at Blake like he expected him to sprout fangs and strike. “We haven’t,” he said carefully.

“Interesting.” Something flickered across Blake’s face, too quick for Sasha to catch.

“What’s interesting?” she asked boldly. “The fact that you’re meeting someone for the first time? How boring is your life?” Martin shot her a warning glare, which she pretended not to see.

But Blake simply laughed quietly. “That’s fair. In any case, after everything that happened to you, I thought you might be invested in the outcome of your visit to Kymal.”

Martin tensed. “What does that mean? And how do you know what happened to us in Kymal?”

“It was the talk of the town,” Blake replied, raising an eyebrow at him. “As it should be, what with the dramatic rescue and all. In any case, an infestation of undead spirits—especially one this severe and purposeful—happens to fall within my lady’s purview.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sasha saw Gerard shift slightly, tightening his grip on his sword.

“So, it might comfort you to know that the situation in Kymal has been brought to our attention,” Blake finished. “It’s being dealt with as we speak.”

“Well… that’s good,” Tim replied. “Thanks? For telling us?”

Blake smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

“Why?” Martin asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said it yourself.” Martin’s tone was barely within the bounds of politeness. “You work for the Raven Queen, and dealing with undead like those shadows is what she does. What you do. So why are you here, when you should be busy doing that?”

Blake held his gaze for a moment, long enough for Sasha to wonder if there was meaning behind it that she wasn’t seeing. Godly pissing contests, maybe? Did Ioun not get along with the Raven Queen, maybe?

Or, her more sensible side pointed out, he’s suspicious about the mysterious man with the fake name who’s barged into our camp again.

Finally, Blake looked away. “You’re right, I’m needed elsewhere,” he said simply. “Consider this a courtesy. As thanks, for your hospitality.” His eyes slid toward Gerard again, who resumed fidgeting with his sword handle.

“I mean,” Tim spoke up. “That’s—it’s good news, I guess. That Kymal’s going to be alright.” He paused, head tilting to the side until Blake was looking at him again. “Thank you for that. Is there anything else you want from us?”

Blake shook his head. “No. By all means, continue as you are.”

With an unhurried air, Blake got to his feet. Gerard moved to match him, as did Martin and Tim, and Sasha followed suit to keep from being the only one sitting.

“I’m going now,” said Blake. “Like I said… lots of things.”

“Well then.” Tim crossed his arms, calm as anything. “Thanks for the visit, Antonio. It was good to see you again.”

Blake’s unwavering calm broke for a moment. “I—what did you just call me?”

Tim squinted at him. “…No? Not it? Damn. Could swear you look like an Antonio. Tell you what, I’ll keep guessing.”

A smile stole across Blake’s face, amused and faintly baffled. “You… do that. And thanks again for the soup.”

“Goodbye,” Martin said coldly, and the strange man barely batted an eye.

“One more thing,” he called back as he passed out of the glow of firelight. “Be careful, as you move onward. The road you’re on comes pretty close to the Verdant Expanse. There’s been talk of fey in the woods.”

In an instant, Tim was all sharp angles and tension. “What?”

“Good night.”

“Wait—what kind of fey—?”

Blake was gone, swallowed up in the spreading dark. Tim’s mouth snapped tightly shut.

For a while, only the quiet crackle of the campfire filled the silence.

“Friend of yours?” Gerard asked finally.

“We met him at the Silvercut Crossroads,” Sasha explained. “He wasn’t much more forthcoming then, either.” A thought occurred to her, obvious in hindsight, and she looked to the others. “Think he’s following us?”

“He could be following the road,” Tim said uncertainly. “Martin? You’re the religion guy. Is it a good or a bad sign when a servant of the Raven Queen takes an interest in you?”

Martin spent a moment frowning in the direction Blake had taken, as if he could dispel the darkness by glaring at it. “Should be fine as long as we don’t do any necromancy,” he said at last.

Gerard barked out a quiet laugh. “You’re sure about that?”

Martin turned his frown on him. “You tell me. If you’re hiding a reliquary or a pair of fangs somewhere, now’s the time to speak up.”

Immediately Gerard bridled, and Tim quickly stepped between them. “Okay, nobody’s going to point any fingers on this, alright? Martin, come on.”

“I was just—”

“I know what you were just,” Tim cut him off. “And we really, really don’t need that right now, alright? It’s fine. He came in, had some stew, gave us some good news and some bad news, and he left. That’s it.”

Martin pulled a sour face. “If you think that’s the end of it—”

“No, Martin, I don’t think it’s the end of it,” Tim informed him. “Obviously we’ll be seeing him again. Maybe we’ll find out more when we do. Maybe we’ll find out more before that. But until we do, there’s no point in picking fights about it. Cool down, will you?”

Martin stayed tense for another breath before conceding with a tired sigh. “Right, right, yeah. Sorry.”

Taking pity on him, Sasha reached over to give his shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s been a weird few days,” she said. “Want me to take first watch?”

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her. “I think I’d feel better staying up for a bit.”

“Alright, if you’re sure. Oh, and remember to wake me up earlier than usual.” Sasha flashed a grin at Gerard. “Four people means shorter watch shifts.”

“Right, yeah, I’ll remember.”

Gerard sat up for a while, after Martin had taken up his post by the fire and Sasha and Tim had bedded down for the night. Curious, Sasha raised herself up on one elbow for a better look at him, and caught sight of something glinting in his hands.

“What’s that?”

He looked over at her in surprise, and after a moment showed her a short bit of wire with a tiny bell threaded onto it. As Sasha watched, faint sparks raced along the wire and between his fingers before taking to the air and scattering beyond the bounds of their campsite.

“Alarm spell,” he said. “Just in case.”

“Not bad,” Sasha remarked. “We take turns keeping watch for a reason, though.”

Gerard shrugged. “People miss things. The spell doesn’t.”

Something loosened in her chest, a small scrap of relief against a tension she’d barely noticed was there. Like doing up a latch on a window, or hearing the clean, heavy click of deadbolt.

“Good to have a failsafe,” she murmured, half to herself.

Gerard nodded once, and his spell slipped into place like the snap of a lock.

Mysteriousness aside, Blake had been right about one thing: the road they were on dipped far enough south to approach the very edge of the Verdant Expanse.

The Dividing Plains were largely flat, but occasionally the road would crest a gentle hill just high enough to give them a proper view of the edge of the vast, tangled forest. This far north, the forest was hemmed in by mountain ranges: to the west, the Daggerbay range in the direction they were heading; to the east, the sprawling Stormcrest mountains.

For Sasha, it was a cheerful sight.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it,” she said once when they stopped to rest the horses. “Seeing Stormcrest again?”

“S’pose it does,” Tim murmured.

Gerard shot them a curious look, but said nothing. It was Martin who asked, “You mentioned being from Stilben?” he asked. “That’s not in the mountains, is it?”

Tim snorted. “Gods, no. It’s way to the east. Coastal town—and not the fun kind. It’s mostly swampland there.”

“Wet and smelly,” Sasha chimed in. “Unless you’re from there, I guess.”

“Nope, I’m from there and it’s wet and smelly,” said Tim, still staring out at the mountains. “Not the nicest place to grow up, either. Used to study any maps we could get our hands on, deciding where we’d head if we ever got out of Stilben.”

“And you went to Stormcrest?” said Martin.

“First stop, yeah. Loads to see in the mountains.”

Gerard was still staring out at the landscape where the plains met the woods, apparently tuning the rest of them out. That wouldn’t do at all.

“See anything interesting?” Sasha asked, hoping he’d take the invitation for what it was.

After a moment, he let himself be drawn into the conversation. “Just looking at the line between the plains and the forest,” he said. “Then plains and mountains. Keep going and you’ll hit the Frostweald—now there’s an interesting place. It’s got everything—perpetual winter, basilisks, a portal to the Feywild—”

The line of Tim’s shoulders went taut.

“Speaking of interesting places,” Sasha broke in, keeping her tone carefully light. “Gerard, where’d you come from?”

“Oh, me?” Gerard was doing that thing again—that shifting thing where he changed his stance to take up less space.

“Yeah,” Martin said, before Sasha had the chance. “I don’t think you’ve said, have you.”

Sasha glared at the side of Martin’s head. Why did he have to make a simple question sound so judgmental?

It wasn’t lost on Gerard, either, which didn’t help. “I’ve been on the move for a while,” he answered warily. “Not really ‘from’ anywhere anymore.”

A non-answer. What a cheater. “You had to have been born somewhere. Unless you popped out on the road.”

Gerard pulled a wry face. “Syngorn, I guess. I haven’t been back much—like I said, I travel.”

At that, Tim’s eyebrows shot upward. Martin’s didn’t, which could only mean he didn’t know what that might mean.

“Syngorn’s the oldest and most revered elven city in Tal’Dorei,” she said, for Martin’s benefit. “Big, shining city deep in the Verdant Expanse.”

Martin nodded, frowning thoughtfully as he, most likely, came to the same point she had. Gerard, gods bless him, looked like he’d wandered out of a cave in the wilderness, not an emerald citadel.

But she didn’t say that out loud, of course, because she’d been raised to have manners. What she did say was, “How does a half-elf even happen in Syngorn? I didn’t think those fancy elf types mingled with humans.”

“Sasha.” Tim elbowed her.

Gerard simply snorted quietly, apparently unbothered. “Yeah, well, my dad made some shit choices in his time.”

“How’d the warlock thing come about, then?” Sasha asked, curiosity overtaking her. “Syngorn’s supposed to be a font of the arcane and natural magic, right? Can’t imagine making deals with creatures from beyond the planes is, er…”

“Like I said,” Gerard said stiffly. “I don’t go back very often.”

“Fair enough. How’s it work, though, being a warlock?”

Gerard drew his shoulders in. “Why do you want to know?”

“Do I need a reason?” Sasha grinned impishly at him. “Maybe I just want to because it’s interesting.” With a snap of her fingers she sent up a small shower of multicolored sparks. “Magic’s fun, and it’s useful, and it took me weeks just to figure out how to do that, when I first started out. You made a deal with someone-or-something, and now you just have it. Can you blame me for being curious?”

“It really isn’t that simple,” Gerard muttered.

“So what is it, then?” Sasha pressed. “C’mon. Promise I won’t hold it against you.”

“Not sure it’s you he’s worried about, Sash,” Tim murmured. Martin shot a quick glare at him.

Gerard shrugged one shoulder, indicating the longsword slung over his back. “Got a nice sword out of it, I guess. It’s got an extra bite to it, so I can hurt things that usually shrug off hits from mortal weapons. Beyond that, I’ve got a few spells in my arsenal.” He hesitated, avoiding their eyes. “Dunno what else I can tell you. Every warlock’s different. Depends on the patron, on the pact.”

“Yours was—what was it again? Your patron, I mean. The Watcher?”

“Ceaseless Watcher, yeah.”

“What’s he get out of it?” Tim asked.

“Oh, I dunno.”

“You don’t know?” Sasha blurted out.

“How could you not know?” Martin demanded. “You bought magic with a pact, and you’re telling us you don’t even know what you paid?”

“It’s not exactly forthcoming,” Gerard replied. His stance was shrinking him again. “Besides, I haven’t been at this all that long. I figure I’ll muddle through, and if I’m doing something the Eye doesn’t like, it’ll find a way to let me know.”

“The Eye?” Tim echoed.

“Yep. Watcher, Ceaseless Watcher, Beholding, Eye, Unblinking Eye, Wandering Eye, It-Knows-You, the thing’s got loads of names. That’s how it usually is with these types. Most of ‘em can’t have real divinity, so they make up for it with fancy titles.” His eyes flickered toward Martin, glinting with something like humor. “I have to say, ‘Knowing Mistress’ is a lot more tasteful. Gets the point across just fine, right?”

Martin didn’t answer, unless you considered scowling an answer. Disappointment flitted across Gerard’s face as he looked away.

“Well, anyway,” he muttered, and turned to fuss with his saddle.

More questions burned at the back of Sasha’s tongue, but it was no use. The moment had passed. If she tried to ask him anything else, he’d just clam up.

Sasha shot a glare at Martin, but he was already mounting up again. Tim could only offer a helpless shrug as he followed suit, then leaned down to give her a hand up.

The rest of the day passed mostly in silence. As evening fell, they came upon a small hamlet just south of the road, with a rougher path cutting through the grass to lead straight to it. The village was tiny, hardly more than a handful of little cottages and barns clustered around a well and surrounded by farmland. But even from a distance Sasha could see that the lights were on and several chimneys had smoke rising from them.

The silence had gone unbroken for several hours, before Martin halted at the point where the path split off. “Seems like a good place to stop.”

“They might not have room,” Tim pointed out. “Doesn’t seem big enough to have an inn.”

“Yeah, maybe. But we might as well ask.”

“Lead on,” said Sasha.

Tim was right, of course; the hamlet was a small farming community, and its single public house was more for eating and drinking than sleeping. But, between Martin and Tim laying on the charm, they did get something. A cottage on the outskirts had stood empty ever since the death of its owner and the marriage of his daughter, and for a bit of coin their group was allowed to stay the night there.

Sasha suppressed a cheer as she watched the money change hands. This meant a bed to sleep in for the night, far away from twigs and pebbles and wandering insects.

“Not bad,” Tim remarked as they entered. It was small, and a bit dusty from disuse, but otherwise neat and well-kept. “Much better than the empty cabin we spent the night in, eh, Martin?”

Martin made a pained noise in the back of his throat.

“Yeah, I thought so too.” Tim scuffed the floor gently. “Less stains and ominous hunting gear in this one.”

“Think we can forgo the watch shifts?” Sasha asked hopefully. “Since we’re not sleeping out in the open anymore.”

Martin looked thoughtful, and not in a way that suggested he was going to agree. “I dunno… even if we’re inside, this village is still out in the open. I guess we could leave off keeping watch?”

Gerard raised his hand. “I can cast an alarm spell,” he offered. “It won’t cover the whole house, and we’ll have to sleep near each other to fit in its range, but it can at least secure the front door.”

“I… suppose,” Martin said warily. “If it can alert all of us and not just you?”

“Yeah I can make that happen.” There was something new in Gerard’s voice, almost eager, like he got an extra kick out of being helpful.

“Fine,” Martin sighed. “Do it. And then all of us are getting some rest, got it?”

He talked a big game, but Sasha knew better.

She knew, for example, that he stayed up later than the rest of them. She drifted off briefly, only to awaken a few minutes later to find him digging through his pouch.

Odd time to repack, she thought faintly, as he pulled out a few things that she couldn’t quite make out. One of them was a stick of incense, judging by the sweet, smoky scent that followed.

Incense. Cleric thing. Probably an extra protection or something, since he didn’t seem to trust Gerard any farther than he could throw him.

Which wasn’t saying much. Martin was a big guy, Gerard was tall but twiggy—Martin could probably throw him pretty far if he tried.

With that delightful image in her mind, she drifted off.

By the time the first edge of sunlight leaked color across the sky, Gerard had given up.

He had slept… most likely. The night would not have passed so quickly, if he hadn’t. If he shut his eyes and let his sluggish mind properly think, he could almost remember dreaming of something, at some point. He couldn’t remember what. It was more a feeling than anything else, and these days the way his dreams felt was quite distinct.

It sat heavy in his chest as he got up, as he packed his things without a sound, as he found a comfortable place near a window to wait for the others to awaken. With nothing better to do, he stared out at the lightening sky, wide awake and fuzzy around the edges. Sleep, if it had come to him at all, had not been easy. Maybe it was a blessing that he couldn’t remember it.

Time slipped by him again. It seemed to him that he blinked and found new streaks of sunrise that definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago.

And then without warning he was abruptly and mercilessly aware—of someone nearby, standing over him, moving closer—of a small bundle carefully set down beside him. Gerard smelled bread before he saw it, and it finally registered to him that he was hungry.

“You look awful,” Martin said, a bit gruffly. A cup sat in his hand, steaming gently. Behind him, the others were moving enough to be awake. Gerard hadn’t heard them getting up until now—which was a good sign, actually. It meant he’d managed to doze off.

“Thanks,” he replied, several seconds after the silence had become uncomfortable.

“Tea?” Martin offered. “It should at least wake you up, if you didn’t sleep much.”

Gerard’s empty stomach turned. He’d had tea a few times over the years when he was younger, enough for him to wonder why others seemed so determined to drink it. “No thanks,” he said. “Not much of a tea drinker.”

“Suit yourself,” Martin said with a shrug, and left Gerard with his breakfast.

At some point Tim had come up beside him, holding his own cup. “Sure you don’t want any? Don’t know how Martin does it, honestly. I didn’t think anyone but my mum could make it like this.”

“Mm.” Gerard hesitated. “She nice, your mum?”

“Yeah, she was,” Tim replied, then went on as Gerard struggled to wake up properly. “He does put in too much honey, though. Martin, I mean. Of course, any honey is too much, in my opinion. Tea’s best as-is, you know? Can’t really taste it if it’s too sweet.” He took another sip. “Reminds me of home, like this. Well, the good parts of home.”

Once he was finished eating, Gerard felt a touch more awake. He stood up, still shaking off the weariness of too little sleep, and nearly tripped over Sasha as she slipped in beside him.

“You look like you could use a walk,” she said. “C’mon, let’s go check the horses while they finish up here.” She waited for his nod of agreement before calling over her shoulder. “Hey Martin, we’re heading to the stables!”

“Oh! Alright.” Martin looked up from the bag he was packing. “Could you start saddling them up? We’re leaving as soon as possible.”

“Got it!” Sasha hooked an arm around Gerard’s and towed him outside.

The village was already awake around them. People were up and about, out in the fields and at the well. The stables where they’d left the horses for the night was on the other side of the village, not far but still a decent walk.

Sasha released his arm to stretch and yawn, sharp teeth showing like a cat’s. “Sleep alright?” she asked, breaking the silence of the chilly morning.

“No.”

“Yeah, stupid question,” Sasha admitted, turning to look sidelong at him. “Bad dreams or insomnia?”

“Don’t know for sure,” Gerard said with a shrug. “I can’t be sure I slept at all. No real reason. Just one of those nights.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“Do you now?”

At first Sasha walked along in silence beside him, tail switching from one side to the other. Gerard hadn’t meant to stump her, exactly, but the fact that she was having trouble answering was at least a little interesting.

“I guess so,” she said at length. “I mean, I don’t know what’s going on in your head, obviously. But I know how hard it gets to sleep, when you don’t… when you’re up against something new, or you’re somewhere unfamiliar. Or you’re worried about something and you can’t rationalize it away.”

Gerard found his hand straying upward to his throat, to the talisman that hung heavy around his neck, equal parts shield and weak point. “Right, yeah. Lot on my mind, that’s all. What about you?”

“Oh, I slept fine,” she said airily. “Me and Tim, we’ve been together for a good while, and I know he’s got my back. And Martin’s… solid. We haven’t known him long, but he hasn’t steered us wrong yet. And he took us on even though—” She cut herself off.

Curiosity dictated that he ask. He knew it, and Sasha knew it too, so he didn’t.

“So, you and Tim…?” he asked instead.

“Me and Tim?” The words were barely out when her eyes widened in realization. “Oh! No. No, we’re not—I’m not—no. I love him dearly, but not like that.”

“Right, got it. Just checking.”

They reached the stables. The horses were exactly where they’d left them, no worse for wear and quite comfortable in their warm stalls. Sasha went first to the gray gelding she shared with Tim, patting it as it nosed against her.

Gerard watched her out of the corner of his eye. He… cautiously liked her. She was friendly, though not the empty-headed sort of friendly of someone who’d never met a reason not to be. It was a calculated, intentional kind of friendliness. Which was fine—better than fine, actually. That wasn’t what made him cautious.

She was curious, that was the problem. Curious, and not very subtle about it. That could cause problems down the line.

In Gerard’s experience, sometimes the best way to deal with curious people was to be curious right back.

“So, did the three of you know each other back in Westruun?” he asked.

“Tim and I did,” Sasha replied. “We met up traveling in the Stormcrest mountains, years back. We only met Martin recently, when he needed an escort to Vasselheim. We’ve been looking after him ever since.”

“And… you did that by bringing him into a shadow-infested mine.”

Sasha snorted. “His idea! Apparently there’s some other skinny, nosy half-elf running around, because once that mapmaker’s wife described you, he made up his mind to come looking.”

“Ah.” Gerard paused. “Sorry to disappoint?”

“It’s alright. We’ll meet him in Vasselheim, if you’re curious about your doppelganger.”

Gerard hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds like a lot of trouble over a hunch.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” Sasha said with a shrug. “I mean, aside from the man who died. …Shame about him. But I’d say we handled ourselves alright, even Martin. Well. Especially Martin, I suppose. Lucky man had the one thing those shadows were weak to.”

Gerard hesitated, suppressing a shiver. It wasn’t something he was likely to forget. First the flames of radiance, then the pure, unadulterated divinity that poured from him and drove their attackers away. The memory sat in his chest like a spider at the center of a web, all sharp legs and plucking strings. It was hard to tell whether it was fear or envy.

“I know,” Sasha said, amused. “I was surprised, too. Guess he’s not quite as mousy as he looks.”

“I don’t think he trusts me very much.” The admission came almost unbidden. He couldn’t help it; he’d been dancing around it in his thoughts, never voicing it or properly hearing it spoken.

“That’s… well, if he doesn’t, I don’t think that’s your fault,” Sasha assured him. “My guess is, you’re the first warlock he’s ever met, and he’s not sure what to make of you, being a cleric himself. Sorry about him.”

“I’m used to it,” Gerard replied absently. “Besides, not like I’m not still grateful. I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”

Sasha gave a humorless laugh. “Kind of makes it worst, to be honest.”

“I don’t need to be liked.”

“Fair enough. What, then?”

Gerard glanced at her, startled. She wasn’t looking back; her question had been casual, tossed out like small talk. But there was a point to it, an intent, like a dart thrown offhand that still found its target.

His fingernail clinked against the pendant around his neck, flicking it outward until it came to rest against his collarbone again.

“Good question,” he said. “Right now, I’ll settle for staying alive. From there, we’ll see.”

“Hm. Think you’ll find it in Vasselheim?”

“Maybe.” Vasselheim meant refuge, if he didn’t find himself on the business end of someone else’s blade. Refuge meant having the space to breathe and figure things out. “You?”

“We both have reasons to be grateful to Martin, I suppose,” she replied. “A one-way trip to Vasselheim was an opportunity I couldn’t afford to pass up.”

That was, in Gerard’s experience, a pretty clear way to say I’m running from something.

“Ah,” he replied. “Me, too.”

Between the two of them, they managed to finish saddling the three horses before the sun had fully risen. The sky was shot through with purple and orange when Gerard stepped outside again to see if Martin or Tim was coming to join them.

His attention was drawn eastward, as if an invisible hand had taken him by the chin and turned his head for him—a feeling that was growing increasingly, unnervingly familiar. Dust rose from the path that led from the main road, kicked up by four sets of horse’s hooves. As Gerard watched, the rider at the head of the small party dismounted, and was met by one of the local farmers.

More travelers, he reasoned. Probably looking for supplies, or directions.

But he didn’t turn away, and because of that he watched as the rider exchanged words with the man, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and thrust him aside so forcefully that he fell. Laughter rang out from the distance as the horsemen continued on their way into town. Two of them didn’t bother steering around the fallen man.

Gerard instinctively reached up, to the space where his sword usually rested over his shoulder. “Sasha,” he said quietly. “I don’t like the look of this.”

“The look of wh—oh.” He barely heard her footsteps as she came up beside him. “Oh, shit.”

“Is that a general ‘oh shit,’ or an ‘oh shit’ of recognition?”

“Listen to me,” Sasha hissed. “Get back to the others, tell them Rentoul’s here.”

Gerard ran a few mental calculations, slotting together clues like puzzle pieces in the space of a split second. He looked to the riders again, all four of them heading to the next local they could harass. Their path would take them straight to the stables.

“Are they after you?” he asked.

“That’s not important right now—”

“I think it is.”

“Yes, alright?” Sasha snapped. “So we need to go, now, and Martin and Tim need to know—”

“And they’re heading here,” he interrupted. “If I leave you sitting here waiting, they’ll come straight to you.” He chanced another look outside, this time in the direction they’d come. It wasn’t devoid of cover; there were houses to hide behind, along with parked carts. “Can you sneak past without being seen, if you get the others?”

Sasha hesitated, frowning as she ran some numbers of her own. “I… think so. Yeah. Yeah, I can do it. Hold on.”

She snapped her fingers at her side, and the sound reverberated oddly in the air of the stables. Sasha’s form rippled and shifted, changing before Gerard’s eyes.

In a matter of seconds, Sasha had lost almost a foot of height. Her tail and horns were gone, her skin paler, her shorter hair blonde as straw, and she was dressed in the same simple homespun clothes as the villagers.

“Just in case I get caught,” she said, and then she was gone.

Gerard checked the riders’ progress one last time before he returned to the horses. All three were saddled and ready to ride out at a moment’s notice, their reins secured to keep them still until the others returned. His own bag was already strapped in place, along with his longsword. The eye twisted out of the wires of the basket hilt stared out at him almost expectantly. The weight of the Watcher’s gaze pressed at him through the polished metal, plucking at his nerves with its impatience.

He considered the sword for a moment, fighting a scowl that threatened to take over his face.

“Don’t need to kill anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said under his breath. “I won’t. They aren’t monsters, just… people. Assholes maybe, but still people. They belong in this world just as much as I do.”

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if in answer. Glowering, first at the sword and then at nothing at all. Gerard took the sheathed weapon and secured it over his shoulder in its usual place.

Then he walked out and met them.

The rider at the head of the pack was as human as they come. It was possible that he wasn’t the Rentoul that Sasha mentioned, but the name had already stuck in Gerard’s head, so until otherwise specified, he was Rentoul. The other three were a mixed bag: a scar-faced dwarf, a hulking half-orc, and a second, weedier human who hung back and let the others grandstand. There was a small crowd gathering, locals anxiously waiting to see what these new interlopers would do, but too frightened to involve themselves directly.

Gerard planted his feet in the dust. He could feel the Eye’s gaze fixed on him, just as eager to see what would happen next. It was almost comforting.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Two and a half words in, and Rentoul’s voice was already dripping menace. “Can you?”

They were all armed. Rentoul had a nice-looking sword of his own, along with a wickedly long knife. The dwarf was toying with the handle of a mace. The half-orc was casually loading a crossbow. As for the skinny one, it was hard to say, but Gerard wouldn’t put it past him to have a few knives on him.

“Guess that depends,” Gerard replied. “What d’you need help with? I mean, you all look pretty lost.”

Rentoul’s lip curled. “You could say that. You wouldn’t believe how unhelpful some people are, when all you want to do is ask for directions.”

Behind him, one of the injured villagers was carefully helped to his feet.

Gerard clenched his teeth. At least everyone’s eyes were on him, not Sasha or Tim or Martin. “Right. Well. If it’s a direction you want, I’d recommend… back. The way you came. Because whatever you’re looking for, I doubt you’ll find it here.”

Rentoul stepped forward.

Beyond them, several onlookers flinched.

Gerard hated this. He really did. There were so many monsters in the world, and outside of the world trying to get in. Vicious things with malice stitched into the fiber of their being, the kind most mothers whispered about to frighten children, and his own mother whispered about to educate him. There were vast, unspeakable horrors chewing at the edges of reality at any given moment. And because of that, he never knew what to do with thugs. They were such a mundane evil, hardly worth the wasted spells.

“I’m looking for a tiefling,” Rentoul said, toying meaningfully with the handle of his knife. “Dark hair, skin like copper. Mouthy bitch. Keeps a pet human. You seen her?”

“No,” Gerard said evenly.

Out came the knife, with a clean rasp as its serrated blade came free. “You sure about that?”

“You’re burning daylight, don’t you think?” Gerard asked.

Another step closer, this one directly into Gerard’s space. It was the kind of step forward that demanded a step back from everyone else. Gerard stayed where he was as the Watcher’s gaze burned against the back of his neck.

And then Rentoul met his eyes and faltered.

That was nothing new, either. People with that kind of height were always surprised when they didn’t have to look down to see his eyes.

Gerard smiled. “Better move on before she gets any farther ahead.”

For a moment, he thought it might work.

Then Rentoul turned away, shoulders stiff. “He’s lying. Search the place, drag her out by the hair if you need.”

“Suit yourself,” Gerard said, turning back toward the stables.

Fear shot through him like ice in his veins, a warning screamed from his ever-watchful patron. It was the only reason Rentoul’s knife didn’t run him straight through.

They weren’t going to make a clean getaway. Sasha knew that the second Rentoul and McMullen and their friends rode in. Rentoul was a thug and an asshole, and worst of all he was thorough about it. He didn’t leave anything half done, especially when he thought he was owed something.

She’d dropped her disguise as soon as she reached the house. Martin and Tim couldn’t disguise themselves the same way, and Rentoul wasn’t stupid enough to miss her even if she wore a different face while she was with them.

They had just finished gathering the last of their things when the commotion outside reached their ears. Martin charged out the door first, angry and determined, axe in hand.

“C’mon.” Sasha slung her pack over her shoulder with one hand and drew her rapier with the other. “Let’s keep him from getting knifed in broad daylight.”

Outside, the little hamlet was in an uproar. A handful villagers had gathered near the center of town, milling and shouting as a dwarf kicked down the door to one of the houses, disappeared inside, and emerged a few moments later, taking a swipe at the door frame with his mace. Beside him, still on horseback, a half-orc kept the onlookers back by hefting his crossbow.

Sasha caught her breath at the sight. “Are they stupid?”

“Gotta be,” Tim muttered back. “That or Rentoul’s just stubborn.”

Watching the scene, Sasha caught sight of movement further off, and—speak of the devils. There was Rentoul himself, striding over from the stables with McMullen at his side and Gerard in pursuit.

From the looks of it, she’d missed a fight. Gerard was hiding a limp. Rentoul was down a knife. Blood dripped from his nose and Gerard’s fist.

From the distance, Gerard caught her eye and jerked his head back toward the stables. The horses were ready. They could make a getaway, if they could just get past the thugs.

At that moment, Rentoul’s eyes landed on her.

“Bet you thought you were real clever, James!” he barked. “You thought you could steal from the Clasp and get clean away, didn’t you!”

All faces turned to look at her, from the Clasp bullies to the angry, frightened villagers. Sasha fought the urge to shrink back. Attention was bad—she stayed alive by avoiding it, and now every eye in the village was on her. Being watched had never felt like a physical weight before.

Tim stepped in beside her, already nocking an arrow to his bow. “Piss off, Rentoul,” he spat back. “Don’t try and play the victim.”

Emboldened, Sasha let a few sparks fly from her rapier. “Everyone here can see you’re a thug,” she sneered at him. “Move on, Rentoul. Unless swiping hoes and pitchforks earns you points in the Clasp these days.”

Rentoul advanced, drawing his sword. It was a chipped, battered thing, still stained from its last use, whatever—or whoever—that had been. He probably kept it soiled on purpose just to turn stomachs like Sasha’s was turning now.

He managed about four steps closer before Martin stepped directly into his path, and Sasha barely bit back a strangled noise of alarm.

“Martin—”

“You can’t have her.”

Rentoul, for his part, looked genuinely dumbfounded. “What did you just say to me?”

“Did I stutter?” Martin demanded. His voice rose with each word, until the volume no longer seemed natural. “She’s with me. They’re all with me, and I don’t have time to deal with you throwing your weight around.”

Rentoul recoiled, face darkening with rage and, against all odds, actual fear. “And what’s a piece of shit like you gonna do to stop me? That tiefling owes me!”

Martin squared up, stepping into the ground that Rentoul lost. “I really don’t give a damn what you think you’re owed. These are nice shoes, and you’re not worth the spells it’d take to clean you off them, so fuck. Off.”

The last words rang out with the thunderclap of evocation, and Rentoul reeled back as if he’d been struck. When he opened his eyes again, they were ringed with the bright red of burst veins.

In the midst of the confusion, Sasha noted that the half-orc, still seated on his horse, was well within range. With the barest effort of will, a spectral hand appeared alongside his saddle and undid the girth.

A mage-hand wasn’t strong enough to pull him down. But with the girth undone, all it took was one tug, and gravity did the rest.

The half-orc fell off his horse with enough force to knock the wind out of him, and the clatter of his crossbow landing on the hard-packed earth sent his horse bolting. One of the nearby villagers, quick on her feet, darted in and snatched it before he could retrieve it.

In an instant, the angry, and by this point armed, farmers closed in.

Tim caught her eye. “We should go?”

“We should go.”

Martin was already dodging around the growing fight. Tim and Sasha met him on the other side of it, just in time to see McMullen worm his way free of the struggle. Sasha met his eyes purely on accident and glared at him. McMullen’s eyes widened, and he ran faster.

They caught up to Gerard, and together they sprinted the rest of the way to the stables, where a couple of roughed-up farmers were taking shelter.

“Hi,” Martin blurted out as they rushed past. “S-sorry—sorry about all this!”

“No need to fuss,” one of them assured him with a world-weary sigh. “We’ve seen bandits before.”

“Still, we didn’t mean to bring trouble—actually, here.” Martin dug a handful of gold coins out of his pouch, bagged them in a handkerchief, and left them on the stable floor. “For any damages.”

“Thanks for the hospitality!” Tim called over his shoulder.

The horses were still saddled and waiting for them. In less than a minute they were mounted up and riding out of the village, back along the path to the main road. When Sasha chanced a look back, all she saw was the dust cloud rising from the brawl in the middle of town.

They were back on the road when she saw Tim looking over his shoulder—not toward the village, but back the way they had come, toward Kymal. In the far distance, more dust rose from the road as many riders headed their way.

“Rentoul might’ve brought more friends,” he said grimly.

Gerard was looking over his shoulder, too. Martin, in the lead and watching the road ahead, was not.

The Verdant Expanse loomed in the distance. Overhead, rainclouds began to gather.

Chapter Text

“We shouldn’t stop too long.”

There was no trace of urgency in Gerard’s voice, and that was the worst part. If he shouted it, or choked it out in a fearful whisper, or let his voice tremble, at least then it would have matched with the words. But instead, he spoke with all the tired calm of an oldster predicting a storm on a sunny day, as he watched the dust rise in the distance.

“If we run the horses any harder, one of them’s bound to drop dead,” Martin snapped. Tim couldn’t help but wince. Martin was tired, of course. They were all tired, and worried, and just on the edge of frightened. Hard not to be, with the Clasp so close behind.

Of course Rentoul had come out here with more than just three for backup. And of course the scuffle in the farming village hadn’t slowed them down for long—Tim only hoped the Clasp hadn’t caused more trouble for those farmers after they left.

Not an hour after they’d left the village behind, Gerard had announced, almost matter-of-fact, that Rentoul was on their trail again. That was where their troubles had begun.

They had ridden almost nonstop through the day. They ran the horses as hard as they dared. They ate in the saddle if they ate at all. All the while, the dust cloud behind them remained constant and inexorable.

Now, as evening crept up on them, they were stopped at a watering hole to give the horses a break and a drink, however short it would have to be. As dire as things were, Martin was right; if they didn’t take care of their mounts then they were as good as dead anyway.

“Just saying, they’re gaining again,” said Gerard. His mare raised her head from the small pond and turned to graze on the grass beside it.

“How do you know that?” Sasha asked. “The dust cloud looks the same to me.”

“I dunno. Just do.”

“Oh, that’s helpful,” Martin said, dry as trail dust.

“You know what? It kind of is,” Tim shot back, before he could contain himself. “Whether or not you believe him.”

“Of course I believe him,” Martin said testily. “So they’re gaining on us! Obviously they’re gaining on us. We’ve stopped and they haven’t—”

“But they have to eventually, don’t they?” Sasha pointed out, her voice steady with forced calm. “They’re on horses, same as us. They can’t go forever.”

“They don’t have to,” Martin retorted, already swinging back up into the saddle. “They just have to go long enough to run us down. Then it won’t matter if their horses drop dead underneath them, there’s more of them than us.”

“Okay, so outrunning them isn’t an option,” Tim said patiently. “Then we lose them instead. Get off the road, stop giving them a dust cloud to follow.” Of course, any tracker worth their salt might see where horse hooves tore up the grassland, but it was a start. “We shook Rentoul once. We can do it again.”

“On a flat prairie?” Sasha asked skeptically. “I’m good at going unnoticed, but I’m not that good, and I’m betting the three of you are worse.”

“Good thing we’re passing close to a forest, then,” Gerard broke in.

Tim clenched his teeth.

“There’s a fork in the road, up ahead,” Gerard went on, mounting his horse again. “The left path leads straight south into the Verdant Expanse. We’ve got a better chance of losing them in the woods than we do on the plains.”

“He’s—” Sasha shot a quick glance at Tim. “He’s not wrong. Last time we took a shortcut through the Bramblewood…”

They were right. No matter how much Tim’s gut twisted at it, they were right. “What about what Blake said?” he reminded them. “About fey in the Verdant Expanse?”

“He was pretty vague about it,” Gerard pointed out. “And fey… they’re dangerous, but dangerous doesn’t always been malicious.”

He sounded uncertain even as he said it, offering it hesitantly like a breakable thing, and Tim realized with sinking dread that he knew. Not the specifics of course, but he’d heard Tim protest, and he must know there was something to it, even if he didn’t know what. The look of cautious pity on his face only made it worse, and Tim was glad when Gerard finally turned to Martin for the final word. Slowly, Tim and Sasha did the same.

Martin was looking to the forest in question; if he noticed that all eyes were on him, he gave no sign of it.

“Here’s how I see it,” he said. His tone didn’t lean one way or another; it had settled at the balanced center of plain fact. “If we go straight on, the Clasp catches up with us eventually. And—” He looked to Sasha and Tim. “—We know they’re against us. If we run into them, that’s a fight we can’t win. Right?”

“Right,” Sasha murmured.

“Right,” Tim agreed, reluctantly.

Martin turned back toward the distant edge of the forest. “If we go into the Verdant Expanse, we’ve got a better chance of losing them. We’ll… we’ll lose time, but we can also lose them. And in the meantime, we might run into some fey, and they might be unfriendly.”

“Right,” Gerry muttered under his breath.

“The Verdant Expanse is a chance,” Martin finished. “And I’m not seeing a lot of those.”

All laid out, neat and logical. They’d be crazy to choose any other path. Tim knew that. He knew that.

“You’re the boss,” he said, distantly.

“We stay together,” said Martin. “No matter what else happens. No wandering off alone.”

No arguments there. Not while they had a crowd of thieves behind them and a fey-infested forest ahead.

Within an hour of leaving the waterhole behind, they reached the fork. As one, they all turned south toward the looming treeline of the Verdant Expanse.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

Their first taste of the Verdant Expanse was neither verdant nor expansive. The woods were dark, wet, and miserable, and with the trees so close together, the forest felt cramped and enclosed even as they followed the road.

Tim was in the lead, his hood pulled over his head to keep the rain off of him. One of Martin’s dancing lights hovered at his shoulder, lighting the way as he kept them on the winding path.

“Think they followed us?” Sasha’s voice barely reached him over the steady whisper of rainfall. At least it was warm. With the two of them riding together, they were pressed close enough to share the same cloak.

“Probably,” said Tim. “Haven’t seen a dust cloud in hours, though.” Between the rain and the trees, it was impossible.

“We could hide in the trees, I bet,” Sasha said hopefully. “They’d pass us right by. We should be far enough ahead for the rain to cover any tracks.”

Tim cast a longing look at the trees, so thick and close that they probably provided cover from the wet. “Might be a good idea.”

“Unless this place really is crawling with fey,” said Gerard, suddenly right behind him.

Tim almost toppled out of the saddle. “How long have you been that close?” he hissed.

“I’m a quiet guy.”

“We can’t keep this up through the night,” Martin broke in, pulling alongside them. “If we get off the road, we have a better chance of finding somewhere to stop for the night. We’ll just—” His face twisted with painful indecision. “We’ll take our chances with the fey. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The words were optimistic, and they might have been convincing if they hadn’t been stumbling along on exhausted horses through a storm-drenched forest. Tim could tell by the look on Martin’s face that he hadn’t even convinced himself.

There was a tree up ahead, or at least the remains of one. By now it was a snag, easily as wide as Tim’s body and several times as tall, ending in a broken off top that still hung slanted over the road. To Tim’s eyes, it was as decent guiding landmark.

“Right then. This way.” Tim turned at the distinctive dead tree, marked its location and appearance, and led their party off the road and into the dripping trees.

It was darker beneath the close foliage, but a quick spell lit up his vision, and Martin’s light did the rest. The oppressive downpour also gentled, somewhat. Water still dripped down over their heads, heavy fat droplets swollen from rain gathering on the leaves overhead. But the drops were less frequent, not so omnipresent as they were out on the road.

One particularly bloated droplet landed in Tim’s eye. He winced, wiped it a way, and continued leading them through the drenched woods.

It wasn’t like he’d never camped in bad weather. He and Danny had been caught in a few downpours in the past. It was filthy and uncomfortable and made for heavy equipment, but he’d done it before and he could do it again. The criminals on their tail were certainly new, but it ultimately didn’t change much, besides adding a few requirements to what he was looking for.

Somewhere raised, to keep the rain from gathering. Somewhere hidden, to avoid unfriendly eyes. Somewhere defensible with plenty of escape routes, if all else failed.

When he spotted the hollow, he almost passed it right by. Little valleys like that, dips between the forest’s natural hills and rises, almost always had watercourses running through them. And in a downpour like this, the worst place to fall asleep was next to a stream.

But he looked again, just to mark the path, and he could swear that the ground seemed drier. Maybe it was the slope of the surrounding earth, or the way the trees arched thickly over it like a natural roof. He couldn’t see a stream from here, either.

It was worth a look, at least.

Motioning to the others, Tim led the way into the hollow.

The change was so minuscule, Tim almost didn’t register it at all. The warmth in the air could have been the closeness of the sloped hills surrounding them, or the narrower path forcing them closer together. The thicker foliage overhead could have accounted for the way the rain let up on his flinching face. By all accounts the hollow was a promising place to stop—sheltered, hidden, maybe a bit enclosed for his liking, but hardly a death trap. And they were quite a ways from the road, tucked away amid the rest of the soaked forest. It was practically luck that Tim managed to spot it at all.

Gerry was the first to break the silence, if the dull roar of rainfall could really be called that. “Kind of hate this place, actually,” he remarked.

“Are you joking?” Sasha asked. “I can see straight ahead without getting rain in my eyes for the first time since it started.”

Gerry continued to eye the hollow skeptically. “I just don’t think we should be here,” he said, whatever that meant.

“Well, I don’t think we’re going to find a better place than this to—Tim?” Sasha twisted around to look at him, confused. “Why’d you stop?”

“I didn’t,” Tim replied, nudging their shared horse forward. The animal refused to budge beyond nervous prancing and tossing its head, but no amount of kicking would get it to walk again. A glance at the others told Tim that Martin and Gerry were in the same situation. The horses milled around in agitation, snorting quietly when the reins were pulled, but not one of them would take a single step further into the hollow.

A prickle of unease ran up Tim’s spine.

“We could always stop here?” Sasha asked more than suggested.

“Um…” They could. It was warmer, dryer, hidden from from a casual or untrained observer. Or, Tim could listen to the warnings crawling up and down his spine, and tell the others to walk right back out into the pouring rain and cold.

“There’s something up ahead,” Martin spoke up, jarring him out of his indecision. “Right? I’m not the only one who’s seeing that?” He pointed, and Tim looked.

At first glance it looked like an outcropping of stone amid the loam and undergrowth of the hollow. But a second glance proved otherwise; The way the stone stood up was too regular, too deliberate. It looked more like a shaped wall then natural jutting rock.

His horse still refused to move further, so Tim carefully dismounted to take the necessary steps forward.

“Tim—” He could barely hear it over the rainfall, but moments later Martin joined him on foot. “Tim, what are you doing?”

The crawling on his back felt different now—more like sharp claws setting in, holding him in place, pressing him forward. “Just getting a closer look. Wait here.”

Martin, infuriatingly, did not wait. His hand was on Tim’s shoulder, not quite gripping, just resting there in case he needed to. The horses would not follow, so they continued forward on foot until they reached the worn length of stone. It was nothing special, just speckled granite cracked through and overgrown with moss. It was what lay beyond that was really worth seeing.

The ground dipped further downward into the damp shade of the hollow, walkways carved through the undergrowth with just enough random chaos to seem almost natural, but not quite. The slope was gentle, almost regular, as if the forest had attempted to grow shallow steps leading down into the ring at the very bottom. It was there that any semblance of natural growth ended: small standing stones no higher than Tim’s knee formed a perfect ring around a low platform of flat, mossy granite. Surrounding the platform, lining the slope that led back up to where Tim and Martin stood, were rows of massive jutting tree roots and fallen trees, all overgrown with lush green moss.

Seats, surrounding a stage. An amphitheatre, looking for all the world as if it had grown out of the forest floor.

Martin’s rest hand curled into a tight grip, but the words were already on Tim’s lip before Martin had the chance to voice them.

“We need to get out.”

“Now,” Martin agreed.

When Tim turned, he spotted Gerard already heading their way, only stopping short when he saw that they were coming back.

“Come on.” There was no mistaking the urgency in Gerard’s tone, in his face, in the very air that trembled between them like wire wound tight and plucked. “Come on, come on, come on.”

They had nearly reached him when a roar rent the air.

It was useless to wonder where it had come from, Tim knew in the back of his head. It wasn’t the sort of noise that came from somewhere; it was only meant to exist, and it did it very well. It was everywhere, all at once, filling his ears and his throat and his blood until he felt the soft-bellied prey animal that lived deep within him come alive and scream at him to run, run into the dark where hungry eyes might lose him.

The horses screamed. To Tim’s horror, Sasha was thrown from their mount’s back with a yell of alarm, and barely managed to scramble away to avoid being kicked and trampled. He was at her side in an instant, dragging her out of range of the flailing hooves as the horses turned and bolted out of the hollow.

“Shit!” Sasha’s nails dug into his arm, and she pulled him after them. “Come on!”

“W-wait, Sasha—!”

“We can’t afford to lose the horses!”

Every instinct screamed for caution—if he bolted then he was prey too. But with every missed step, Sasha pulled further ahead, and the only thought more unbearable than being hunted was losing Sasha in the darkness.

By the time they realized the horses were gone—by the time they stopped running themselves—Tim had the presence of mind to look back and see that Martin and Gerard were no longer with them.

“Shit,” he breathed out. “Sasha, we’re—”

“I know.” She was already stepping closer. “I know, I’m sorry, I just—the horses—”

“I get it.” His hand found her wrist, gripping it firmly but not so tight as to be painful. “I get it, let’s just… let’s go back. I can retrace our steps.”

He was turning around as he said it, already scanning the underbrush for footprints and broken branches and trampled vegetation. They hadn’t been careful, running through the woods like that, and the trail they left would stick out like—

Except—

“Or not,” he muttered, glaring at the pristine undergrowth, every bit as tangled and unbroken as if he and Sasha had never set foot in it.

“What’s the matter?” Sasha’s hand strayed to her side, toward one of her daggers rather than her rapier.

“No tracks. Can you see any magic?”

“Um, give me a second.” A few moments later, Sasha flinched against him, with a hiss of pain or discomfort.

Tim’s heart went to his throat as he steadied her. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just… wasn’t expecting that.” Sasha pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes, massaging her forehead. “Ever had light shine right into your eyes? With darkvision? It was a little like that.”

“That… doesn’t sound right,” Tim said slowly. “That spell’s never done that before, has it?”

“No, it’s usually just points of light. Magic items glowing, that kind of thing.” Sasha shook her head as if to clear it, then opened her eyes cautiously again. “Tim, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this entire place is soaked in magic. There’s so much of it, I can’t even tell what kind. What happened?”

“Well, I can guess—”

“Hey!” a familiar voice called out. “Hey, is that you two? Where’d you go?”

Beside him, Sasha stood up straight. “Martin? Martin, over here!”

It took a moment for Tim to spot the familiar figure moving toward them, carefully picking his way over high roots and thick brush. That was a relief; they hadn’t lost Martin after all.

“Is Gerard with you?” Sasha asked.

“No,” was the reply. “No, I need help finding him.”

Tim’s ears itched when Martin’s voice reached them. That was Martin’s voice, wasn’t it? It had to be. It certainly sounded like him, and Sasha was calling him Martin. So why…?

A short distance away, still half-hidden amid the trees, the figure halted. “Could you come closer? I need help finding him.”

Tim had an arrow to his bowstring before his mind registered that that voice, no matter how close it might sound, was not Martin’s voice. When he shot it, it didn’t scream in Martin’s voice, either.

Sasha, quick on the uptake as always, fired off three bolts of magic. They struck home, one after another, and Tim took advantage of the creatures daze to loose another arrow and, just for good measure, Mark the thing.

The figure recoiled with each hit, form shifting and shrinking until it had shed any remaining resemblance to Martin. By the time it snarled and vanished from view, its shape was wasted and bony.

“What was that thing?” Sasha hissed, gripping her rapier.

“Green hag,” Tim replied grimly as he nocked a third arrow. “Gods, I hate hags.”

As if in answer, the thing reappeared inches away from him and raked its claws over his face. Tim recoiled with a yell, shutting his eyes to keep the blood from running into them. He heard Sasha snarl in guttural Infernal, and opened his eyes just in time to see her send a gout of fire into the shrieking hag’s face. Tim’s nextarrow found its shoulder, and it vanished again.

It took longer than Tim would have liked; hags were always more durable than they looked. By the time they managed to bring it down, Sasha was bleeding from a series of claw marks across her back and shoulders, and Tim could taste the blood running from his nose to his mouth. It was Sasha who got the final blow with her rapier; Tim could hardly see it happen when his head felt like a spike had gone through his skull.

Moments later, he felt her fingertips against his temples, sending cool healing magic through him. “Wait—wait, hang on, you shouldn’t waste a spell—”

Already did it,” Sasha said lightly. “You alright? What spell did she hit you with?”

“Vicious Mockery, I think,” he answered, as the spots cleared from his vision. “Same thing Martin did to Rentoul before we left that village. Didn’t realize you could cast it just by screaming in someone’s face. Damn. I almost feel sorry for him.”

When Sasha didn’t answer, he opened his eyes again. “Sash? You listening?”

“Yeah, just…” her voice trailed off for a moment. She was staring off into the woods, frowning in worried thought. “Trying to decide if that’s a bad sign or not.”

Tim followed her gaze. Just ahead, half hidden in the mottled dark green of the forest, was a small, one-room hut.

“Oh,” Tim said, resigned.

“I mean, the last cabin we found in the woods wasn’t too bad,” Sasha pointed out.

“Which would be helpful if we were still in the woods,” Tim muttered.

“What?”

Before Tim could reply, a light appeared in the previously darkened window. Before he knew it, Sasha was moving toward it. “Sasha, wait.”

“For what? Maybe we can wait here for the others.”

“Sasha!” Tim hissed. “Sasha do you even know where we are right now?”

“No, Tim, I don’t! Ergo—” She waved in the direction of the hut. “We’re asking for directions. Or at the very least we’re getting shelter from…” Her pace slowed, her voice trailed off, and she glanced upward. “Huh. When did it stop raining?”

She was still moving, her mind made up. Tim could either follow her or let her go on alone, and that didn’t bear thinking about. Reluctantly he jogged to catch up. “Sasha, I don’t think you’re quite getting it, so can you just—slow down for two seconds?”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Getting what?”

“Seriously? Detect Magic almost blinded you, and we just fought a green hag!”

“And? Blake told us there were fey in the Verdant Expanse, that was the risk we decided to take!” Sasha jerked her head to the hut, where lamp light still flickered in the windows. “If anything we should be warning whoever lives here.”

Tim almost passed out on the spot when she raised her fist to knock. But before she had the chance, the door swung open.

Gentle yellow light bathed the patch of moss that passed for a doorstep. Tim’s hand strayed to his short sword, before his gaze turned abruptly downward.

An old woman stood in the doorway, peering out at them through a pair of delicate crystal spectacles perched across her nose. She was wrapped up warmly for winter, in a wool dress with a patched apron and a chunky knit shawl around her shoulders. Between the wispy snow-white curls on her head, and her wrinkled skin as thin and delicate-looking as rice paper, she certainly looked ancient. But she stood on her own two feet without a cane, and when she smiled at them, her teeth were straight and white.

“Tonight’s a night for visitors,” she remarked. “Come in, then, before you catch your death of cold.”

The only cold Tim could feel was the chill settling in his blood, right down to the bone marrow. “You’re very generous,” he said evenly. “But we wouldn’t want to impose.”

The woman’s wrinkled smile widened. “Stars and stones, a young man who knows his manners. Please, be my guests.”

“Thank you for your invitation,” Tim answered, eyeing her warily. He could feel Sasha’s curious gaze on him as they followed the old woman inside.

From within, the hut was not a single room, nor was it really a hut anymore. It was comfortable and spacious, with an entryway that led into a sitting room and kitchen on one side, and the bottom of a staircase on the other. Sasha stopped short when she took this in, and Tim carefully slid his hand into hers.

Frames decorated the walls. Tim thought they were paintings at first, but a closer look revealed curved, patterned cracks and lines through each image. Jigsaw puzzles, then, completed and framed and hung up. An odd choice of decoration, but it was better than skulls or skins on display.

The old woman’s comment about visitors made sense when they came upon a man in the sitting room, frowning over a teacup. He was well-dressed, especially if the fine cloak hung up to dry was his. Something about his face tugged at Tim’s memory, but he was sure that he’d never met him before. He was older, his hair fully gray, his face lined, his green eyes bright with interest as he glanced up at them.

Beside him, Sasha bit back a gasp.

“I apologize for the interruption,” the old woman said. “Had to answer the door, you know.”

The man in the sitting room smiled. “It’s no trouble, Miss Angela,” he said. “I’ve just about finished, myself. Good evening to you both,” he added.

Before Tim could reply, Sasha blurted out, “You’re the archmage of Tal’Dorei.”

The man blinked, and his smile widened. “Oh dear, I’ve been caught.” He stood up, offering a polite hand to shake. “Elias Bouchard. A pleasure to meet you this fine evening.”

“I—nice to meet you,” Sasha answered, sounding faintly baffled as she shook his hand. “Sorry, what are you doing in the Verdant Expanse? The last I heard, you were over in Emon, at the Alabaster Lyceum.”

“Oh, I have been, but it’s nice to have a break every now and then,” Bouchard replied. “Shake off the dust of academia, you know.” He chuckled, inviting them in on the joke. There was something in his smile that Tim didn’t like. “You seem to be a bit out of the way, yourselves.”

“We got a bit lost,” Sasha replied. “Got caught in the rain, you know how it is. And with the woods crawling with—ow!” Tim stepped on her foot.

“We’re just getting our bearings,” Tim said shortly.

“Tea?” The old woman—Angela—was back, tray in hand. “And if you need directions, I’m happy to provide. I know these woods like the back of my hand.”

“What do you want in return?” Tim asked.

Angela considered him for a moment, with sharp blue eyes that were at once much younger and impossibly older than the rest of her face. “Hm, no,” she said after a moment. “You’re already interesting enough on your own, without my help.”

“What does that mean?” Sasha asked, shooting a look of alarm at Tim.

“Got yourself in a bit of a tangle, haven’t you?” Angela went on, eyes passing over Tim’s face again. Her gaze was sharp but not quite painful, like razor blades tracing his skin without breaking it. “It does look lovely from where I am.”

She smiled at him again, eyes crinkling with amusement as they slid past him to something over his shoulder.

He looked.

The jigsaws on the wall were pictures, of course. Every one of them was different. A waterfall, with someone falling toward the sharp rocks below. A fat spider squatting in the center of a glistening web. A figure in darkness, claw-fingered and stained and more wolf than woman. A forest clearing, with lush green and wildflowers and a single man kneeling in a pool of red. A tall, grinning, golden-haired thing, all teeth and long fingers. A figure that Tim could only barely make out through all the eyes that made it up.

A colorful performer poised on a stage before an audience of one, bloodied knife in hand, wearing a shorn-off face like a carnival mask.

Bile rose in Tim’s throat. Dimly he could feel Sasha’s nails digging into his arm; she must have seen it too.

“Which way to the amphitheatre?” he asked.

“The path is marked by snapdragons in pink and red,” Angela replied. “You can’t miss them—the troupe master wants to be found.”

“Good luck,” Elias Bouchard said. “Do try to stay dry.”

They were still in one piece when they left the cabin. Tim hadn’t let go of Sasha’s hand once, and he wasn’t about to stop now. Not a stone’s throw from Angela’s front door, a single red snapdragon stood out amid the greenery like a drop of blood.

“Tim?” Sasha asked, still looking back at the hut. “What—?”

“We have to get back,” Tim said, already looking for the next flower. “It’s our only shot at getting out. Don’t stop, don’t let go of my hand. Just keep moving.”

She pursed her lips, as if physically holding back the questions he knew she wanted to ask. Wordlessly she nodded, and the two of them took off into the shadowed woodlands.

It wasn’t until they had retraced their steps once, twice, and three times that Gerard finally broke the silence.

“Rain’s stopped.”

“Has it?”

It might have been snide; obviously it wasn’t raining anymore. But in that moment, Martin sounded more thoughtful than anything else, with an extra little tinge of grim for flavor. A moment later, the reason and meaning became clear: Gerard brushed up against an ivy-swaddled bush by accident, and when his hand went to his cloak—

“Everything’s dry,” he went on, with a careful glance at Martin. “The ground, the bushes. Everything.”

“Yep.”

Had it stopped? Or had it been raining at all?

Gerard didn’t need his patron breathing down his neck to answer that, but it certainly didn’t hurt.

“So we’re not in the Verdant Expanse anymore.”

“Yes, thank you, Gerard, I noticed.”

And there was the snide.

“Just making sure we’re on the same page,” Gerard answered. “What do we think? Creepy theatre in the woods had a portal to the Feywild, something chased us through?”

“Seems like a safe bet.” Martin froze for a moment, stiffening at some sound or other, before finally relaxing and moving forward again. “Whatever roared. Could’ve been a beast as big as it sounded, or just a good mimic.”

“Yeah, that’s the trouble with fey,” Gerard said, nodding. “Why us, though?”

“I—gods, I don’t know .” Martin’s voice cracked. He had his axe in hand, white-knuckled grip strangling the haft. “How am I supposed to know that? Why do the fey do anything?”

Gerard’s heart sank. Martin was close to panicking, and he hated it when people panicked. It was hard enough getting to listen when they were calm. “Depends,” he answered, hoping the truth wouldn’t make things worse. “Sometimes politics, sometimes laughs.”

“Does knowing that help us?”

“Guess it might not,” Gerard admitted, grimacing slightly. “Fiends are almost easier to deal with. At least you know they’re evil. Fey, they live for the chaos.”

“Right, great,” Martin muttered. He took a deep breath, and the twisting threat of panic seemed to leave him at last. “Then let’s just—the sooner we find the others, the sooner we can go back and get out of here.” Another sigh. “And hope like hell we can get the horses back.”

“Fair enough.” Gerard fell in step with him, scanning the forest around them. “Would be easier if our tracker didn’t run off, too.” He tilted his head toward Martin again. “Don’t suppose you could ask your god for directions? Knowing Mistress might be helpful at a time like this.”

Martin sighed again. “No, I can’t. I haven’t been a cleric long enough to cast that kind of spell.”

“Damn.”

“Best I can do is pick a direction and ask if good things or bad things will happen if I take it.”

Gerard gave the surrounding trees another once-over. “And… how many times can you do that?”

Martin scowled. “I’m not gonna use up all my spells playing hot-and-cold.”

“Hm. Probably for the best.”

Silence lapsed between them. They continued to search for any sign of Tim and Sasha, but the forest seemed equally thick and tangled no matter where they turned.

“It’s a mixed bag, with my patron,” Gerard said at last. “I get feelings, mostly. If I’m about to run into trouble.” He glanced at Martin again, and found his face carefully blank. “I can’t really ask it anything. Sometimes it’ll tell me things, but. It’s usually sort of random. Not always helpful, or relevant.”

Martin’s head jerked up at this. “You—your patron talks to you?” he asked sharply.

“Not in the way you’re probably thinking,” Gerard answered. “Once in a while, a bit of knowledge will just—pop into my head. Something I have no way of knowing. Like—remember Erin, that mapmaker in Kymal? The first map she ever drew was of the Wildwood Valley when she was sixteen. She didn’t tell me that, it just came to me when I was looking for her. I just Knew.”

The look that Martin gave him was hard to read, so Gerard settled for calling it ‘wary’. “Have you ever Known anything about me?” Martin asked.

“Not yet,” Gerard said truthfully. “I Know a couple things about the others.” Tim had a younger brother, years dead and buried. Sasha learned her tricks and sleight of hand not for greed but curiosity, ever hungry for knowledge. The Ceaseless Watcher would like her.

“Don’t tell me,” Martin warned.

“Wasn’t going to.”

He thought that was the end of it, that the silence would take over again until he lurched awkwardly into another question-and-answer session. But then Martin sighed, wrung his hands, and asked, “Do you, er, Know anything right now? About this?”

“No,” Gerard replied carefully. “Like I said, it’s not exactly reliable. Or… helpful. And when I said I know a couple of things about them, where they are isn’t one of them.”

“Right. D’you feel anything, then?”

“Hmm.” The air practically buzzed with magic of no discernible school, which made sense, considering where they probably were. Not a moment went by that he didn’t hear something in the bushes, or in the shadows beyond his range of vision. They were in the Feywild, and that brought with it a whole bouquet of things to feel. And, as always, his patron’s attention remained a steady weight on the back of his neck.

Martin was still looking expectantly at him.

“Bit itchy,” he said.

“Itchy,” Martin said dubiously.

“Like I said.” Gerard shrugged. “Not always reliable.”

Without warning, the Watcher’s gaze flared hot and bright on his skin, lighting up every nerve with alarm. His head turned as if moved by invisible hands, just in time to see a small, hooded figure hurtling from the shadows, heading straight for Martin’s unprotected back. Gerard had his sword drawn and between them before the half-hidden fey reached its target.

The blade met resistance, but not much—leather armor, most likely. The fey drew back with a hiss, its gray face twisted in a snarl of pain. There was blood on Gerard’s sword, dripping into the loam at their feet.

The creature recovered, and the dagger left its hand in a flash. Gerard had a split second to worry before it clanged off of Martin’s axe blade and went spinning into the bushes.

“Wow, that thing really hates you, doesn’t it?” Gerard remarked.

Martin scoffed something under his breath, and a gout of green flame descended on the thing. In an instant it was bathed in radiance, and the creature ran shrieking back into the darkness.

For a moment it was silent again, but the warning prickle on the back of his neck remained. Gerard lowered his sword but did not sheathe it.

A dancing light bloomed in the air by Martin’s head, hovering like a lantern. Without a word, Martin stepped into the thicker undergrowth where the dagger had gone, returning moments later holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.

“Did you… want to keep that?” Gerard asked doubtfully.

“If I’m carrying it then no one can try and stab me with it again,” Martin said dryly.

“Good point. Can I have a look?”

Martin frowned. “Why?”

“Because darklings aren’t stupid,” Gerard told him. “And there’s no reason why it would’ve thrown itself at you with that sewing needle unless it really thought it could do some damage.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Martin passed it to him. Gerard took it by the handle and, with the utmost care, drew his fingertip along the groove in the blade. It came back wet, though not with blood.

“Blade’s coated in—” It came to him. “Fuck. That’s silverpoint poison. Nasty stuff—little bastard really wanted you dead. Still want this?”

Martin took it back without a word, wrapped it carefully, and stowed it in his pouch. Without waiting for permission, he took Gerry’s hand and cast a spell that cleaned the traces of poison from his fingertips.

At his side, the dancing light flickered.

“You’ll want to keep that light going,” Gerard told him, awkwardly taking his hand back. “Darklings don’t usually hunt alone. If there are others, the light should keep them away.” He glanced around, glaring at the surrounding undergrowth. “In the meantime, we need to keep moving. The longer we stand here, the more of ‘em might show up.”

Martin’s brow furrowed in thought. “I thought darklings only lived in, in caves and things. Underground.”

“They pop up in forests, too. Thick canopies, you know. Are you coming?”

Martin moved to catch up. “Which way are we going?”

“Pretty sure this is the way we came,” Gerard answered. He cast a glance at the sky. It was hard to say for sure; the stars looked different in the Feywild. “Best guess, anyhow. And it’s better than sitting around with our thumbs up our arses.”

“Sure,” Martin murmured.

They moved on through the woods, as Gerard kept a wary eye on the stars. The woods all looked the same here, even with Martin’s light.

“Did you Know that?” Martin asked, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“About the poison.”

“Oh.” Gerard hesitated. “Yeah. Just sort of came to me.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t exact or reliable.”

“Well… I still wouldn’t call it reliable, just because it was helpful just now. And I got some of it on me, so… I figure the Watcher didn’t want me, I dunno, putting my finger in my mouth after I’d just touched it.” The Eye’s gaze grew more pronounced, as if it had heard him invoke it. “Whatever else the thing wants with me, it doesn’t want me dying on it just yet.”

Martin’s face grew pinched for a moment.

“Look, I know how that sounds--”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Gerard said flatly. Martin looked away, but Gerard caught the frown on his face just in time. He knew disapproval when he saw it.

He shouldn’t let it get to him. He was used to people being openly hostile, and at least Martin seemed to be trying to tamp it down. That was better, wasn’t it?

Hell, at least someone disliked him for something he’d actually done, for once. Wasn’t that a breath of fresh air.

Without warning, Martin thrust his hand out, stopping him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Not feeling anything from your patron?” Martin asked pointedly.

“You could just answer the question without being a dick, you know.”

Martin winced, but kept his hand firmly against Gerard’s chest. The other covered the dancing light at his side, half-hiding it. “There’s a light up ahead. See?”

Gerard looked. Sure enough, with the light dimmed, he could see it flickering like a lamp in a distant window. There was no discernible color; one moment it looked silvery white, the next it was the normal yellow-orange of firelight.

“Could be a good sign,” he offered.

“A light in the distance,” Martin answered. “In the dark. In the middle of the Feywild.”

“I mean…”

“There’s no story that doesn’t end with us drowning in a swamp.”

“Alright, so it’s probably not a good sign,” Gerard conceded. “But it could be, is the thing.” To say the look on Martin’s face was doubtful was putting it mildly. “Look, what other ideas do we have? At least an ominous light in the distance is something .”

Martin mulled this over silently. Then uncovering the dancing light, he knelt in the undergrowth. “Keep an eye out, will you?”

“Never stopped. What are you doing?”

From his pouch, Martin withdrew a set of dice. “Seems like a good time to try this.”

To be fair, Gerard did keep watch. The Eye wasn’t about to let him dull his awareness anyway. But he couldn’t help but watch out of the corner of his eye as Martin carried out his ritual. It wasn’t often that he got the opportunity to see a proper cleric at work; not like Mum had ever allowed holy warriors anywhere near her.

As Martin cast his dice into the dirt, Gerard felt the Watcher’s gaze intensify and sharpen, as if echoing his own interest. The weight of it became an almost physical press, and he shifted uncomfortably beneath it. He wondered if this was the otherworldly-patron equivalent of pricking its ears, like a wolf sighting prey.

No, he thought, just in case it was. Whatever you’re thinking, no. Not him or anyone else.

“Well?” he asked.

“Three ones and one six,” Martin said grimly. “It’s mostly bad up ahead, but there’s a little bit of good.”

“And is that… encouraging?”

Martin gathered his dice up and rose to his feet. “I used that spell to decide which road to take at the crossroads.” he answered. “I got an even split on the path past Kymal, and that’s why we met you.”

Gerard pursed his lips, not entirely sure what to do with that. “Could you ask her what happens if we don’t go this way?”

Martin stared at him for a moment. Without another word, he knelt and cast it a second time. In the light of Martin’s cantrip, Gerard could see four ones.

“Well then,” Martin said, putting away his dice. “Guess we’ll just have to watch out for swamps.”

Against all odds, the distant light didn’t move further away the closer they got. With each step it grew and grew, closer and closer still, until it was bright and close enough for Gerard to make out the surrounding trees. The place was familiar, he realized dimly. They were approaching the hollow.

And with it—

“Ohh, I don’t like this,” Martin muttered, so softly that Gerard almost didn’t hear him over the distant chatter of many voices. The closer they came, the more he could properly identify.

Happy, jubilant, excited voices rang out, coupled with jaunty, upbeat music. Someone roared out, and several applauded. A drum beat rapidly, leading into a brief lull in the music and voices, until it broke into cheers and whistling and wild laughter a moment later.

The stone wall stood just ahead, pristine and unbroken. Streamers, garlands, and strings of multicolored lights festooned the wall from one end to the other, framing the gateway that led down to the amphitheater. Gerard made it as far as the wall before the Eye’s burning gaze forced him to stop.

The seats were packed with spectators, crowded and squashed in, jostling each other, some of them standing up or perched on the benches for a better view. At the bottom, the circular stage was alive with performers in bright costumes, makeup shining and colorful beneath the floating lights that lit the scene. One of them was clearly the lead, with the brightest costume and the wildest dance and the loudest voice, green skin peeking through shining scarlet makeup.

It was everything that the amphitheater's counterpart in the material plane had not been: a bright, cheery spectacle, full of light and color and wild, captivating music. Gerard glanced down and found his foot tapping along as if of its own accord. That was probably a bad sign, but the realization felt somehow distant. Something tickled at the back of his neck, and he brushed at it absently to dispel the feeling.

Anyway, his foot wasn’t very interesting, not when there was an entire theater troupe performing down there. The stands looked packed, but something told Gerard that if he looked, he would find an open seat just big enough to hold him.

Actually—there. He could see one. Two, in fact. One for him and one for Martin. They couldn’t have planned this more perfectly.

The tickle became a proper, familiar pressure, heavy and insistent. He shook his head, distracted, and his eyes burned in the bright lights. Reflexive tears welled up, turning the spectacle before him into a mess of running colors, like a painting left out in the rain.

Rain. It was supposed to be raining, he remembered. When was it raining? He rubbed his eyes, abruptly aware of a growing headache, and the sight before him cleared.

…Did the lead performer’s makeup always look like? It had been red before, bright scarlet and shining as if freshly wet. It had darkened over the past minute, as if congealing, drying into a cracking brownish crust. He looked to the faces of the other performers, and—odd. They didn’t look much like faces, which didn’t make much sense. They had eyes and mouths and noses and ears, skin and cheekbones and eyebrows, like any proper face ought to have.

All the pieces were there, but that didn’t mean they came together right.

Pressure against his wrist made Gerard turn his head. His bleary eyes were slow to focus, but eventually Martin’s face settled in front of him.

“The audience,” he said. “Look at the audience.”

A little voice in his head wondered why he should look at the audience when the real spectacle was happening onstage. The Watcher’s gaze pierced like a blade through his skull, digging through the thoughts in his head until it rooted out the little voice that didn’t belong, and it withered beneath the glare.

Gerard looked at the audience. He took in the angry lines scored down their faces, the matching bloody fingernails, the stitches holding their smiles in place, the unspoken pleas in their streaming eyes. Some of them laughed through throats that bled. Some of them couldn’t stand, trapped as their own seats grew around them, over them, into them.

Some of them, he noted grimly, were familiar.

He looked to the stage again, and found the lead performer looking back, painted face cracking in a smile wide enough to reach them. An alien joy bloomed within him, overtaking his everything else. She smiled, pointing at them with her dripping baton, eyes lighting up in welcome.

“There you are,” she sang out, and his mind drowned.

It wasn’t like drowning in water or acid—the cold or burning would have shocked him awake. Instead, his thoughts struggled to swim through sludge as thick and cloying as honey. Sensations came to him in broken, disjointed segments, failing to coalesce into a clear picture. He fought to string words together in his mind, but the mess of light and color wouldn’t let him.

While his mind was distracted, his feet carried him forward a step.

And of course, the Watcher wouldn’t have it.

Awareness lit him up from within. The Watcher’s gaze burned through the tar pit that had swallowed his mind, plunging beneath the depths like a reaching hand. Gerard reached back blindly, took it, and let his patron pull him free.

The blood-strewn amphitheater lay before them, lights blinding and painful. Beside him, a glassy-eyed Martin took another step forward into the stands.

He didn’t think. Thinking took too much time. Martin struggled when Gerard grabbed him, but it was weak and halfhearted, and Gerard wasn’t about to waste more time being delicate. He dug his fingers deep, mentally apologizing for the future bruises, and bodily dragged Martin away from the amphitheater.

With the Watcher screaming danger over his shoulder, Gerard half expected the troupe to give chase. But as he ran through the hollow—and as Martin gradually stopped dragging and started running with him—no footsteps or voices followed them. The lyrical voice of the lead performer did not ring out a second time. If she called out again, it was lost in the rest of the performance’s cacophony.

Shapes came stumbling from the bushes. Gerard’s sword was halfway out of the scabbard when he recognized Tim and Sasha’s wide-eyed faces.

“There you are!” Sasha cried out. “We saw the light and…” Her voice trailed off. “Um. What exactly is that?”

“You don’t—” Martin gagged. “You don’t want to know.”

Tim was staring past them, over their shoulders to the brightly-lit and rowdy amphitheater. The color drained from his face as the performance went on merrily, still so very, very close.

The itch of wild magic built until Gerard’s veins buzzed with it, until he longed to crawl out of his own skin. Gods, but he hated to ask for things. Every favor dug him ever deeper into his debt, and brought him closer and closer to the day his patron finally asked for payment.

But everywhere he turned were people three steps from damnation, and so he asked.

Help me. Get us out.

Once more, as always, the Watcher pointed the way.

There was no warning. One moment the hollow was dry and brightly lit with distant celebration, and the next, it was dark and pouring rain. In seconds Sasha was drenched again.

She opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but the others barely slowed down at the change. She considered asking anyway, but all it took was one look at Tim’s face to decide against it.

Tim took the lead again, and Gerard dropped back without a word of protest. Sasha didn’t know how he did it; she was half-blind in the rain, and everything looked the same anyway. But he walked with steady confidence, even as his hands shook—with cold or something else, Sasha couldn’t tell.

Halfway to the road, they found the horses. All three of them were together, reins clumsily lashed to the tree they stood under for shelter from the rain. Wet and miserable and still laden with their supplies, they huddled beneath the scant cover and milled around nervously as best they could while tethered.

Sasha could no longer contain herself. “I don’t get it,” she blurted out, breaking the silence at last. “How did this happen? Who…?”

Tim was circling around the surrounding area, inspecting the rain-soaked ground with eyes spelled to see in the dark. “For once, the rain’s helpful,” he answered dully, kicking at the mud. “Ground’s wet and soft, and the tracks are deep.”

“What do you see?” Martin asked.

“Horse tracks. Lots of them.” Tim shook his head. “A lot more than three sets, that’s for sure. Rentoul and his buddies must’ve rounded up our horses and left them here to chase us down.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. “They followed us off the road?” Tim grimaced as he nodded.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Gerard.

“Why not?” Sasha gritted out.

With a few quick tugs, Gerard freed his horse’s reins from the branch. “I saw some of them in the amphitheater.”

Sasha gaped at him. “We just left it! How is that supposed to make me worry less?”

“Not that amphitheater,” Gerard replied, and said no more about it.

The conversation withered from there. In grim silence beneath the heavy press of rein, the four of them swung into wet saddles and rode off, back to the road, out of the pitch-dark forest toward the clearer air of the open plains.

Most birds tended to avoid heavy rain as a general rule, and ravens were no exception. But the Raven Queen’s work was never done, and thus her servants were always busy.

The man who currently went by Blake stood in a hollow, about a quarter-mile off the road that passed through the Verdant Expanse. Not a stone’s throw away from a cracked and crumbling outdoor stage, a portal shimmered, just barely visible in the rain-soaked darkness.

He hesitated, of course. He wasn’t heartless. Not everyone who had passed through had come out again. But four of them had, and those that remained were those that hunted them.

For petty reasons, no less. Petty, greedy reasons that had no business adding to the tangle that he already had to deal with.

Best to simplify things, whenever possible. There were other ways to make one’s way out of the Feywild. This would hardly be a death sentence.

A death sentence would probably be kinder. But his mistress was not always kind. Just inevitable.

With a delicate touch, he took the doorway between his hands and pressed it shut.

Chapter Text

By the time the rain eased and the clouds began to clear, the faint light of dawn was already snaking over the horizon in thin wisps of orange and deep purple. All four of them were shivering in their saddles, cloaks and coats long soaked through.

Gerard wasn’t sure who spotted the barn first. It wasn’t hard to make out, standing on its own just off the main road. There were no signs of life within or around it—no nearby farmhouses, fields, or villages gave any indication that the barn was in use.

Without a word of discussion, the four of them turned off the road and headed straight for it.

Once inside, the effect was immediate. There were spots where the roof leaked, but it was far drier and warmer inside than outside. After the night they’d just had, no one was going to be picky about this.

Wet layers were peeled off and draped on old hay bales and jutting nails in the walls to dry. Tim and Martin tended to the horses together, unloading them and rubbing them down as best they could. Sasha spent cantrip after cantrip drying off everything that sat still enough for her magic to take hold. With nothing else to do, Gerard gathered up enough dry straw and kindling to get a small fire going, then sifted through their supplies to judge the damage. Some of the food was completely unsalvageable—they’d have to restock soon. As his eyes drooped with exhaustion, he sorted out the things the rain had spoiled and repacked the rest. Then, braving the rain again, he went out to cast an alarm spell around the entire barn.

Eventually, exhausted, the four of them collapsed for the night in the hay. Gerard was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

It would have been nice to have a night without any dreams. But no, that kind of luck wasn’t for Gerard Keay. His dreams took him back to his mother’s library, back to books and dust and decay and the ever-present rusty smell of old blood. He dreamed of her hand on his chin, holding him in place, forcing him to look her in the eye as her nails brushed the skin of his throat.

He hated coming here in dreams. The books never let him put them down, much less take a torch to them.

“Come home,” the image of his mother told him, cooing with a mockery of affection. “You have to come home eventually. I can do this forever. Can you?”

He gritted his teeth and turned another warm, damp page. Her nails scratched along his jaw, keeping his gaze fixed on the page, even as the words twisted themselves into knots.

Something else looked on, unseen and omnipresent. Gerard was certain that if he only turned his head, he would see whatever was watching him so intently. Because it was everywhere, all around him, so deeply woven into his nightmares as to be inescapable. It watched as the book squished wetly in his hands, as the pages pulsed with veins of fresh blood, as his mother whispered her promises over his shoulder. Just as it did every night.

It was almost a comfort, really. He never did like being alone with Mum.

When Sasha woke, the cool light of midmorning was streaming through the cracks in the barn doors, in the roof, and in the walls where wood had warped out of shape. She felt comfortably refreshed, which was especially strange since, when she’d fallen asleep the night before, there hadn’t been a single part of her body that wasn’t sticky, sore, or some combination of both.

That was when she registered the song, drifting through the air in a familiar voice and pitch.

The morning she’d first woken to the sound of Martin singing felt like ages ago, so brief and strange that sometimes she thought it had to be a fluke or even a dream. But now, as she opened her eyes and slowly sat up—wincing over stiff, sore muscles—she was hearing it again.

It wasn’t one that Sasha recognized, and with Martin sitting all the way over by the barn doors with his face turned away, she couldn’t make out the words. But it was nice, and his voice was gentle and mellow and sweet, and Sasha could swear her stiffness was fading away as she listened. Even Martin himself looked relaxed; his shoulders were loosely bowed, and he was idly flipping something between his fingers. It took a moment for Sasha to recognize his little rune-covered Message stone.

She looked to the others and found Tim stirring and Gerry already awake, leaning up against the saddlebag he’d fallen asleep on. He was staring fixedly at the back of Martin’s head, as if Martin’s singing was a new piece to a puzzle he was trying to solve, only breaking when he saw Sasha looking at him. His eyebrows rose with a silent question, but all Sasha could do was shrug.

The singing paused as Martin breathed between verses, and Tim sat up to break the silence. “Didn’t know you sang. You’re not half bad.”

Martin startled like a rabbit, whipping around to stare at them with wide eyes. “Wh—oh.” A look of dismay crossed his face. “How—how long have you been awake?”

“Just woke up,” said Tim. “Sorry for scaring you—you don’t have to stop, you know.”

“I—no, sorry I just—if I woke you, or if I was disturbing you or…”

“Martin, it’s fine,” Tim began, but Martin shrugged off the reassurance, and Sasha knew with no small amount of disappointment that Martin wasn’t going to be singing anymore that morning. She shot Tim a quick glare, and he winced in silent apology.

With everyone awake and no more singing to be had, they set about checking the damage from the rain. Sasha had done her best on the previous night, but a few of their things were hopelessly filthy. Gerard busied himself double-checking the food that needed to be thrown out. It wasn’t a lot, exactly, but it was still enough to be worrying.

Still, they scraped together a meager breakfast, and on an unspoken agreement, put music out of their minds and collectively turned to the elephant in the room.

“So,” Tim said, breaking the silence again. “That was the Feywild.”

Sasha choked on a piece of dried venison.

“That was the Feywild,” Martin agreed.

“That was absolutely the Feywild, and we probably shouldn’t have gotten out of there alive,” said Gerard.

“Pretty sure we almost didn’t,” Martin muttered.

It wasn’t that Sasha hadn’t known, exactly. As soon as she heard the music from the amphitheater and saw the look on Tim’s face, she’d managed to put two and two together, more or less. But in the face of the others’ stony nonchalance, she still felt three steps behind.

“How’d things go for you two?” Gerard asked. “Martin and I almost got dragged into a nightmare theatre.”

Sasha was sitting close enough to Tim to feel him tense. Cautiously she let her tail drape over his arm, and the tightness eased ever so slightly.

“Maybe we should trade stories,” she suggested, with a worried glance at Tim. “We can go first.”

Haltingly, she described the events of the previous night—from the green hag’s attack to the strange hut in the woods and its occupants. Tim chipped in from time to time, but for the most part he left the storytelling to her.

“Wait,” Martin broke in. “Elias Bouchard was there? You’re sure?”

“Couldn’t miss him,” Sasha answered. “It’s not every day you meet the archmage of Tal’Dorei, especially in a place like that. He seemed pretty friendly with that Angela woman, whoever—or whatever—she was.”

“Probably an Archfey,” said Gerard. “If someone like Bouchard was parleying with her.”

Martin glanced at him, frowning. “You know him?”

“Met him once, years ago,” Gerard answered. He hesitated. “I was a kid back then. My mum kept weird company.” Martin’s frown only deepened at this. “I don’t know much about him as an archmage. But my Mum had him over for tea at least once, probably more, and that’s the sort of person who wouldn’t bother being polite to anything less than an Archfey.”

“Right,” Sasha said uncertainly. “She known for her tea parties, your mum?”

Gerard grimaced and didn’t reply. She remembered their conversation from before—just yesterday, in fact. He was running from something. She could only assume this was related.

“Whatever he was there for, it wasn’t good,” Martin said, shocking Sasha with the level of venom in his voice. “And the fact that—that he’s making nice with an Archfey—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second,” said Tim. “This isn’t some dark wizard looming from the shadows—Bouchard’s the highest-ranked mage in the whole realm.”

“I know who he is!” Martin retorted. “Wait—did you talk to him?”

He’d flipped so abruptly from angry to fearful that it left Sasha appropriately rattled. “No, not really. We were mostly just surprised to see him.”

Martin’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Good. You can’t trust him. And if, somehow, you ever see him again, don’t talk to him, don’t listen to him, just—turn and walk the other way.”

“Alright,” Tim said hesitantly. “Um… this is a weird question but… Martin, you don’t know the archmage of Tal’Dorei, do you?”

“I…” Martin hesitated, fussing with his scarf. “I’ve known people who worked for him. And I’ve met him before. Just trust me on this one thing, alright?”

“Alright, Martin,” Sasha said cautiously. “A-anyway, that’s about what happened. We saw—um.” She shot a glance at Tim. “Saw some creepy stuff hung up on her walls, but other than that she was… pleasant? She gave us directions back to the amphitheater, and we left.” She swallowed hard. “I take it we were pretty lucky to get out of that in one piece.”

“Always good to assume that,” said Gerard. “Keeps you humble.”

His and Martin’s story was equally strange. The darkling ate at her—it had come that close to killing Martin, and neither she nor Tim had been anywhere near them. It shouldn’t have bothered her that much, not like she and Tim made bodyguarding their career. But it wasn’t nice to think about, all the same.

And then, the theatre. Gerard took over for this part of the story, with Martin sullenly quiet and listening. Sasha couldn’t help but watch Tim’s face as the description went on. With every word, his frown lines deepened, and his spine became a tight curve beneath her hand.

Gerard’s eyes kept flicking back to him, calm and knowing even as Tim struggled with himself. For a while Sasha thought he might let it slide, but in the end, he gave them a moment to process his story before speaking again.

“You’ve met them before, I take it.”

If Tim were a dog, his hackles would be up. “That obvious?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Does it matter?”

“I dunno, does it?”

Martin shot him a warning glare, though whether or not Gerard actually saw it was anyone’s guess. Martin’s face softened when he turned back to Tim, though there was something sharp and probing in his eyes in the moments before he spoke.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “If you want to leave it at that, I won’t ask.”

“Good,” Tim snapped. “Great. Thanks. Keep doing that.” He stood up, grabbed his things, and went to finish loading up the horses without another word.

With a helpless glance at the others, Sasha went after him.

“Tim—”

“Don’t,” he said quietly, as he tightened a strap into place. “Just—please? Not now. Just don’t.”

Sasha chewed on her lip, casting another worried glance back at the remainder of their party. Martin was already following Tim’s example, gathering up the last of his things and making the final preparations for travel. Gerard was left standing in the middle of the barn, hands wringing at his sides. They were still close enough to hear. Until that changed, trying to get Tim to talk was useless. “I won’t talk about—about that ,” she said. “But we might not be out of the woods yet, with Rentoul. If they’re still after us—”

“They’re not.”

Sasha jumped, barely biting back a noise of alarm. She hadn’t heard Gerard approach at all. Was he that quiet, or was she that tired? “What?”

She could sense Tim glaring over her shoulder, but Gerard didn’t seem to notice. “I told you, the night before,” he said calmly. “I saw them. Some of them, at least. A couple of faces from the village, plus a few others who looked like they might be with them. They were in the amphitheater.”

Her confusion turned to a sinking feeling in her gut. “You mean…”

He looked grim. “I’d say we’ve got a reasonable head start.”

Sasha looked instinctively to Tim, who had turned back to the saddlebags in front of him. There wasn’t much else to be done with them, but Tim managed to look busy anyway.

“Just in case you were still worried,” Gerard added.

“Right, right,” Sasha said shakily. “Um. Thank you.”

Sure enough, when the four of them set off again under the late morning sun, the skies were clear before them and behind. As the hours passed, Sasha kept looking over her shoulder, but there was never any sign that they were being followed.

There must have been dozens of people in their wake, to kick up as much dust as they’d seen. And now there was nothing at all.

They continued east over the plains, leaving the edge of the Verdant Expanse behind them. Over the next few days, the group was quiet—not quite tense, but balanced right at the edge. They made progress: broke camp, traveled through the day, then set up camp and rotated sentry duty throughout the night; and that was it. The hours passed in grim silence. The forest grew smaller and smaller in their wake, but still the Feywild loomed large at their backs.

And then the path dipped southward, into the Daggerbay mountain range, and as evening on the third day fell, they reached the walls of the Emerald Outpost.

For her part, Sasha could only feel immense relief at the sight of civilization. The deepest sleep she’d had since the Feywild was that exhausted, wet morning in the abandoned old barn. She was sore and stiff and vaguely itchy, and a town on the horizon meant the possibility of a bath and a bed.

She’d almost been eaten by a ghost in Kymal, and gods had she been missing Kymal.

Though…

“That’s a town?” she blurted out as they approached. “That looks more like a fort to me.”

Martin, who was a few paces ahead of her, sat up a little straighter in his saddle. “Oh, that’s because it is,” he said. “Or at least, it started off as one. It was built as a garrison centuries ago before the Scattered War—” He seemed to catch himself. “Um. Well. There’s loads of history behind it, but basically it was built as a sort of hidden military outpost so the elves could keep an eye on growing threats from their enemies, and after the war ended it sort of fell out of use. So now it’s kind of a neutral city between Syngorn and Emon—well, the whole Tal’Dorei realm, really—so, er, that’s why it’s called the Emerald Outpost.”

“Got it,” Sasha said with a nod. “Wait, that explains the outpost bit, but what about the emerald?”

“Elves like green,” said Gerard. One of these days, Sasha would stop jumping every time he spoke.

“I… guess that makes sense?” she hedged, not sure if he was pulling her leg.

“That’s part of it,” Martin said grudgingly. “But there’s a whole history behind it!”

“Yep.” Gerard popped the ‘p’. “An entire lengthy history that boils down to, ‘Elves live in forest, forest is full of trees, trees turn green in summer—”

Martin glared at him. “That’s oversimplifying it. There’s symbolism. ”

“Oh, yes, symbolism. The green symbolizes leaves, you see.”

“Are we stopping here?” Tim broke in before it could grow into a full-blown argument. Sasha was almost sorry to miss it.

Martin blinked at him, confused, before apparently remembering that he was in the one in charge of this trip. “Oh, uh, yeah. It’s late enough.”

“Right.” Tim kicked their horse into a trot. “Let’s get a move on, then. Hopefully this town’s lighter on the undead than the last one.”

Martin kept pace with them, and Gerard pulled his hood up over his head as he followed. The front wall to the outpost loomed before them, and the gate stood open.

Already, the town before them looked a lot more promising than the last. Through the open gates, Sasha could see well-lit streets with guards posted out front, nothing like the darkened ghost town that Kymal had been. It was smaller, of course, being a former garrison apparently, but it was altogether more welcoming than anywhere else they’d stopped since leaving Westruun.

Slowly, in increments, Sasha let herself relax. At least for a night, they could rest—all of them, in rooms with locks, instead of out on the plains with one eye open and alarm spells strung around their campsites.

With a quiet sigh, she let her forehead rest between Tim’s shoulder blades. He reached back and squeezed her hand.

The gate sentries were an oddly mismatched pair: an elven man and a human woman, both of them in different sets of armor. The human had the crest of Tal’Dorei emblazoned on her breastplate, while the elf’s armor was lighter, and Sasha didn’t recognize the tree-and-moon crest but assumed it must be Syngorn’s.

“Anything to declare?” the human called out as they approached.

“We’re just passing through,” Martin replied. “We’re on our way to Emon.”

The human’s eyes narrowed, and the amulet at her throat glinted in a way that wasn’t quite natural. Sasha couldn’t tell exactly what it was from the distance, but given the context, it was probably something that sharpened the wearer’s insight. The elf raised a hand, and a gentle wash of magic set their own enchanted items aglow. Curiosity drew Sasha’s eyes toward each point of light. Hers and Tim’s she already knew. Martin had his usual divine accouterments, plus the memory stone in his pouch. Gerard had an amulet of his own, if the glow beneath his collar was any indication. Sasha wondered what it was.

Now wasn’t the best time, though. Poor thing looked like he wanted to shrink into his own cloak.

Apparently finding nothing amiss, the guards gave them one more quick once-over before waving them through. Sasha kept an eye on Gerard, and watched his tension persist even after they were through the gates.

The Emerald Outpost was about as bustling as a town its size could possibly be. It was small, obviously, as constrained as it was by its four outer walls. The central keep was still intact, as well as a few buildings that looked like barracks, and from the bones of the garrison it had once been, a proper town had grown. Tal’Dorei styles and colors mingled with those of Syngorn; between the architecture and the two cultures patchworked together, the whole place was delightfully mismatched.

Most of the town was dominated by a massive central market, now lit for the evening with lanterns strung over the stalls. Sasha leaned out of the saddle for a better view, one hand on Tim’s shoulder to steady herself. Business seemed to be winding down for the night; shame they couldn’t stay longer.

“The Outpost’s mostly for trade and diplomacy nowadays,” she heard Martin say.

One of the boxy military structures still stood intact, with an attached stables that looked a lot newer. A sign hanging over the entrance read, appropriately, ‘The Barracks’. Sasha couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at that; soldiers’ quarters, converted to a kitschy little inn. She almost loved it.

Night had fully fallen by the time they got their horses stabled and went in to see about lodging for the night. Thankfully, there was no fuss over vacancies this time. There were two rooms available, and as soon as they were paid for, Sasha took one of the offered keys.

“How should we split?” she asked. “Martin, you could go with Tim?”

It wouldn’t have been her first choice, to be honest. Instinct wanted her with Tim, just Tim, but they had a job to do. They’d already risked Martin’s neck twice, once in Kymal and again in the Verdant Expanse. With the extra traveling companion…

Martin’s eyes were on her, searching her face as if he somehow knew what was going on in her head. The scrutiny would have made her fidgety from anyone; from a cleric devoted to the Knowing Mistress, it was downright worrying.

“Actually,” he said carefully. “I was thinking you and Tim could take a room.”

“You’re sure?” Tim asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re the one who hired us as bodyguards,” Sasha pointed out, a bit reluctantly. It wasn’t like she wanted to argue with him on this.

“Well, yeah, for the road,” said Martin. “But tonight we’ll be in an inn, with doors that lock from the inside, in a town built out of a military garrison. I think we’ll be fine until morning.”

Without thinking, Sasha looked to Gerard, who seemed just as taken aback as she was.

“You’re absolutely sure about that?” she asked anyway, turning back to Martin. As far as she knew, this was asking for trouble; Martin and Gerard hadn’t exactly hit it off when Gerard first joined them, and they hadn’t grown any chummier over the last few days, either.

But they’d made it through the Feywild together. That was something. Maybe they’d just bonded without Sasha noticing anything. Or—no, wait, Gerard was surprised, too. So maybe Martin was coming around?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Martin asked again, as if he hadn’t spent the past how-many-days bristling every time someone reminded him there was a warlock around. She stared at him, willing it to sink in, and he returned her stare with a bland sort of stubbornness that she couldn’t find a way through.

“Um,” the warlock in question spoke up. Sasha looked over to find him standing next to Tim, sort of hunched over like he was trying to shrink down and hide behind him. “Look, I’m fine wherever, if we could just… stop standing here, and go.”

Sasha mentally threw her hands up. “Right then. Come on, Tim.”

It wasn’t until they were in the room with their door closed that Tim sank down onto the nearest bed and ran his hands through his hair. The latter was easier said than done; his hair was hopelessly tangled, and his fingers got caught and yanked until Sasha gently worked them free. They sat together in silence, side by side and alone for the first time since the Feywild.

After a while, Tim took a deep breath and let it out again. “I,” he said, “am covered in muck.”

“Gods, you stink,” Sasha agreed, and was rewarded when he knocked their shoulders together. He didn’t laugh, but when he raised his head to meet her eyes again, a little bit of the opaque fog had finally lifted. “Are you…?” She paused. “How’re you holding up?”

“Dunno,” he said. Then, “Bad. Nice to be somewhere, you know. Quiet.”

For the past few days, they’d hardly spoken among themselves except to call a halt, break and set up camp, or rouse one another for watch duty. By rights, Sasha should have had her fill of quiet. But there was a great deal of difference between that thick, clinging, oppressive silence from before, and the calm quiet now. It was proper privacy, loosening tension, and welcome relief.

“Feels like we haven’t had a moment to ourselves since Westruun,” she murmured. “It’s got me wondering if we won’t have another until Vasselheim.”

“Nature of the job,” Tim said drowsily. “Not much downtime for round-the-clock bodyguards.” After a moment, he sat up straight with a groan. “And, speaking of, we’d probably better check and make sure they haven’t killed each other.”

“Urgh, I hate that you’re right.” Reluctantly, Sasha got back to her feet. “Gods. Any idea what Martin’s issue with Gerard is?”

Tim shrugged as he followed her. “I dunno. Religious differences. Martin gets snippy whenever Gerard brings up his patron. Which I sort of get? I hear it’s risky business, being a warlock. Especially when your patron’s got so many spooky names.”

“Spooky names and threatening eyeball imagery,” Sasha said dryly. “And Martin’s a cleric of Ioun. Maybe he finds it perverse.”

“Could be.” Tim stretched until his shoulders popped. “To be fair, I think Martin’s been a bit easier on him? Or, as easy as any of us were, since… you know, before.”

“Well, Gerard did say he pulled Martin away from the theatre, and Martin didn’t dispute it,” Sasha pointed out. She put her hand on the door, hesitating. “You can stay, if you’re not feeling up to it. I can bring you something later?”

“Nah,” Tim said, stepping up beside her. “I’ll be alright.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“Didn’t say I was,” Tim said with a strained smile. “But I will be. Promise.”

The door clicked shut, and the noose of tension began to loosen around Gerard’s throat. He spent a moment just breathing in and out, to remind himself that he still could.

This was silly, if he really thought about it. It wasn’t as if he had anything to be genuinely afraid of. The last time he’d set foot in the Emerald Outpost, he’d barely come up to his mother’s waist. And now he was at least twice that height with different hair. Obviously no one was going to recognize him. He hadn’t given his mother’s name as his own since… well, since she died.

Best not to use her name at all, these days. You never knew who might be listening.

His hand strayed to the amulet around his neck, checking to see if it was still there. It was, of course. He’d know if it was gone; either by Mum showing up or by the Watcher taking offense to him losing its gift. Gerard closed his hand around it, fist tightening until the edges dug into his palm.

He was safe. Hidden.

He was also alone, Gerard realized belatedly. He’d been standing in the middle of the room and shoving down a panic attack for well over a full minute, and at some point Martin had left. His pack and cloak were left on one of the beds, claiming it.

With a quiet groan, Gerard dragged a chair over and sank down into it. The silence and solitude pressed in on him, heavier and louder than silence had any business being. This was his first true moment alone since—since Kymal , since he’d set off for the mines of the Ironseat Ridge.

He kind of hated it.

And that was why he turned inward, away from the yawning emptiness that threatened him, and prodded at the Watcher’s tether like a loose tooth. There was no conscious decision; it was automatic, like grabbing for purchase at the start of a fall. As if in answer, the Eye opened, and the Watcher’s gaze beat down on him like naked sunlight. He could feel the thing drinking in his growing fear, his dislike of solitude clashing with the terror of being seen and noticed and recognized.

None of the others knew. If all went well, then they would leave tomorrow without the others ever knowing. But until then, he could only sit on it in silence, with no one to share it but his ever-watchful patron.

“Don’t suppose you know if anyone in town knows me, or Mum,” Gerard muttered, half joking. “I could use the warning.”

He felt the Eye’s gaze sharpen with focus, and shifted uncomfortably beneath the prickling tension.

“It’d only help you if you did,” he pointed out. “Get me nice and scared. Scared of being seen. Having all my—all of that dragged out in front of them. You’re all about that, aren’t you?”

The Eye didn’t answer in any way that mattered.

“D’you have anything for me?”

In response, knowledge uncurled in his mind like the petals of an opening flower. Ever helpful, his patron informed him of the exact number of unmarked graves littered in and around the Emerald Outpost. Enemy dead, mostly, their corpses left to rot when their comrades retreated, buried by the old garrison’s guards not for respect, but to stop them from spreading disease to the living. For a split second, he could almost smell it.

“Charming,” he said acidly, and the door opened.

Martin came in bearing a tray one-handed. Balanced on it was a pair of mugs, both of them steaming gently, along with a jar of honey and a little pitcher of cream.

Startled, Gerard shied away from the connection again, and the prickling on the back of his neck faded. The solitude was gone, but the realization of silence slammed into him mercilessly. “Is this a thing with you, whenever you’re in a new inn?” he blurted out, desperate to fill it. “You go down and inspect the tea service?”

“Just borrowed the kettle,” Martin said gruffly. “Any preferences?”

Gerard blinked. “Not really,” he said. “I’m… not much of a tea drinker.” Which was a kind way of saying that he hated the stuff. Too smoky and bitter for his liking. Why Martin and the others seemed to love it so much, he couldn’t imagine.

Martin squinted at him for a moment, as if he sensed the lie of omission, then shrugged and picked up the pitcher. Carefully he topped the mug up with cream, stirred in a spoonful of honey, and set it on the edge of the table nearest to Gerard before turning to his own cup.

Reluctantly, Gerard took the mug. He only meant to take a polite sip, but the promising smell startled him right before the flavor did.

He must have made a noise or something, because Martin was looking over. As if in response to the sudden scrutiny, the Watcher’s attention briefly returned in full force, only to withdraw again just as quickly. Bewildered, Gerard could only gape at the other man for a moment before taking another sip. This one, he properly savored.

“Huh,” he said, half to himself. “Guess Mum just made shit tea.”

Martin pulled a wry smile as he tucked his scarf under his chin to drink his own. “Yeah, I think I know the feeling.”

Silence reigned again as they sat and drank together. But this time it settled comfortably around Gerard’s shoulders instead of hanging off him like a burden. With nothing else going on, and without the distraction of discomfort gnawing at him, Gerard sat back and really looked at Martin for once.

Martin was… odd, that was one word. Gerard already wasn’t great with people, and Martin was no exception. No amount of staring was going to change that. Even prodding the Eye failed to produce any new information—not even trivial details.

He’d thought he understood him, when the warlock thing came out and he could see the walls rising behind Martin’s eyes. Plenty of people didn’t like him, enough that Gerard was intimately familiar with all the possible reasons why. The fact that he’d willingly tied himself to an entity that thrived on fearful knowledge and awful truth was one of many, and hardly the least of them. It had been disappointing, sure, but familiar, and there was a comfort in that familiarity, in that predictability. Martin would avoid him and shun him, maybe make a few snide remarks here and there, but he’d tolerate him as long as he stayed useful and kept his skeletons buried deep in the closet where they belonged.

The tea was a bit of a surprise.

“Well, I’m gonna see about a wash,” said Martin, setting his cup aside. “Then dinner. You coming?”

The thought of venturing downstairs, to a dining hall full of people, local and otherwise, set his stomach turning all over again.

“Think I’ll turn in early,” he said, wrapping his hands around the still-warm mug. “Been a long day.”

“Fair enough,” Martin answered. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Gerard alone with his thoughts and his patron once more.

When she and Tim joined Martin downstairs, Sasha was surprised to find him alone. “Is Gerard taking a while?” she asked.

“No, he just washed up and said to go down without him,” Martin answered. “Said he was going straight to sleep.”

“Huh. His loss. Does he want anything?”

“He didn’t say,” Martin answered, and didn’t volunteer anything else on the subject. He did, however, wrap up a few rolls from his dinner plate and tuck them away for later.

Sasha, always the pinnacle of kindness and discretion, didn’t comment on it.

After a hot meal, a proper wash, and a full night’s sleep, Tim woke up at sunrise feeling almost human again.

His dreams had been troubled. He didn’t exactly remember them, and the vague, nauseous tension he woke up with told him he was better off not knowing. The thought of breakfast made his stomach turn, which was never a good sign. They were heading out today, for the last stretch of the journey before Emon. Towns and villages were sparse from here, and this might be his last chance to eat something that wasn’t trail rations.

His head ached and his stomach swam, and the thought of the trail ahead made him want to crawl back under the covers until it stopped.

But instead, he trudged down to the dining hall. Maybe he could force something down before the breakfast rush.

As early as it was, it was well past dawn, so any morning laborers would have finished breakfast and gone to work by now. The main dining area was mostly empty, except for one teenage server wiping down a table and, to Tim’s surprise, Gerard. The half-elf was bent over a bowl of porridge, his head down, hair hanging uncombed over his face. Sasha had still been asleep when Tim got up, and Martin was nowhere to be seen.

“Careful you don’t dip your hair in your breakfast,” Tim said by way of greeting, and Gerard visibly jumped. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Gerard raised his head, tucked his hair behind his ear, and cast a quick glance around. “Just a little on edge.”

“Guess that’s fair,” Tim said, waving to the server as he sat down. Porridge was good. He could handle porridge. “How long have you been up?”

A shrug. “Couple of hours. Waited for the early crowd to leave, then came down.”

“Only way to do it.” Tim flashed a grin at the sleepy-eyed teenager. “I’ll have what he’s having.” He nodded toward Gerard, just in time to see the half-elf sink down again, as if he was trying to shrink into the floor. Tim waited until the server left to ask, “Something wrong?”

Gerard grimaced. “I’ll be fine once we leave.”

“Ah.” Tim paused. “Wait, you’re not—gods, how do I put this—you haven’t been, I don’t know, run out of this town before, have you?”

“What?” Gerard’s head jerked upward, though he kept his voice carefully hushed. “No! Well…”

The hesitation lasted a bit too long for Tim’s liking. “Well if you have to think that hard about it, the answer’s probably yes.”

“I’ve never been run out of this town,” Gerard said wearily. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid, and we left of our own accord. Happy?”

Tim couldn’t see or hear a lie, so he nodded. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Wouldn’t judge you if you were, anyway.”

“Right. Wait—” Gerard frowned. “Have you ever been chased out of a town before?”

“Nope, but my—I did know someone who was,” Tim answered, barely catching himself. “It was his own fault, but I wouldn’t say he deserved it, exactly. Things happen.”

Gerard studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether to press. In the end he shrugged and went back to his food.

Tim was halfway through his breakfast when Martin arrived, with Sasha joining them a few minutes later. A handful of other lodgers had also drifted down, scattering among the empty tables for some semblance of privacy. It was only when all four of them were there that Tim saw Gerard finally start to relax.

“So, I was thinking,” Martin said once everyone had their food. His eyes were focused on his plate, very carefully not looking at any of them. “It’s been… weird, the past few days. Since the Feywild.” Gerard cringed at the way his voice carried, and Martin continued more quietly. “Am I wrong?”

Tim exchanged a quick glance with Sasha. “No,” he admitted.

“Right. So that was… a lot.” Martin’s hands curled briefly into fists before loosening again. “And I… I want to get to Vasselheim as soon as possible, I really do. But I think we just need a day.” He took a deep breath. “This is the last leg of the journey to Emon. And it’s a trading town, so there’s a market where we can restock. And it’s safe here. So… I was thinking we might stay one more day, leave for Emon tomorrow morning.” At last he lifted his eyes. “What do you all think?”

Tim didn’t have to look at Sasha to see her answer. She was sitting up straight, tail whisking from side to side. He’d have been blind to miss the way she was admiring the market stalls last night, even if he had been in a mood.

Gerard was as difficult to read as ever. He didn’t look particularly happy about it, but then, he never really looked happy about anything, even when he was laughing about something.

“You’re sure about this?” Tim asked, turning back to Martin.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, up to now, I got the impression we were sort of on a tight schedule,” Tim pointed out. “And we already stayed an extra day in Kymal, so…”

“That wasn’t exactly a rest,” Sasha reminded him.

“It’s not about whether we were resting or not—”

“Look, here’s—here’s what I’m thinking,” Martin went on, a bit haltingly. “Do I want to get to Vasselheim as soon as possible? Yes. More than anything. But…” He wavered for a moment. “But we’re not being chased anymore. Remember?”

A hush fell over the table. Tim saw Gerard come very close to flinching, though he hid it well.

“Guess that’s the reason we were in a hurry,” Sasha muttered, looking shamefaced. Tim nudged her comfortingly, and she pursed her lips but didn’t quite smile.

It was a tough decision—did he hate Rentoul and his cronies enough to be glad the fey got them, or did he hate the fey enough to pity them?

“Like I said,” Martin went on. “This is the last part of the journey, at least here in Tal’Dorei. And we just—” He broke off again, chewing at his lip.

Sasha reached across to touch his hand lightly. It flinched back. “I think I understand, Martin.”

“What happened in the Verdant Expanse shouldn’t have happened,” Martin went on, as if he hadn’t heard her.

Gerard scoffed quietly. “Yeah, like it’s your fault we got chased through a storm and herded through a portal to the Feywild.” Martin shot him a quick glare, and he met it with a stubborn stare of his own. “What? Besides, we got out, didn’t we?”

Martin broke the staring contest first, running his hand through his hair. “Yeah, fine, we did,” he said wearily. “And it was a really close call and we deserve a break. And we can afford to because we don’t have the Clasp bearing down on us anymore, at least for now. That’s all. Does that sound all right to all of you?”

“I’ve got no complaints,” Sasha said quickly. “Tim?”

“Guess I wouldn’t mind the chance to do a little shopping,” Tim said with a shrug. He looked to Gerard.

The half-elf’s face was carefully blank. “Sure this’ll take a full day?” he asked. “Emerald Outpost’s not much for tourism. And browsing the market will only last you so long.”

“Clearly you’ve never been shopping with Tim,” said Sasha.

“Oh, fuck you.”

Gerard snickered at them, then got up from their table. “You two have fun with that. I’m going to take full advantage of our free day and have a nap. Maybe several.”

“Booo,” Sasha said flatly.

“You’ve got your thing, I’ve got mine. See you all later.” With one last lazy wave thrown in their direction, Gerard went back upstairs.

“Well, his loss,” Sasha said lightly. “Shall we, then?”

“I’ve got to grab some stuff from upstairs,” said Tim.

“I’ll go book us another night,” Martin said, rising to his feet.

By midmorning, the three of them were venturing outside again, and for the first time Tim got a good look at the Emerald Outpost in daylight.

Martin’s descriptions had touched on it but not fully done it justice. Taken all at once, the outpost really did look like two towns from two different realms cobbled together into one. The whole place was a mess of clashing colors and styles, and nowhere was that more the case than the sprawling central market.

It was a mix of outdoor stalls and indoor shops. All manner of people were buying and selling—mostly elves and half-elves, as far as Tim could see, but there were also quite a few humans and halflings, and even a couple of dragonborn he could spot. No tieflings, though. As he, Sasha, and Martin mingled with the rest of the crowd, he couldn’t help but notice the stares that his friend was drawing—curious stares, not hostile. Sasha, not to be intimidated, simply grinned and waved cheerily to anyone unlucky enough to catch her eye.

Sasha had been sort of right—given the chance, he did like to browse at his own pace without reaching for his money. And with a market the size of a street festival at his disposal, there was plenty to see. The others followed him indulgently for the first hour or so, but Martin eventually wandered off when Tim’s animated discussion on arrow fletching stretched beyond the bounds of his patience. Sasha was also in her element, chatting with vendors and other customers alike, and admiring the merchandise on display with both her eyes and, when permitted, her hands.

Eventually Tim caught up with Martin again, at a tiny bookshop near the edge of the central market. The bookseller he was chatting with was human for the most part, though the shape of his ears suggested elven ancestry at least. The shop was cramped and smelled of old paper, the walls lined with fully stocked bookcases. Shelf labels advertised each section—one for academic magic texts, another for histories, another for language dictionaries, to name a few.

Toward the back of the shop where the bookseller stood, a few antiques were on display in protective cases. Curious, Tim wandered closer for a better look. and found an illuminated manuscript in one, and a battered-looking grimoire in another.

“My main shop is in Syngorn, actually,” the bookseller was saying. “Antiques make up most of my stock, but they’re a bit too delicate for travel.”

“I’ve heard there are spells for that,” Martin answered, carefully pulling a book from one of the shelves.

The vendor sighed. “Too powerful for the likes of me,” he said. “I never had much of a talent for magic. But I get a lot of good business here in the outpost, so I keep some of the sturdier antiques, for display purposes. It’s gotten me a few repeat customers—” At that moment he glanced over and noticed Tim. “Oh, hello. Can I interest you in anything?”

“Just looking, thanks,” Tim replied. He wandered around to where Martin was standing, and found him inspecting bound poetry collections. Tim tilted his head for a better look at the one in his hand, and raised his eyebrows.

“Good choice,” he remarked, and Martin made a strangled sound and nearly dropped the book of love poems. Tim stifled a laugh. “Never would’ve pegged you for a fan of sappy poetry, though.”

“I like poetry in general,” Martin muttered as he paid for the book. “Thanks, Mr. Swain,” he added to the bookseller.

“You’re very welcome,” Swain replied. “I hope you find your inspiration.”

“Inspiration?” Tim echoed, before it sank in. “Wait. Martin. Do you write poetry?”

Martin blinked at him, confused. “I… yes? Didn’t I tell you that?”

“You most certainly did not.”

“Oh.” Martin frowned. “I could’ve sworn—maybe I just told Sasha, then.”

“You told Sasha and she didn’t tell me?”

“Look, it’s been years,” Martin said wearily. “I dropped it a while ago.” He turned the book over in his hands, thumbing gently at the cover. “I’ve just been thinking of getting back into it, that’s all.”

“Oh. Shame you stopped.” Curiosity roared within him, but he bit back the flood of questions that threatened to burst forth. Martin didn’t talk much about himself; pressing too much might scare him off. Tim had already messed up once, with the singing thing.

Martin avoided his eyes by tucking the book carefully into his pouch. “Well, I was… I don’t know, I’ve been in a weird place. For a while now. A lot of things just sort of stagnated for me.”

“Writer’s block?”

“Something like that. But, you know, new start and everything. Might as well see if I can bring that back, too.”

“I wonder if Vasselheim has a poetry scene,” Tim mused. “Cradle of civilization and all, there’s probably plenty to write about.”

At the mention of the name, Swain perked up. “You’re heading to Vasselheim?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim answered. “You ever been?”

Swain laughed. “No, and I probably never will. But I hear it’s got a fantastic library.”

“The Cobalt Vault, yeah.” Martin nodded. “I’ve heard of it, too. Actually knew someone in the Cobalt Soul for a few years.”

“And hey, never say never,” Tim added. “Maybe one day you’ll get around to it.”

“Well, not anytime soon, then,” said Swain. “It’s bad enough just traveling between here and Syngorn. You know, between you and me, I’m not looking forward to the journey back.”

Martin went still at that, and Tim swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. “How so?” Tim asked. “Trouble in the Verdant Expanse, or…?”

“Among other things,” the bookseller replied, grimacing lightly. “You might have heard of it, if you’ve come from the east. The fey have been more active than usual, and that’s not too bad on its own. It could even be good, potentially, I mean you never know with the fey.” He shook his head. “But it’s not just them. You hear whispers. Mostly rumors, but even rumors have to start somewhere. Anything from undead infestations to planar rifts where they don’t belong.”

“Planar rifts?” Martin stiffened. “Where? Not around here?”

“No, no,” Swain replied. “Gods, it would be an uproar if they were. You only hear about these things in remote places. Easier to hide, you know. Still… let’s just say I’m very happy to be surrounded by four very well-built walls.” He pulled a face. “Syngorn’s had its fair share of trouble in years past—gods, no one has any clue what the Keays are up to these days… it worries me, that’s all.”

“Who…?” Tim began. “Sorry, to badger you like this, it’s just we’re setting out tomorrow and if the road’s more dangerous than usual—”

“No, of course, I understand,” Swain said. “Sometimes I forget how isolated Syngorn can be.” He took a breath. “The long and the short of it is, a sorceress in Syngorn was discovered, well… engaging in some less palatable forms of magic, and fled the city with blood on her hands. No one’s seen her since, outside of rumored sightings that never turn up anything but more murders and thefts.”

Tim shut his eyes briefly. “Great. On top of everything else, there’s a killer sorceress on the loose.”

“Have you ever met her?” Martin asked.

“Once,” Swain said quietly. “Her son, as well. It’s… not an experience I want to repeat.”

A hush fell, as the bookseller fell silent and the two of them exchanged glances. “Well, thanks for the book,” Martin said at last. “And the information. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Thank you for your patronage,” Swain said for the second time, with a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good luck on your journey.”

They moved on from the shop, quiet and thoughtful as the new information sank in. It wasn’t hard to pick Sasha out of the crowd; they found her stocking up on spell components nearby. Reconvening, they related what Swain had told them to her.

“So, what are we thinking?” Tim asked, once they were all back on the same page.

“Could be nothing,” Sasha pointed out. “Just rumors. Swain didn’t even give a name besides—what was it? Keys?”

“Something like that,” Tim agreed. “Though—and this might be nothing, but—there’s a dark sorceress wandering around in Tal’Dorei that hardly anyone’s seen, and undead shadows terrorizing Kymal.”

“Martin’s mysterious haunted cottage in the Bramblewood,” Sasha added.

“That too.” Tim nodded. “Makes you wonder if they’re all connected.”

“I still think that was the Shieldhound’s, actually,” said Sasha. “There were certainly enough horror stories about it to fit with a bloodstained cabin in the woods.”

“True, true. Martin?” Tim looked to him. “Any thoughts?”

Martin didn’t seem to hear him at first, too busy staring off into the middle distance. His eyebrows were knitted together, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Martin?” Sasha prompted.

“Sorry, just… can’t get that thing about rifts out of my head,” Martin said hesitantly.

“Care to share?” Tim asked.

“I mean, we saw that,” said Martin. “In the Verdant Expanse. There shouldn’t have been a Feywild rift there—not that close to the road. I mean, people study these things! The one in the Frostweald is well documented! And—not just the Feywild, either, there’s an entire global civilization of druids that guard rifts to the elemental planes, too.”

Sasha’s tail whisked nervously. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning if there’s any truth to those rumors, then that could mean fiends, or elementals, or—gods, aberrations—” Martin stopped short. “We’re lucky we wound up in the Feywild and not the Abyss.”

That took a moment to sink in.

“Well, when you put it like that… yeah, thank the gods for that,” Tim agreed. Moments later, a horrible thought occurred to him. “Martin, obviously we aren’t going to go looking for any terrifying rumored monsters, right? It worked out in Kymal because you could tear through shadows like tissue paper, but I don’t like our chances against demons.”

“Of course not!” Martin looked appalled. “I just—we just got out of the Feywild in one piece, obviously I wouldn’ t—what, drag us out looking for another tear in the fabric of the world? What do you take me for?”

“I mean, to be perfectly fair… you did drag us out looking for a haunted mine,” Sasha pointed out delicately. “I mean, it worked out, because we got Gerard out of it and I like Gerard a lot. But you did do that.”

Martin’s mouth shut with an audible click, and a look of pure distress crossed his face.

“So, we’re agreed, we don’t go looking for any portals to other planes,” said Tim. “Shouldn’t be too hard.” Martin still looked troubled, so Tim clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Look, it’s fine. We’ve made it this far all right. We even shook off our tail. We’ll be in Emon in just a few days.”

“I just don’t—” Martin wrung his hands, agitated. “You were only meant to help against bandits, I never would’ve asked you to—”

“And we know that,” Sasha assured him. “And for what it’s worth, I’m really glad we came with you. You’re a good man, Martin Blackwood.”

Martin looked startled, which was good because it meant he didn’t look upset anymore. And then his face darkened with a slight blush, which was even better. “I… oh.”

Sasha beamed. “Right, now that that’s out of the way—bookshop, right? Anything good?”

“It had a decent poetry section,” Martin said hesitantly.

“And spellcasting textbooks,” Tim added, because he knew Sasha like the back of his hand.

Sure enough, her eyes lit up. “Fantastic. Which way was it again?”

She darted on ahead once they pointed the way. With a wordless shrug at Martin, Tim turned and followed her back to Swain’s bookshop. By the time he caught up to her, she was already paging eagerly through one of the volumes.

“I recognize this one!” Grinning, she showed him the cover—Treatise on Intermediate Evocation. “I saw it in the Cobalt Reserve, but it looked a little above my level at the time, and I didn’t get the chance to look through it.”

“Gonna get it?’ he asked.

“I think I will. Ooh—Sending, I’ve always wanted to learn that one.” Shutting the book, she trotted over to the counter where Swain was standing. At the sight of her, his eyes widened, and he stood up straighter at her approach. “Good afternoon! How much is this?”

“That’s—that’s ten gold, Miss… er.” Fumbling a little, Swain adjusted his glasses. “Actually—this might be an odd question, but… you wouldn’t happen to know Infernal, would you?”

Sasha’s smile faltered. “Pardon?”

“I—gods, this is terribly rude, I don’t mean to assume,” Swain stammered out. “I recently acquired an antique grimoire, and I’ve been trying to identify it, but it’s written in Infernal and I haven’t been able to read it.”

“Huh. I do know Infernal,” Sasha told him.

Swain brightened. “If you can translate it for me—the title alone would be enormously helpful—I’d be happy to let you have that book free of charge.”

“Done,” Sasha agreed.

“Oh, thank you!” Swain stooped to open a cabinet behind the counter, rummaged through it, and came back up with a book in his hands. It was indeed antique, though not quite as fragile or valuable-looking as the ones sitting in display cases. The cover was dark leather, and the pages looked rough and yellow with age. There was no title on the cover and spine, only a simple stylized eye embossed on the front. Swain carefully opened it, revealing the familiar jagged script.

Tim squinted at it. He could speak Infernal perfectly well, and knew enough to recognize the writing on sight, but he usually couldn’t pick out more than a few words. He couldn’t make heads or tails of this.

Even Sasha was frowning over it. “Hmm. You’re right about the script being Infernal,” she said. “But I don’t recognize the words.”

“You don’t?” Swain looked dismayed.

“I think this might be Abyssal, not Infernal,” said Sasha. “They use the same alphabet, but Abyssal has completely different rules, and not much in the way of sentence structure.”

Martin chose that moment to finally wander in after them. “Everything alright?”

“Can you read Abyssal?” Tim asked.

“I—no. Why?”

“He’s got a book in Abyssal that he can’t read,” Tim answered.

“Oh. That… doesn’t seem like a good idea.” Martin glanced at Swain, was staring down at the book with deep concern. “Why do you have a book written in Abyssal?”

“I thought it was Infernal—Tiefling authors aren’t uncommon,” Swain replied, clearly troubled.

“Wait a moment—” Sasha turned and flipped through her book, consulted a page, and then set it aside to dig through her bag of the day’s purchases. She produced a length of copper wire and wound it around her finger with a smile. “Always wanted to try this one.”

Her magic sparked on the wire, and her eyes lit up with triumph.

“Sorry to wake you,” she said. “At the bookshop, south side market. Found a book with an eye on the cover. Can you read Abyssal?”

She waited a few moments, then grinned. “Damn. That actually got him to come out.”

“Did you actually wake him up?” Tim asked.

“I think so, he sounded a bit grouchy.” She glanced down at the other book. “Also he said not to touch it.”

Swain snatched his hands back as if he’d been burned. “You called someone over, I assume?”

“Pretty much,” Sasha replied. “He should be here in a few minutes.”

“Wait, does he actually know Abyssal?” Tim asked. “Why does he know Abyssal?”

Sasha shrugged. “Well he’s a warlock, so I figured there was at least a nonzero chance.”

Sure enough, not ten minutes later Gerard appeared in the doorway, stepping as lightly on the floorboards as a cat. He looked rumpled, as if he’d rushed out the door without a second thought, and at least half his face was hidden behind his unbound hair. That, along with his usual slouched spine and hunched shoulders, made it look like he was doing everything he could to look smaller than he actually was.

Altogether, he looked like he longed to be anywhere else.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered when Tim waved him over. “It’s really not a great idea for me to—”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh, fuck.”

Behind the counter, Swain shrank back with a faint choking noise.

Sasha, who was still standing by the book, slowly looked from one to the other with growing unease. “Er. I… take it you two know each other?”

“We’ve met,” Gerard said wearily.

“You—what—” Swain’s wide eyes went from Gerard’s face to Sasha’s, then Martin’s, then Tim’s. “Are you—you know him? You’re traveling with him?”

Sasha opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. Gerard looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

“And if we are?” Martin asked.

“You said you’d never heard of the Keays!” Swain spluttered, and Tim turned his head just in time to see Gerard flinch.

“We haven’t,” Martin said flatly. “Do you want your book translated or not?”

Swain dithered for a moment more, before his shoulders slumped and he stepped back from the counter. Without a word, he gestured vaguely with his hand.

Gerard came forward, inspected the title page, and briefly leafed through it before closing the cover to see the eye symbol. His shoulders slumped a little, and he sighed.

“Vecna,” he said.

Swain jumped at his voice. “W-what?”

“It’s a book on Vecna. You know, the Whispered One? Lord of the Rotted Tower, some call him. He was an archlich who started off mortal and sought godhood.” He tapped the eye symbol on the cover. “It’s a bit faded on this, but his symbol’s a hand and an eye. Good news, though—not dangerous on its own.”

“Any bad news?” Sasha asked.

“I dunno. You won’t have much luck selling this thing.” Gerard shrugged. “And considering it’s a treatise on one of the most pants-shittingly evil beings in history, you might want to burn it just on principle. Your choice, though.” With that, he slid the closed book toward Swain and stepped back again.

“You’re not…” Swain hesitated. “You’re not going to take it?”

“No. It’s your problem, not mine.” Gerard walked away, leaving Swain looking at the book the way most people would look at a live snake.

Sasha coughed awkwardly. “So, um, about paying for this one…?” She held up the evocation spellbook.

Swain waved it away. “Just—just take it. A-and I think I’d prefer it if you all left my shop.”

Tim bristled. “Hey, we haven’t done anything,” he shot back. “And neither did Gerard, for that matter—”

“Please leave,” Swain said tightly, without looking at them. Martin was already following Gerard, and Sasha was backing away as well. With one last dirty look at the bookseller, Tim turned and stormed out after them.

As he left the shop, he could almost smell the scent of paper beginning to burn.

They caught up to Gerard as he skirted the market crowd, heading back in the direction of the inn. Tim jogged to catch him first. “Hey. Gerard—”

“Really not the time.”

“Wait, just for a second—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Gerard looked him dead in the eye. “I need to get back to the inn, right now. I need to stay there until we leave. And the rest of you, if anyone asks, have never heard of me or seen me, and there’s only three of you. Understand?”

“Of course I don’t understand,” Tim gritted out.

“Tough,” Gerard spat back. “Look, this is my fault, alright? If I’d stayed in, it would’ve been fine. I was going to stay in. But then I rushed out on a whim and got recognized, and now I have to lay low so all four of us don’t get run out of town, or worse.”

“What?”

“Wait, this doesn’t make any sense.” Sasha fell in step with them on Gerard’s other side. “Look, we’ll go with you and—”

“No.” Gerard’s eyes darted around, verging on desperate. “Look, now’s not the time to be seen around me, so just—don’t follow me right away.”

With that, he cast one more glance around and hurried away.

Tim put his hand out just in time to stop Sasha from lunging after him. “Wait, Sasha, let him go for now.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked you to.” Gerard was already gone, having slipped into the crowd and vanished from sight. “And you don’t actually know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, though she wasn’t craning her neck to look for him anymore.

“It means he seems to think we shouldn’t be seen associating with him,” said Martin, with a quick glance around at he crowd. “And, considering we just got kicked out of a shop over him, he might not be wrong.”

Tim scowled. “Hey, that wasn’t his fault. That guy was way out of line.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t,” Martin said impatiently. “Just that we might want to keep a low profile until we leave. Let’s finish up here, buy what we need, and go back.”

Sasha pursed her lips unhappily, but nodded. “What about Gerard?”

“We can ask him about this when we get back,” said Martin. “Maybe he’ll even answer.”

“That’s if he hasn’t done a runner by then,” Tim heard her mutter.

The thought had crossed his mind. And, judging by the worried frown on Martin’s face, it hadn’t escaped him, either. But, if Gerard’s panic was any indication, then the last thing he’d want to do was draw attention, which stealing a horse and fleeing the city would undoubtedly do.

And there was something to be said for trust, as well. Of course, Gerard hadn’t precisely said that he would be there when they got back, but he had implied it heavily enough to, probably, mean it.

Still, they finished their shopping quickly, the carefree air gone. Tim refilled his quiver and replaced some of his older gear, Sasha flipped through her new book to add to her growing stock of spell implements, and Martin… well, Tim lost track of Martin at some point, but eventually they all reconvened at the inn.

Tim didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Martin opened the door to his and Gerard’s room, and there was Gerard, curled up on one of the chairs with a book.

For a moment the three of them hesitated outside, not sure what to do. Maybe none of them had really expected to get this far.

“Might as well come in,” Gerard said without looking up. “Dunno why you need my permission when you’re the one paying for the room.”

“I was being polite,” Martin sighed.

“Right, yeah.” Gerard set the book aside. “Close the door behind you, yeah? Did anyone ask about me?”

“Not that I heard,” Tim said as they all filed in. At the rear, Sasha shut the door. “So. Want to tell us what that was all about?”

“Not really,” Gerard said flatly. “But life’s full of little concessions, so.” He spread his hands. “Where would you like me to start?”

Martin was the one to break the hesitant silence that followed. “You’re name’s Gerard Keay?” he asked quietly.

“Heard of me, have you?”

“No,” said Martin. “Just wanted to make sure I’ve got it right.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” said Gerard. “Not like I picked it, anyway.”

Tim followed Sasha to sit down on one of the beds—the one that was neatly made, probably Martin’s. “How did Swain know you?” she asked

Gerard took a deep breath. One hand went to his collar, where he hooked a finger on a chain around his neck and pulled a small pendant into view. As he spoke, he kept his hands occupied with playing with it. “He’s a bookseller who likes his antiques. A few years back, he got his hands on a book that turned out to be cursed. He went looking for help and found Mary Keay by accident.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “My mum, like you probably guessed.”

On instinct, Tim nudged Sasha lightly to stop her from interrupting. She scowled at him, but it worked.

“Anyway, she offered to take it off his hands, and sent me to fetch it,” Gerard went on. “I went to his shop in Syngorn and burned it instead. The book, not his shop.” A look of dark satisfaction crossed his face. “She didn’t like that very much.”

“Right…” Sasha said, once she was sure he was finished. “And your mum?”

“And my mum,” Gerard said, heaving another sigh. “What’d he tell you about her?”

“That she was a sorceress in Syngorn who dabbled in things she shouldn’t have,” Martin answered.

“That’s true,” said Gerard.

“He… kind of implied she murdered someone and fled the city,” Tim added.

“Also true. That’s Mum for you.” Gerard paused to inspect his pendant, swiping away an imaginary speck of dust. “If you’re curious, the man she murdered was her husband.”

“Gods,” Sasha muttered. “Why?”

“Domestic to a fault,” Gerard replied. “Made him dead weight, in her eyes. And she couldn’t have that. So she killed him, took me, and ran off to chase her ambitions elsewhere.” He let the amulet fall back to his chest. “And that’s why they don’t like me very much in Syngorn.”

“Wait,” said Tim. “That only explains why they don’t like your mum.”

“Are you still with her?” Sasha asked. “I mean, in contact with her?”

“Nah. Got out as soon as I had the chance.” Gerard shrugged. “But they don’t know that. And besides, she raised me. They probably figure she turned me rotten.” He bared his teeth in a bitter smile. “They might even be right.”

“I doubt it,” Tim snapped. “How old were you when she left?”

“Ohhh, I don’t know,” Gerard said in a single heavy breath. “Five, maybe? Not like it matters.”

“Of courses it matters,” Sasha said quietly. “You were a kid.”

“I was,” Gerard agreed. “And now I’m not. Bit late to be rescued now, you understand.”

“But that’s—” Tim forced himself to stop, grinding his teeth to hold back the childish It’s not fair. Of course it wasn’t fair. These things were never fair; he knew that better than anyone in this room besides Gerard.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Gerard spoke again after a minute. His eyes were on Martin. “Any thoughts? Analysis?”

Martin looked startled to be addressed, as if he’d forgotten he was part of the discussion at all. “Why didn’t you say anything before?” he asked, once he’d recovered.

Gerard pulled a face. “When would I have gotten the chance?”

“You could’ve said something before we entered the town,” Martin pointed out. He didn’t sound accusing, exactly, but he didn’t sound happy either.

“Didn’t think it’d come up,” Gerard replied. “I figured we’d stay the night here and leave first thing, before anyone caught on and recognized me.”

“What about this morning, then?” Martin asked. “When I first suggested we stay an extra day? I asked because I wanted input.”

“Yeah, but you three looked excited about shopping.” Gerard avoided his eyes. “Didn’t want to break your hearts. So, I figured I’d stay in all day, avoid being seen.”

“And when you did come out…?”

Gerard grimaced slightly. “Sasha sent a message about a book with an eye on the cover. I got my hopes up and decided it was worth the risk. Won’t happen again, don’t worry.”

“That’s not what I—” Martin sounded frustrated more than anything. “I’d just like to know these things before I make decisions that put any of us at risk.”

“Well, sorry for putting you lot at risk, then.”

Sasha winced. “Um, Gerard—”

“I meant you,” Martin retorted.

In an instant, Gerard went from studying his amulet to staring at Martin.

“Look,” Martin went on, with forced patience. “Whether I like it or not, this is—this is my journey, or whatever, and I’m the reason the rest of you are along for it. And I know I didn’t hire you like I did Tim and Sasha, but I still took you on, and that—I don’t want to put you on the spot like that if I don’t have to. The last thing I want to do is put any of you in danger, and that includes you.”

Gerard spent another few moments just staring at him, before he finally looked away again. “It was my business, not yours,” he said. “Not like you needed another reason to hate me, anyway.”

Martin stilled.

His face went through an impressive number of emotions before finally settling on a careful blankness painted over dismay. “I don’t… I don’t hate you,” he said quietly.

Gerard didn’t look back, but his expression softened a bit. “Well, you could’ve fooled me.”

There was an odd tension in the air now. Tim couldn’t bring himself to break it, but luckily Sasha never had much trouble.

“Er, Gerard,” she began.

“Gerry.”

Sasha blinked. Then Gerard blinked as well, as if he’d surprised himself by speaking.

Quickly, he recovered himself. “Look, just—Gerard’s what my mum called me. It’s what—”

He gestured vaguely toward the door, avoiding their eyes. “You know. What they all call me. I don’t think I like it anymore. So just—just Gerry.”

“Gerry, then,” Sasha said with a quick smile. “I know you said you’re not, er, associated with your mother anymore, but is she still… around? Out there somewhere?”

Gerard—Gerry—grimaced again. “Unfortunately. There was a little while I thought she might—well. I was wrong, in the end.”

He toyed with his amulet, clearly debating with himself. Finally, he hooked the chain with his finger again and held up the charm. It caught the light, flashing silver and green. With a proper look at it, Tim could identify the stylized shape of a closed eye.

“This was one of the first perks I got from my patron,” he said. “It wards off scrying. Long as I have it on, she’s got no way of knowing where I am. I don’t take it off. You’re safe around me.” He looked at them all warily. “That answer your question?”

“Yeah,” Sasha said quietly, hands clasped in front of her. “Yeah, I think I’m good.”

“I’m… I’m good too,” Martin added.

Tim opened his mouth to speak.

Then he closed it again. Now wasn’t the time. Tomorrow then, after they all had the chance to sleep on this.

“Thanks,” he said, instead. “For telling us all this.”

Gerry gave an awkward shrug. “Figured it was in my best interests at this point,” he said. “So… what happens now?”

“Well, I think we’re all done for the day,” Martin said with a quick glance at Tim and Sasha. “So we’re just gonna lie low. Leave tomorrow, like we planned.”

“I didn’t see any guards rushing around earlier,” Sasha added. “So I don’t think Swain told anyone about you.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Gerry said with a wry grin. “I didn’t hurt him, and I burned the book that did. He just knows I tend to bring bad news with me.”

Tim’s opinion of Swain didn’t exactly rise at that, but it didn’t sink further, either.

“Well I’m glad we met you,” Sasha said, almost defiantly.

Gerry raised his eyebrows at her. “You’d be the first.”

“Fine. Great.” Sasha threw her hands upward. “Someone had to be. Now, is anyone else hungry, or is it just me?”
“I could murder a cuppa right about now,” Martin admitted.

“Kitchen’s open, I’ll bet,” Tim said, rising to his feet. Sasha was already darting out the door.

“You coming?” Martin asked, turning back to Gerry.

“Er…”

“We’ll bring you something,” Tim called over. “Any drink preferences?”

Something flickered in Gerry’s eyes, like hope, like eagerness. It flicked toward Martin, briefly.

“Thanks,” he said, and then, “Tea’s fine, I think.”

Chapter Text

Gerry woke slowly, one piece at a time. He was dimly aware of someone speaking nearby, though he couldn’t be sure. The voice was familiar, but barely, and with sleep muddling every one of his senses, he could very well have been dreaming it.

Sure enough, when he roused himself enough to open his eyes, he found only Martin there, gathering what little he had unpacked over their brief stay. It was still more than what Gerry had, so he shut his eyes again and let himself doze a little longer. Eventually, the sleepy fog lifted, and Gerry sat up and pushed his hair out of his face so that it didn’t get in his mouth when he yawned.

“Good, you’re up,” said Martin. He had finished packing and now sat waiting on his neatened bed, playing with his little rune-covered Message stone.

“We in a hurry?” Gerry asked, swallowing another yawn.

“Well, we haven’t had any city guards knocking our doors down looking for you,” Martin replied, pocketing the stone. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Kind of was,” Gerry admitted.

Martin looked over. “We’re fine,” he told him, with a practical brusqueness that didn’t really leave room for lying. “Get ready to leave. Tim and Sasha will be here with breakfast soon.”

By the time the others arrived, Gerry had finished packing up what little he’d brought. Sasha came in bearing a fully laden breakfast tray, with Tim at her heels with a kettle of freshly boiled water. Gerry cleared a place on the room’s one table for the tray, while Martin took charge of the kettle.

“Last leg,” Sasha said eagerly. “How long do you think it’ll take us to reach Emon?”

“Two, three days?” Martin looked to Tim for confirmation.

“I’d say at least three,” said Tim. “And that’s barring any delays. It’s a little farther from here to Emon than back to the Verdant Expanse. Good news is, we’ll see a lot more little villages and settlements the closer we get to Emon.”

“We’ll probably see a lot more people in general,” Martin added. “There’s regular traffic between here and Emon. So it should be safer overall.”

Gerry nodded thoughtfully, snagging a bread roll from the breakfast tray. “What’s the plan once we get there?”

“Secure passage by ship to Issylra,” Martin replied. “We’ll probably dock in Shorecomb, so we’ll be able to take the road north from there to Vasselheim. We’ve still got a ways to go.”

Before long, tea was passed around. Gerry found his to be just the same as the cup Martin had given him the day before, lightly sweet and warm with none of the unpleasant smokiness he was used to in tea. He wasn’t completely sure if this was how tea was supposed to taste, and at this point he was too embarrassed to ask.

“How fast do we need to leave today, d’you think?” he asked. He wasn’t sensing any danger, but then, the Eye was more likely to warn him about monsters than normal angry people

No one had been talking, but a slight hush still settled in response to the question. Tim and Sasha shared a quick glance, as they usually did when things got uncomfortable.

“I’d like to leave as soon as possible, but that’s more my preference than any danger,” said Martin.

“We didn’t see or hear any sign of trouble downstairs,” Sasha said.

“Swain must be keeping his mouth shut,” Tim added.

“Right. Good.” His appetite took a sudden dip, but he forced himself to take another bite. At least bread was bland enough to choke down.

“Hey.” Sasha was the only one close enough to nudge him. Her elbows were every bit as pointy as they looked. “We’ll be fine. There’s no harm done from yesterday. In about an hour we’ll be out of here, and we never have to come back here again.” She made a show of dusting her hands off. “Sooner the better, if you ask me.”

“Bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“Can you blame me?” she asked, with an unapologetic shrug. “The way you tell it, you helped him, and he treated you like a criminal.”

“It was a bit more complicated than that…” Gerry let it trail off. The look on Sasha’s face told him it was a losing argument. “Look, I should… I want to manage expectations, a bit.”

All eyes were on him, and in an instant the Eye was on him as well, its steady piercing gaze digging into the back of his neck as if it knew what he was about to bring it up.

“So, they don’t like me in Syngorn,” he went on. “And since this place is related to Syngorn, I had to lay low. I… honestly don’t know what to expect in Emon.” He picked at the side of his finger nail, avoiding the others’ eyes. “I haven’t been there since I was a kid. But my mum made a few enemies there, just ‘cause she makes enemies everywhere she goes. Dunno what to expect, really. Might be nothing. Might be more of this.”

“I doubt it,” Tim said. “Emon’s a big city. Chances are, no one’ll pick you out of a crowd unless you go out of your way to be noticed.” Something must have showed on Gerry’s face, because Tim suddenly frowned. “What’s that look for?”

“It’s not like I try to attract attention. I just do.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the fact that I’m magically tied to a supernatural being whose power comes from terrifying knowledge and painful truths, I dunno.”

“Could be the eyeball tattoos,” said Sasha. Gerry gave her a pained look. “I’m just saying .”

“Question,” Martin spoke up.

By force of habit, Gerry’s wariness spiked. “Yes?”

“Does—does your patron have a… I don’t know. A reputation?” Martin worried his lip between his teeth. “As far as I know, I don’t think the Ceaseless Watcher’s common knowledge?”

“Wouldn’t say common, no,” Gerry agreed, carefully relaxing. “But… yeah, I guess it does. I don’t know a lot about it, that’s… sort of why I rushed down yesterday. I heard ‘mysterious book with eyeball imagery’ and got my hopes up. But I’ve heard rumors. Whispers, more like. Some of it’s stuff like, it floats through the planes in search of new horrors to drink in, or it was summoned to this world through X number of human sacrifices and dark rituals and what have you, or that it feeds on terror and suffering and tortured babies, things like that. Hard to separate out the truth from the standard dark-ritual rumors.”

“Is there anything you’re sure of?” Martin pressed.

“Somewhat,” Gerry said hesitantly. “I’m pretty sure it does feed on fear, in a way. Sort of the way gods are strengthened by prayers. It’s not always with me—it moves around a lot, always looking for something new to See, that’s why one of its titles is the Wandering Eye—but it always comes back when I’m… when I’m afraid.” Or nervous and uncomfortable, like now. “Doesn’t do much. Mostly it just… watches.” He swallowed. “You know that feeling, yeah? Eyes burning into the back of your head? It’s like that times a thousand.”

Martin nodded mutely and didn’t ask anything more.

Gerry shrugged. “So, yeah. Sorry you have to deal with that ‘til Vasselheim.”

“You’re fine,” Sasha informed him.

“I think we’ve all got baggage,” Tim said suddenly. He was staring into his mostly-empty tea mug, swirling the dregs around as if trying to read his fortune.

Gerry nodded and looked away.

“I’m not just saying that,” Tim went on. “We’ve been running into each other’s baggage this whole journey. First Sasha’s, then—then mine. Today was just your turn.”

Gerry nodded again, though the words only sank in when Martin spoke up.

“Wait, what do you mean yours?”

Tim shifted in his seat, leg bouncing a little in agitation. Without a word, Sasha reached over and put her hand to his arm.

“I was gonna say something yesterday,” said Tim, carefully avoiding all of their eyes. “Just didn’t feel like the right time, that’s all. With Gerry’s thing happening.” He took a deep breath. “But, in the interest of being honest… Hell with it. What have I got to lose?”

“You don’t have to,” Sasha reminded him.

Tim shrugged. “There’s not even that much to tell,” he said, running the fingers of one hand over the white knuckles of the other. “My brother and I left home when we were young—practically still kids, honestly. Stilben… it’s not like we had it bad, exactly. But Stilben’s a miserable place, so we got out as soon as we could.” He sat back with a wry smile. “We wanted to see the rest of Tal’Dorei, or the whole world—or just, something that wasn’t the coastal swamp. And we did! And we were good at it.”

He faltered. “He was good at it.”

Unbidden, the Watcher slipped the rest of the story into Gerry’s head. He shut his eyes and continued to listen anyway.

“So, one day he goes off to scout out the Frostweald, right?” Tim’s smile turned bitter. “That was the next place on our list—endless winter, basilisks, all that shit. Sounded perfect. Only, Danny didn’t come back.”

His cheekbone shifted, betraying how he clenched his teeth. “I went after him. Obviously. Tracked him straight to a rift that led to the Feywild. Went through it. And I found that—that gods-damned amphitheater. All brightly lit and full of music. No audience, though. Just me.”

He fell silent again, running his hand through his hair to hide the way it shook.

“Just me,” he repeated. “And Danny up on the stage. That’s the last I ever saw him.”

Silence fell over the room again. Gerry looked on, ignoring the blaze of the Watcher’s eyes on him, watching Tim, around him and through him. Martin’s face was blank, though his mouth trembled.

“Tim,” he began.

“Do you know how hard it was?” Tim asked quietly. “Walking away—running away, again, instead of walking into that mess and shooting that fucking fey between the eyes?” He reached up, the motion so quick that Gerry almost didn’t catch it, and rubbed one of his eyes. “But I didn’t. Had to think of all of you, didn’t I?”

“Shit,” Gerry breathed.

“Don’t know where I was going with this,” Tim finished. “I dunno. Thanks for dragging us out of there, Gerry.”

Gerry nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak just yet.

“Do you think they’re hunting you?” he asked, once he did.

“Hell if I know,” Tim replied, with a humorless laugh. “I’m hunting them, that’s for sure.”

Martin made a noise, somewhere between worry and faint disapproval, and Tim winced. His stance shifted, shoulders going slack, spine bowing. “Not that I’m gonna do anything yet, obviously. First priority’s getting you to Vasselheim. That’s always been the case.”

Martin nodded, subdued. “Thanks. And, I’m sorry—”

“It was years ago,” Tim informed him.

“I know. Still sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Tim shook his head, sat up, and leaned back on his palms. “Anyway, that’s all I had to say. Just wanted to clear the air, in case… I dunno. In case we run into any more Feywild rifts.”

At a nudge from the Watcher, Gerry bent a metaphorical ear and was rewarded with a useful little tidbit. “We probably won’t,” he offered. “The fey like to keep their things hidden. If it’s all open, crowded plains from here to Emon, then it’ll be too out in the open for their liking.”

“And the road to Vasselheim?” Tim asked grimly.

This time, the Watcher wasn’t forthcoming, and Gerry knew better than to prod. “Good question,” he said. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Probably.” Martin heaved a sigh and got to his feet. “And, speaking of which, we should probably get going.”

The dishes were gathered up and left on the tray. The last of their belongings were gathered up from both rooms. Together, the four of them made their way downstairs, left the inn, and went to retrieve their horses.

For all that he had going for him—reassurances, company around him, and even a full night’s sleep with minimal nightmares—Gerry was on edge as they saddled the horses. Never mind that it was pointless worrying now, when they were already on their way out. Never mind that even Martin seemed to be softening on him a little. He’d been expecting things to go south for him since he first set foot in the outpost, and the run-in with Swain had done nothing to loosen that tension. Now he was glancing over his shoulder all the time, wishing the other shoe would hurry up and drop so that he could stop waiting for it.

And in spite of all of this, he was still caught off guard when, as he was passing through the gates of the outpost, the voice of one of the guards reached him.

“Good riddance.”

He looked. He couldn’t help it. The elf wasn’t one that he recognized, but he was in full Syngorn colors and held himself like a city elf—upright and haughty.

Noble, but far removed from any meaningful title or power, the Watcher supplied. Because it couldn’t warn him ahead of time, but it could offer trivia after the fact.

The elf met his eyes squarely, emboldened by the fact that Gerry was leaving. “Better not see you back here, Keay.”

And by all accounts, that was tame. He’d had far worse thrown at him than just his name. But maybe that was why it stung—the fact that the worst thing someone could think to call him was his own name.

Something shrank within him, shriveling and drying up into something tiny and misshapen and ugly. He looked away, almost too quickly to miss the miniature fireworks display that went off in the elf’s face.

The guard yelped, nearly falling over as brightly colored crackling sparks exploded within blinding distance. Gerry startled, and turned to the others just in time to see a Sasha slip a wand back into her belt. The guard swore at her, and she flipped him off without looking back.

Before anyone could get a word out on either side, they were through the gates and leaving the Emerald Outpost behind. Pressing his lips together, Gerry hid a smile as the shrinking feeling let up.

It wasn’t like they hit crowds as soon as they left the Emerald Outpost. Perhaps it might have been like that closer to Emon, or in a warmer part of the year. But, as they headed further north and west along what Martin identified as the Emerald Path, Tim found himself observing more and more other travelers on the road. They passed by a few lone travelers on foot and a couple of horse-drawn wagons, and on one occasion, a day after leaving the Emerald Outpost, an entire caravan passed them while they were stopping to let their horses rest.

Whenever it happened, Tim felt something loosen within him that he’d barely realized was wound tight. As pleasant as a quiet road could be, there was something reassuring about crossing paths with other people along the way.

The day of rest had done him good, in spite of its hiccups. In the wake of the Feywild, he’d felt stretched thin and inches from breaking down or throwing a punch. But now, with the knots in him loosened, the truth out, and the next big phase of the journey within reach, he was comfortable again. Even out in open grassland, he felt secure in his own skin.

At one point on the second day, as the group crested a low hill, Tim was dragged out of his daydreams by Sasha tugging at him eagerly. “Tim. Tim, look.”

She pointed west. Following her finger, Tim squinted into the distance, following the sea of green toward the horizon until it became a sea of blue-gray.

An actual sea, to be exact.

“Is that…?”

“That’s the Ozmit Sea,” Martin called over. “We’re about halfway between the outpost and Emon.”

“You think?” Tim did a little mental math. At this rate, they’d get there in another two days, barring any disasters.

It was Martin’s turn to point, this time directing their attention to the road ahead. A river meandered across the plain from the sea, crossing over the Emerald Path at one point. By Tim’s reckoning, they’d reach it in an hour or so.

“According to the map,” said Martin. “That river’s the halfway point.”

“Might be a good place to stop,” Tim suggested. “Give the horses another breather.”

“Think the water’s okay for them to drink?” Sasha asked.

“Martin can purify it if it isn’t, remember?”

“Ooh, good point.”

Without warning, a rank smell hit Tim like a physical blow, so thick that the air almost felt warm. It reminded him, rather uncomfortably, of the swampland and salt flats around Stilben. Automatically he started breathing through his mouth, just as Sasha made a noise of faint disgust.

“Oh, that’s foul.”

“Tide flats, maybe?” Tim replied. Breathing through his mouth wasn’t helping much; now he could taste it. “All that dead fish getting washed up on shore, baking out in the sun.”

“Too cold for that, isn’t it?” Gerry said absently.

“Nah, that’s just the ocean for you. The smell’s year-round.”

“No, it’s… that’s got to be something else.” Sasha still had her hand cupped over her nose. “I’ve been around the sea before—there’s a different between rotten fish and rotten eggs, and this is a bit more on the eggs side of things.”

“Lovely.” Moments later, to Tim’s enormous relief, the winds changed at the smell abated. “Oh thank the gods, it’s gone. See? Tide flats. It’ll probably get worse as we get closer to the sea.”

“Ugh, it’ll be rank in Emon, then,” Sasha groaned.

“It’s not rank in Emon,” Martin assured them.

“Oh, right, I almost forgot you’ve been there,” said Sasha. “How long has it been?”

“A few years, I guess,” Martin said with a shrug.

“Ever think about finishing bard school?”

Martin managed a wry smile. “Probably not. I think that ship has sailed.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short! You’ve got a new poetry book and everything. And don’t think I’ve forgotten that your voice is lovely, too!”

With a pained look, Martin pulled ahead without answering.

As they drew closer to the bridge over the river, the odd chill wind and dip in temperature drove Tim to reach for his spare cloak. He passed the reins to Sasha for a moment while he got it settled around him, but still the cold persisted. It didn’t bode well; chills like this usually meant something else on the horizon. Martin said they couldn’t be sure if they’d be sleeping indoors or camping again tonight, and the last thing they needed was a sudden rainstorm. At least the sky was the usual uniform gray of winter, with no ominous looming clouds in the distance.

“You alright?” Gerry asked, startling him.

“Yeah, fine,” Tim replied. “Just getting a bit cold. Aren’t you?”

Gerry seemed to give that question a lot more thought than was really warranted. His eyebrows drew together and furrowed in the middle. Maybe he was worried about the weather, too?”

“Gerry?” Tim prompted.

He shook his head as if clearing it. “Something’s… I dunno. Just can’t shake this feeling. Something’s not right.”

“Alright,” Tim said hesitantly. “Can you be more specific than that?”

“Not… not really?” Gerry shook his head, looking frustrated. “Just a general bad feeling, I guess. Can’t really put a name to it.”

“Not a whole lot we can do with that,” said Sasha.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, just. Keep an eye out.”

For what, he didn’t say, and Tim didn’t bother asking.

He would have loved to let that go, to pass it off as Gerry getting spooked by his own creepy patron of voyeurism, but then Sasha started shifting and fidgeting in the saddle. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except the two of them were sharing a horse and that meant Sasha couldn’t help but make it his problem.

The third time one of her horns jabbed him in the chin, he sighed deeply. “Sasha—”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, wincing. “Just a bit light-headed, that’s all. I’ll try to sit still.”

“We’re almost to the river,” he reminded her. “Once we’re there, we’ll stop for a rest and a leg stretch.”

“I need a nap,” Sasha sighed, sitting back against his chest. “Or… I don’t even know.”

Within the hour, they reached the river. It was a small one, more of a large creek than a full river. It was only a tributary, broken off from the main waterway that curved south toward the mountains around the Emerald Outpost. Still, the water looked too deep to ford, and it was wide enough from one bank to the other to warrant a bridge. Martin led the way across it, and they found themselves to be not alone.

Others had similar ideas to theirs, apparently. A water trough and a few tethering posts stood some distance away from the bank. Just beyond it, a cluster of wagons had pulled to the side to tend to their horses. All told there were about twenty people milling around, checking over their wagons and seeing to their animals, though there were many others simply sitting back and resting. One halfling woman was lounging by the riverbank, quietly fishing.

Something within Tim settled at the sight. It was always nice, seeing a bit of normalcy out on the road.

Sasha and Tim dismounted just a beat behind Martin, who was heading over to the trough. It was about wide enough for eight horses to drink side-by side, with buckets to fill it from the river. One of the men from the caravan was inspecting its contents with a critical eye.

“Water’s brackish,” he was saying as they approached. “It’s not good for drinking.”

Martin dipped his hand into the water, as he’d done back at the Ironseat ridge. The water shimmered, rippled, and turned startlingly clear.

The man blinked, tasted the water again, and turned to incline his head to Martin. “Thank you.”

“A-anytime,” Martin said, a bit bashfully.

Their horses drank—or at least, two of them did. When Tim glanced back to see what was keeping Gerry, he spotted him still in the saddle, facing away. His first thought was confusion, before common sense and memory kicked in. They were surrounded by people again, barely two days out from the Emerald Outpost. No wonder he was feeling uneasy.

Passing the reins to Sasha, Tim crossed the distance and skirted around to where Gerry was facing. “Hey. You good up there?”

It took a moment for Gerry to reply. For the life of him, Tim couldn’t figure out exactly what Gerry was looking at, or looking for. His eyes flickered this way and that, searching, but from the look on his face, he wasn’t finding it.

“Something’s wrong,” he said simply.

Tim frowned. “Sasha’s feeling a bit peaky, too. Maybe you need to stretch your legs a bit?”

“No, not that kind of—” Gerry paused, glaring into the middle distance as if willing something to manifest before him. “I don’t think we should be here.”

“Don’t think we should—” Tim stopped short and looked around, scanning the faces around them for any sign of ill intent. From what he could tell, everyone seemed to be ignoring them, for the most part. “What do you mean? Do you think we’re in danger?”

“Yeah,” Gerry replied. “Couldn’t tell you what, though. We should move on.”

Tim wavered, looking back to the others. The horses were secured. Sasha was sitting with her back to a dry part of the trough, while Martin rummaged through his pack for something. “We might need a bit more than that,” he said. “Are you sure you can’t give any, I dunno, details? And what about all the people here, too?”

“I mean, we could try and convince them, if you think they’ll listen,” Gerry said impatiently. “And I don’t have details, that’s not how it works.”

“How does it work, then?” Tim asked. “I thought things just popped into your head.”

“Only sometimes,” Gerry scowled. “Never exactly what I’m looking for. And right now nothing’s ‘popping into my head’, it’s just… wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“It feels wrong,” he repeated. “I don’t—”

“Can you guess?” Tim pressed.

Gerry’s mouth pressed shut in a tight line. He opened his mouth to reply.

It was hard to explain how Tim felt it before he saw it. He felt it the same way one would feel a breeze, or a ray of sunlight in summer. If the world was woven fabric, then he felt it split along a seam, fibers parting one by one as a gaping hole was torn open.

And then, of course, something reached out from the other side.

When he heard the snarl, he thought it was the air itself at first. What could possibly make a sound like that but the sundering of the world?

The answer came on four legs—once, twice, and a third time. Grass withered beneath paws the color of old blood, rust and brown that darkened to the off-color black of a scab. Spittle dripped from scarred jaws, sizzling when it hit the ground.

Two hell hounds flanked a larger third, spreading out with each step forward. There were screams from the other travelers. People leapt into saddles and wagons, urging the horses to a gallop to get away. One of the hell hounds broke from the rest to snap at a few retreating heels, but a snarl from the others brought it back.

Tim already had an arrow on the string. He loosed it with calm efficiency, catching one of the hounds square in the shoulder. It recoiled with a snarl, then turned its bloodshot maddened eyes on Tim.

From behind him, Martin shouted something that Tim couldn’t quite make out. Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end as a flash of blinding light shot from behind him, straight into the chest of the largest hell hound. This one staggered back, recovered, and limped into position, now wreathed in the same sickly light.

The hounds charged. Tim narrowly dodged the one he’d wounded, as the other little one circled around to flank them. Gerry leapt from the saddle as the horse beneath him took the opportunity to bolt. He landed on his feet with barely a stumble, but doing so put him within biting range. The largest hound latched onto his leg, attempting to drag him off his feet, but a swift swing of his blade forced it to release him and back off. The blade shimmered green as it thrummed through the air, and Tim noted for the first time that the wirework of the basket hilt was twisted into the shape of an eye.

He barely had time to wonder about it when Sasha’s voice rang out, high and clear and urgent. “Brace yourselves!”

Tim’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

On instinct he lunged and grabbed Gerry’s arm—to brace Gerry or himself, he wasn’t sure— just as Sasha ran into range, and her magic burst from her in a roll of thunder.

The force of it nearly bowled him over, but he managed to stay on his feet and keep Gerry upright as well. The hellhounds caught the full force of it; two of them were sent flying back, while one barely managed to stay on its feet. Tim wasted no time shooting it.

It rounded on him, teeth bared to bite back, before a voice stopped it mid-lunge.

It wasn’t quite right, calling it a voice. It was murder on his ears. He could barely tell that the thing was trying to talk. It was the kind of voice and language that carved through the air and dug into his skull like nails hammered into the bone.

The seam split further, tearing through the planes like gossamer, leaving ragged bleeding shreds where a smooth, unbroken world had once been.

And then the thing stepped through, and he didn’t even get the chance to see it before it made him bleed.

Jagged steel whipped around him, binding him fast before he had the chance to blink, Each link was sharpened and barbed, gouging easily wherever they dug in. Tim choked and swore as he was dragged to his knees like a dog on a choke chain.

The thing had stepped into the world on two legs, not four. It was tall and broad, its skin the same bloody crimson as the hounds, and mostly covered by the barbed, weighted chains that clothed it. Chains bound its face in a mask, hiding it entirely from view except for its burning, bright yellow eyes.

Another bolt of holy light hit it in the chest, infecting it with the eerie glow of Martin’s magic. Tim heard it grunt on impact, but other than that it barely flinched.

Dimly he could hear hell hounds snarling, Gerry crying out in pain. One of them lunged for him, only to be driven off by a cruel flick from another chain. The devil was speaking in harsh tones—Infernal. He knew Infernal. He and Sasha spoke it whenever they didn’t want people listening in.

But—what it was saying didn’t make sense. Even with dozens of barbs digging in and muddying his thoughts with pain, he could understand the words. But they didn’t make sense.

The hounds were moving past them, ignoring them in favor of other prey. Tim’s arms were mostly free, but he didn’t trust himself to shoot straight. Drawing his sword, he swung at a passing hellhound and tore a gash through its ragged coat. It staggered but kept running, straight to where Martin stood.

This one didn’t go for a bite. It opened its jaws, and fire spilled forth. Martin screamed, and the smell of burning flesh made Tim’s stomach churn with revulsion and rage.

A volley of magic missiles struck he devil, and Sasha cursed at it in Infernal. Harsh, crackling laughter spilled from its masked face, and it yanked cruelly on the chains binding him.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

Tim grabbed his bow. Ignoring the pain, he knocked an arrow and shot the thing in the throat. It didn’t seem to do as much damage as Tim would have liked, but at least it stopped the laughing.

Two of the hounds were focused on Martin, with the third barring the others from helping him. Sasha tried to break past, but the hound grabbed her rapier blade, wrenched it out of her hands, and cast it aside before lunging at her. Tim watched her lose her temper and snarl right back at it, sending an impressive but ultimately useless gout of fire into its face.

“Don’t use fire!” Gerry roared out. “Fire won’t work on—”

“I know!” Sasha snapped.

“But you just—”

“I know what I ‘just’, shut up!”

Gods, she was pissed. She almost never slipped into Infernal without meaning to. Did Gerry even know Infernal?

Tim fit another arrow into his bow and took aim at the hell hound giving her trouble. Behind him, the devil yanked him off his feet, and the arrow went wide. The barbs tore into him deeper. The dead grass beneath him was already streaked with red. Healing had never been his strong suit, but he forced magic into his wounds anyway, driving back the darkness that crept into his vision.

“Tim!” Martin yelled. He threw his hand out, sending sacred fire down not on any of the hell hounds attacking him, but on the devil. The flames took hold for a moment, radiance setting the chains aglow. The creature recoiled, and the chain around Tim loosened if only for a moment.

The hell hounds moved as one, two of them closing in on Martin while the other still fought to get past Sasha. Martin caught a bite from one of them on the handle of his axe; the other seized onto his arm instead and wrenched.

Even from the distance, with his own blood pounding in his ears, Tim could hear the crack of a bone breaking.

Gerry hesitated when Martin screamed, paralyzed with indecision. Tim opened his mouth to yell at him, but Martin beat him to the punch.

“Help Tim!”

“No—!” Tim choked out, but Gerry’s indecision was already gone. He lifted his sword in both hands and charged the chain devil like an idiot. His sword flashed as he swung it, glowing with the sickly power of his patron. With a single powerful swing, Gerry brought the blade down on the arm holding the chain that bound Tim.

With a roar of pain, it lashed out with another chain, catching Gerry across the chest. Instead of dodging back, Gerry went in for a second swing that nearly severed the arm from its body. It wavered, and just for a moment the chain around Tim went fully slack.

He saw his chance and took it. The sharpened links tore into his hands when he grabbed them, and the barbs tore at him as he ripped the chains away, but in a matter of moments he was free. Sasha pounced on a hell hound that lunged toward him, giving Tim more time to roll to his feet and scramble out of range.

He had an arrow nocked, fingers slick with blood as he gripped the string. He wavered for a moment, caught between the hounds already attacking Martin and Sasha, and the devil that was no longer occupied with keeping him bound.

Martin was still flanked by two of the gods-damned things, his injured arm hanging bloody and useless at his side. But Gerry was already sprinting to close the distance, sword in hand and already glowing again.

Fuck it.

Tim took aim at the devil. Even injured and shaken, it was impossible to miss from this distance. Still he sighted along the arrow, determined to make the shot count.

His vision wavered.

In an instant, he was no longer looking at a fiend dressed in chains. Instead, Danny was staring back at him.

Smiling at him with lips that stretched far too wide. With skin that didn’t quite fit on his face anymore. With blood trickling from the hidden seam where it had been sewn in place.

The shot went wide—did he even take the shot at all, or did he simply drop the bow and let it and the arrow fall where they may?

Dimly he could hear someone calling his name, screaming in desperation—it couldn’t be Danny, though.

By the time Tim had found him, Danny was too far gone to scream.

A bolt of light shot from behind him and struck the vision full in the chest, shattering it to pieces. It was over in an instant, Tim left dazed and blinking stupidly at the devil standing where his brother had just been. It was glowing again, with Martin’s magic—or was it Gerry’s? It was so hard to tell the difference when he couldn’t focus.

“Tim. Tim, can you hear me?” He didn’t realize that he was about to fall until hands steadied him. Sasha was beside him, hanging onto his arm, muttering to him in the harsh tones of Infernal. Tim’s first instinct was to lean on her, before he looked down and saw her favoring a badly-bitten leg.

“Shit, Sasha.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, slipping back into Common. “What about you? What just happened? You had that thing in your sights, did it do something to you?”

He gaped at her, shocked. Didn’t she see?

Sasha took in the look on her face and shook her head. “Later—we’ll worry about it later. For now—”

“Protect Martin,” Tim muttered.

She nodded, her eyes stony. “Protect Martin.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. But the feeling of prickling dread turned him not toward the devil, but toward the hell hounds and their intended prey. Tim turned just in time to see Martin drop back, face crumpling as he let Gerry step between him and the hounds. Gerry’s sword swept in a downward arc, carving into the nearest hound, The creature staggered, dark blood spattering the ground beneath it, but it stayed alive and on its feet.

Behind Gerry, Martin clutched at his scarf. His lips moved around words that Tim couldn’t hear, and his eyes glowed with divine power.

The power swept outward, catching Gerry, Sasha, and Tim in it radius. In a split second Tim was lost in the pain, abruptly and unwillingly aware of every single injury on his body, every bruise and burn and bloody gash. In the midst of his awareness, a few of them closed. Not all of them, but enough to clear his head.

The spell had barely ended when the devil’s barbed chain lashed against his back and opened up a few new ones.

“Oh, come on!” Seething, Tim took aim at the worst-wounded hell hound and sent an arrow into the base of its skull. It let out an unholy shriek, staggered to the ground, and fell still.

One down, and the others still looked pretty fresh. Tim calmly nocked another arrow, and turned toward the devil.

It was advancing now, not quickly, but with calm, measured steps. The air thrummed with its whirling chains, and Tim braced himself before one of them lashed out at Sasha, not him. She dodged, enough to avoid dying but not enough to escape it completely. The spiked cluster of metal at the end scored over her shoulder, ripping through cloth and flesh like paper. The fight descended into chaos—the thrum of chains, the roar of hellfire, the clash of metal on metal, the snarls of the surviving hounds—and Tim pulled Sasha along in his retreat to the others.

Martin’s arm was looking marginally better. It was still bloodied, but at least the angle of it wasn’t off anymore. Both his axe and Gerry’s sword were slick with hell hound blood.

“If anyone’s got a bright idea to get out of this, now’s the time to speak up,” Gerry said, while attempting to stab a hell hound in its open mouth. The blow missed, the hound seized the blade in its teeth, and Gerry barely managed to rip it out without losing his weapon.

“Horses are tied up,” Martin said, reaching up to wipe blood from his eyes. “Well, two of them are. Where’s yours?”

“Bolted,” Gerry said tightly. “Dunno where.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck is right,” Sasha said gravely, and sprang forward with hands that glowed. Three shimmering darts burst forth from her palm, trailing sparks as they flew into the devil’s unprotected belly. They burst on impact, one after the other, driving it back with pure magical force.

“Sasha get back!” Martin cried out, but the chain was already flicking out again.

It whipped around her, lashing her as tight as it had Tim. Sasha didn’t have time to cry out before it yanked her off her feet and out of reach from the others. Seeing her trapped and vulnerable, one of the hell hounds whipped around with a snarl and added fire to the mix.

When Sasha hit the ground, she didn’t get up again.

A cocktail of panic and rage churned within Tim. He was barely aware of Gerry going for the hell hounds; his eyes were on the devil and the devil only.

He advanced, deaf to everything but the blood roaring in his ears. He sent out one arrow, then another—and that was fine. He just had to keep the arrows up until the monster was dead, and if it took more arrows than he had in his quiver, then he’d put the bow down and use his sword again.

Whatever was needed, whatever worked, that thing had to die .

The devil lashed out at him, once, then twice. Someone was screaming—not him, though. He couldn’t afford to scream. If he had enough breath to scream, then it meant he wasn’t using enough of it to fight.

And then a heavy weight hit him from behind, all blunt nails and snapping teeth and unbearable heat. The hell hound bore him to the ground, pinning him to the blood-spattered grass with his bow trapped beneath him and an arrowhead digging into his side.

He heard the roar and crackle of flame, and smelled flesh burning, and knew no more.

Gerry saw Tim fall. Even worse, he heard the sound Martin made when he saw it, too.

His eyes were red and raw from flames, but still the scene played out before him with unbearable clarity. The chain devil had released Sasha only because she was already down for the count, but its eyes were still on Tim. Gerry could barely even see the thing’s eyes through the mask of chains on its face, but he knew—he Knew —that it was still looking at Tim.

Even after the hell hound stepped away and Tim lay still, it was looking at Tim as it advanced.

Gerry’s eyes burned when he blinked. When they opened, the chain devil was gone and Mum was standing there, blood-spattered and satisfied, every exposed bit of skin covered in Abyssal and Celestial script. She smiled at him, as cold and inviting as she always was when she had reason to smile at him at all.

Then the Watcher’s gaze sharpened, the vision blurred and fell out of focus, and the devil was a devil once more.

Martin screamed out, hurling holy fire at it, but that could only slow its approach, not stop it entirely. Gerry reached for the well of magic within him, ready to pour it into his sword again, but hesitated. Using the Watcher’s gifts always took so much out of him. How much more could he afford to give, before he was useless and Martin was alone?

The devil stood over Tim’s body, lips curling back in a contemptuous snarl. Its arm drew back, gripping the barbed chain, ready to bring it down on him while he was unconscious and unable to fight back.

He’s going to die, he thought faintly, and for a moment the Wandering Eye stood still. Waiting.

That was the thing, about warlock pacts and patrons. There were no grand destinies, no chosen ones. They only ever gave what was asked for.

So he asked. Politely, of course. He might even have managed a please.

In an instant, his hands were burning. Then his throat. Then every joint on his body—every spot on his skin where he’d carved and inked an eye into his skin. When he looked down, they were glowing like off-color stars. Then the burn spread to his actual eyes, and he wondered if they were glowing, too.

He could not see Martin, but he Knew that Martin was staring at him. That was no great revelation; it didn’t even feel like the usual tidbit from the Eye. The sky above was gray, the ground below was red, and Martin was staring at him as he stepped forward and spoke.

“Have a look,” he said, not sure where the words were coming from, or if he was speaking to the devil before him, or to the Watcher at his back. “Drink it all in, there’s so much to go around.”

And the devil obeyed. It stopped. It looked.

And then it stepped back.

On some level, Gerry knew that nothing new had entered the battlefield. He knew that he and Martin were the only ones left standing, their companions unconscious, the other travelers long fled. But still he felt the weight of it at his back—the Watcher in all its glory, drinking in the horror before it with an all-consuming thirst. It was There in a way that it hadn’t been before, for all that Gerry carried it with him everywhere he went.

Before him, the hell hound whined, heads lowering as they backed away.

Maybe that should concern him, that the entity he’d tied himself to was powerful enough to make fiends tuck tail. But that was a worry for another time.

“Gerard?” Behind him, Martin was injured but still on his feet. “What did you do?”

“Not sure I’m doing anything,” Gerry admitted. “Think this is mostly the Eye.”

Martin limped forward to stand with him. “How long will this last?”

“Dunno. So we should probably make every second count.” Gerry kept his eyes on the devil. It seemed torn, hesitant but just as bloodthirsty and malicious as before. “How many spells do you have left in you?”

“A few,” said Martin. “Not a lot. But I can fling sacred fire at it pretty much indefinitely.”

Gerry pursed his lips. “Wouldn’t rely too much on that if I were you. Chain devils are resistant to certain spells.”

“Great,” Martin spat.

“Can you heal them, at least?”

Martin hesitated.

“…Yes or no—”

“I can heal all of us, just a little bit, with one spell,” Martin replied. “Just enough to wake them up, but not enough to keep them up. Or, I can heal one of them enough that maybe they can survive another hit or two.”

“And the one you don’t heal?”

Martin pressed his lips together. “I can stabilize them. It won’t cost me anything.”

“Right then.” Gerry allowed himself one more second of hesitation. “Heal Sasha.”

Martin didn’t argue, which meant he probably understood why. Normal weapons didn’t do much against the devil, and Sasha knew more offensive spells.

The hell hounds snarled at Martin’s approach, but with the Eye glaring down on them there wasn’t much else they were willing to do. Martin reached Sasha’s side with a healing spell at the ready, moving on to Tim as soon as she stirred. Tim didn’t wake up at Martin’s touch, but as Gerry watched, his chest settled into a steady rhythm of rise and fall. Sasha, after scrambling to her feet and eyeing the stalled fiends, helped Martin drag him out of the hounds’ and the devil’s reach.

She still looked awful, but she was awake and on her feet, rapier in hand. The look on her face was bleak. “Any chance we can run?”

“Even if we had all our horses, the hounds would run them down before we got enough distance,” Martin said grimly. “We have to kill these things. How’s your magic?”

“Low,” Sasha said grimly. “But I know a cantrip that can do some damage.”

“Well, get ready to use it,” Gerry told her. He could feel the Eye fading, and the hell hounds were starting to perk up again. “I think we’re just about out of time.”

The devil charged, chains swinging, hounds snarling at its feet.

The barbed weight at the end of the chain caught Gerry with a glancing blow to the shoulder. He sprang to one side, dodging the jaws of a hell hound, and brought his sword chopping down on the back of its neck. It moved at the last moment, preventing him from beheading it, but he laid open a gash across its shoulders. Just a beat behind him, Sasha reached out and grabbed the back of its skull. Gerry was close enough to see and hear the lightning crackle at her fingertips, right as the hound gave a howl of pain. When Sasha pulled back, she left it with a handprint of burned flesh.

The fight became a blur from there—dodging chains and teeth, swinging his sword at whatever he could reach, keeping an eye on the others in case someone else dropped. He stayed close to Sasha, drawing the attention off her so that she could throw her magic freely. Another hell hound dropped dead with Martin’s axe lodged in its skull, and the last howled in desperate fury until Sasha’s rapier blade went straight down its throat.

For a moment, Gerry let himself hope—there was still the devil, but by now it was bleeding just as heavily as any of them. Another swing of the chains forced them to separate. Gerry dropped back, mind racing as he tried to see a path around to flank the thing that wouldn’t kill him instantly. Martin summoned more radiant flames, and Sasha shot it once more with her missile spell. They both struck home, sending the fiend back a step.

Its lips curled back, showing sharp teeth and mottled black-and-red gums. The chain swung, glancing off Martin’s chest before it struck Sasha full on and flung her several feet back. With a flick of the wrist, the devil snapped it back and around again, straight for Martin again as he stood protectively over Tim.

Gerry didn’t think. He never did, when it came to this kind of thing.

In his defense, it wasn’t meant to be a sacrifice play. He went in blade first, hoping to deflect it. But the weighted end curved strangely, missing his sword and snapping tight around him. Before Gerry had time to cry out, it wrenched him forward and off his feet, barbs digging deep. With a low roar, the devil dragged him closer over the bloody ground. His vision shrank, blackness creeping around the edges in a dark tunnel.

Through it, he saw Sasha racing forward, rapier drawn. With the chain binding Gerry, there was nothing to stop her from reaching the devil and striking hard. To Gerry’s faint surprise, the blade slid in all the way to the hilt, and when she yanked it out, the wound stayed. Dark, viscous blood dripped down the blade. Beneath it, the metal flashed oddly.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Of course a tiefling would know better than to leave the house without a silvered weapon.

Gerry struggled up, tearing at the barbed links with his free hand, but a ruthless yank on the chain dragged him back to the ground. His thoughts slowed, but he continued to claw at his bonds until the chain was slick with his own blood.

The Eye crept back in to watch him twitch and struggle. It was enough to make him fight harder out of spite.

At least there was an upside to the Eye’s apparent interest in his bloody struggle. It meant that, when he finally ripped himself free, his magic was within easy reach. Only the dregs were left, but it was enough.

He poured every last bit of it into his sword, and the last of his strength into a swing.

As the spiked chain hit him one last time, the Eye helpfully informed him that the devil was still alive and standing. It was his last thought before everything went dark.

When Gerry hit the ground and went still, fear gripped Sasha so utterly that she couldn’t think. The sight of it froze her in place, rapier nearly slipping from nerveless fingers. Tim was down. Gerry was down. If she took another hit, she’d be down again too, and then Martin—

Another bolt of divine light lit the air, punching into the devil’s bloodied chest. It stumbled back, slipping on the slick grass. It’s jaws parted, and it roared in fury one last time before Martin’s axe whirled through the air and landed, blade first, in the base of its throat.

The roar became a low, liquidy groan. The devil staggered, chain slipping from its hand with a deafening clatter. It took a step, then another, and finally pitched forward to the ground and lay still.

The plains fell silent.

Sasha stood frozen for what felt like a full minute. When she finally gathered the wherewithal to at least turn her head, she took in what was left of the battlefield. The ground was torn up, scorched, and streaked with blood. Martin stood over Tim, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, as blood continued to trickle down his arms and face. Beyond, she could see shapes moving in the distance. Wagons, horses and people, all at a safe distance from the battle. Apparently, their fight had retained an audience.

Martin moved first, limping away from Tim to where Gerry lay crumpled and still. His hand glowed faintly as it settled on Gerry’s shoulder, and moments later Sasha could see him steadily breathing.

Inching toward the dead devil was one of the stupidest or bravest things Sasha had ever done. It took an additional gallon of nerves just to take hold of the axe handle, grip it tight, and pull it free. The sound the axe blade made as it left the devil’s neck was probably going to feature in a few nightmares, going forward. She left it and her rapier in the grass for now—they could clean them later.

The horses were still tied up by the water trough, in spite of their best efforts to pull free. They danced around nervously at Sasha’s approach, but she managed to reach the saddlebags and dig out a couple of healing potions. When she turned around, there were people approaching; the other travelers had seen the fiends die, and were returning. The man in the front was leading Gerry’s horse by the bridle.

Martin rose to meet them, still liberally spattered with blood. The man in front hesitated, flinching at the sight of him before he offered the reins.

“Found your horse.” When Martin took the reins from him, he looked slightly ill; Martin’s hands were stained with hell hound blood.

“Thanks,” Martin said simply. “We appreciate it.”

The group left quickly after that. Sasha couldn’t bring herself to blame them.

Sasha carefully tipped a healing potion down Tim’s throat, while Martin administered the other to Gerry. Tim woke with a start, gripping Sasha’s arm so tight he threatened to leave a mark.

“ Sasha —”

“It’s over,” she said, running a soothing hand through his hair. “It’s over, we won. We’re alright, Tim.”

He relaxed, somewhat. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re all alive.” She pulled him into a hug, suddenly fighting back the urge to cry. “We’re all okay.”

Across from them, Gerry was sitting up, head hanging low. Martin crouched beside him with a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Eventually, they all got to their feet. The bodies of the devil and hounds were decaying rapidly, bodies drying up and crumbling as they watched. Even the chains were rusting before their eyes. In a matter of minutes, they would be dust.

They didn’t stick around to watch it happen.

Night was falling when they caught up to the wagon train from before. The group had set up an encampment some distance from the road—shelters were set up, fires were lit, and informal sentries were posted.

When the four of them joined it, setting up their own camp at a respectful distance, no one came over to object.

It was instinct that woke Gerry, far more than the aches that plagued his entire body.

More to the point, what woke him was not Martin, in spite of the arrangement agreed upon. When Gerry raised his head and blinked until his bleary vision settled, Martin was still sitting up at his post. The moon was well past the point at which his watch should have been over.

Gerry sat up, wincing. The healing potion had done its work, and his wounds were on the mend. But it still hurt. Martin had promised healing spells for all of them once he rested and his magic replenished itself, but that wasn’t going to happen if he didn’t actually rest.

Unwillingly, he remembered how close the devil’s chain had come to wrapping around Martin’s unprotected throat. A weapon like that, wielded by a creature that strong, would have no trouble tearing a man’s head from his shoulders. But it hadn’t, and now his body protested whenever he moved the muscles that the barbs had torn into instead.

Worth it.

By his reckoning, there was maybe an hour left before dawn—hopefully enough time to salvage his turn on sentry duty. If Martin didn’t bite his head off for offering, of course. As silently as he could, Gerry disentangled himself from his bedroll and skirted Tim and Sasha to join him.

Martin didn’t move as he approached, even though he made no effort to quiet his footsteps. “You know, it’s a shame,” Gerry murmured as he sat down beside him. “Considering everyone’s asleep but you, I was hoping I might hear you sing again.”

Martin was wide awake, still watching the camp’s surroundings, and the dim light of the neighboring camp’s banked fires. “Go back to sleep, Gerard.”

“Thought I told you to call me Gerry.” There was no reply. “Besides, that’s not how this works. It’s my turn to keep watch for bandits—and hell hounds, apparently. You’re the one who needs the rest.”

“You’re injured.”

“So’re you. I’m on the mend anyway. A few hours of sitting still won’t set me back.” Gerry waited for Martin to answer. He didn’t. “What’s this about, Martin?”

“I really don’t see how it can get any simpler.” Martin still wouldn’t look at him. “You’re injured. You should rest.”

“And I’ll say it again, we’re all injured. I didn’t see you bullying them into letting you stay up all night.” Still nothing. “Besides, we’re healed.”

“Not enough.”

“Like that’s your fault?” Gerry scoffed. “So you ran out of magic. It happens. Healing potions do the job. Tim and Sasha were worse off anyway, I didn’t get knocked out until the end.”

Martin’s silence said far more than words would have.

“Is… that what this is about?” Gerry asked. “Me, getting knocked out at the end? That thing was aiming at you, and it got me instead, and… what? You feel guilty, now?”

More stubborn, informative silence.

“Can’t imagine why,” Gerry said lightly. “You don’t even like me.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. It was honestly a little embarrassing that it did. People didn’t like Gerry all the time, but in spite of everything, he really wished that Martin would.

“Well, your plan’s backfired, anyway,” said Gerry. “I’m awake now, I’m not going back to sleep, and you may as well catch a few last-minute winks. You’re the best healer, after all. You’re no use to us dead on your feet.”

Martin didn’t move from his spot, not even to turn his head. His silence continued to soak the air around him, surrounding him like a heavy fog.

“Alright then,” Gerry said, settling beside him. “Guess we’re both here. A couple of assholes sitting around in the dark, watching for goblins and bandits and what have you. Should be fun. I spy with my little eye—”

“Can I ask you something?”

Gerry blinked. “Pretty sure you just did, but I’ll give you a second one for free.”

Slowly, Martin shifted around to look at him at last. Gerry tried not to fidget; Martin’s full attention wasn’t always a comfortable thing. Something about the eyes. Felt a bit like being a specimen pinned to corkboard, to be perfectly honest. Maybe that was why he kept his eyes down so often.

“Why’d you make a pact with the Ceaseless Watcher?”

Ah.

“Straight in, aren’t we,” Gerry said, tilting his head to one side. “Why d’you want to know? Still trying to work out what sort of warlock I am? Wondering if I’ll start speaking in tongues? Coughing up spiders? Shedding the flesh right off my bones?”

Martin was already turning away. “If you’re not going to answer, then—”

“Alright, alright, fine .” Gerry sighed. “Just—it’s a bit personal, you know? And… sudden? We barely get along and suddenly you’re asking me point-blank why I cut a deal with an unknowable entity of fearful knowledge.”

“I just…” Martin’s face took on a pinched look. “I’ve been wondering, ever since you told us. And I’ve spent all this time coming up with conclusions of my own, and none of them are very nice, so… might as well get the truth instead of continuing to embarrass myself.”

“Fair enough.” Gerry hesitated. “It’s just—gods, it was stupid. You’ll absolutely think it was stupid.”

Martin’s face did not confirm or deny.

“I was in a bad spot,” Gerry went on. “You can probably guess why. I’ve been in a bad spot since I was a kid, pretty much. I told you how my mum—my human mum, in case that wasn’t clear—had all these grand ideas when she had me. When Dad stopped fitting into them, she killed him, took me, and ran off to fulfill her dreams on her own.” He paused again. “Not very nice dreams, in case you didn’t guess. She always wanted power, but wasn’t interested in the work and responsibility that went into getting it. It’s why she married my dad, actually—he was pretty high up in Syngorn politics, but when it turned out that marrying him didn’t make us anything, she cut her losses, and his throat.”

Gerry took a deep breath. “She had the same approach to magic. Liked shortcuts. It led to some… interesting acquaintances. Less said about them, the better. And by the time I was old enough to want nothing to do with it… well, she wasn’t about to let me go. Turns out, if you give a mad sorceress a lot of power, she’ll want a dynasty to go with it.”

He found himself reaching for the amulet again, toying with it absently. “I kept running. I wanted to leave it all behind, but—I couldn’t forget what I saw, growing up with her. And I couldn’t not see it, whenever it cropped up around me again. I couldn’t not get involved, because this world’s full of people who wander straight into some hungry mouth because they just don’t know , and if I don’t tell them, who will? And suddenly I was deep in the same shit she was, just… from a different direction. And that made it easier for her to keep finding me.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Tried going back to Syngorn. Thought I’d meet some of Dad’s old friends, see if they could help, but… well. None of them wanted to deal with me. Apparently I look a lot like my mum. Got my dad’s ears, though. Ha.”

He shot a glance at Martin, trying to gauge his reaction. Martin was giving very little away, but at least he was paying attention and not interrupting.

“Reached the end of my rope eventually,” Gerry went on. “You can only run so long before it stops feeling worth it. I always thought I’d wind up dead in an acid pit somewhere. But instead… something reached out to me.”

He stopped.

This was the hard part. All the stuff before that—that was easy. That was just his life. But this was new, and strange, and he’d never had to explain it before, not to anyone who’s opinion mattered.

“You’d think, after everything, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to enter a pact. To be honest, sometimes I’m not sure why either. It just… it felt different.”

“Different how?” Martin asked.

“Just— gods you’ll think it’s stupid —”

“How did it feel?” Martin asked.

“I dunno. Bad?” Gerry’s fingers curled into fists at the memory. “It felt bad .”

Martin frowned. “And that was different?”

“Yeah.” Gerry let out a shaky laugh. “That’s the thing about—about archfey and demon lords and devil princes and whatever the fuck is going on in the Far Realms. They want to draw you in. They want to give you a reason to say yes. First impressions are very important, and they know damn well how to make a good impression.”

“And the Ceaseless Watcher didn’t?”

“Guess not.”

“Hm.” For the first time, Martin looked thoughtful. “So… if it was bad, then why did you say yes? Just because it was different?”

“Because it was honest . Because if I’m gonna throw in with an unknowable entity of malevolence and chaos, I might as well pick one that isn’t gonna bullshit me about what I’m getting into. And besides, it wasn’t bad like it was painful. Well, I guess it was painful in a way, it was just—” He pursed his lips.

Martin waited.

“It’s hard to put into words,” Gerry went on. “Being touched by something that thrives on pain and suffering. But it was like—imagine there’s a wall around every single person in the world. And behind that wall is everything that goes on in their heads—thoughts, feelings, messy stuff. And that wall is the only thing keeping those things back. Keeping everyone’s mess separate.” He took a deep breath. “Now imagine you’re in the middle of a crowd of people, and every one of them has had everything they ever loved ripped apart in front of them. And all at once, the walls come down.” His nails bit into his palms. “That was what it felt like, when the Watcher reached out to me.”

For a moment, all he could hear was Martin’s shaky breathing.

“I still don’t know how it found me,” Gerry went on. “If it was chance, or if it planned it somehow. But I was alone, and afraid, and I needed help, and there it was. And maybe I should’ve ignored it. Maybe I should’ve just soldiered on, learned magic the right way. Maybe I should’ve thrown in with a real god, like you.”

“But you didn’t,” Martin said softly.

“But I didn’t.”

After a moment, Martins spoke again. “I don’t think that’s stupid.”

“That’s not the stupid part. Want to hear the stupid part?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed ahead. “I couldn’t say no because for the first time in my life, there was something out there that felt just as miserable and depressing as I was.” His voice cracked as he laughed. “And it was the first time anything was honest with me about how much it would hurt to let it help, so I made a pact. Did my best with it. I told it I’d take its power, its protection, whatever it was going to give me, and I’d take any consequences that came with it, as long as it understood that I was the only one who would. I wasn’t gonna make any one else suffer for me, and if it didn’t like that then it could piss off .”

He shrugged. “It didn’t. And here I am.”

He let that hang in the air between them, as it was slowly absorbed into the miasma of silence around Martin.

“So that’s it,” he said. “I said yes because I was sad and desperate, and misery loves company. Maybe that was why it accepted my terms, because it knew how desperate and alone I was.” He paused, sending a sidelong glance at Martin again, and added, “You know, sometimes you remind me of that, a bit. How it felt.”

Martin frowned. “I’m not sad.”

“Yeah you are,” Gerry replied. “You don’t sit and moan and weep about it, but it’s there. Maybe you don’t notice it, but I do. Maybe the others do too, I dunno.” Martin looked away. “It’s just this… this pit of quicksand in the middle of the room that everyone skirts around, because if you’re not careful it’ll suck in everything else.” He tilted his head to the side again. “But there you are, puttering around with tea and healing spells, making sure no one steps in your muck. Fucking incredible. Don’t know how you do it.”

Martin jerked around to look at him again, eyes widening, and then—

Oh. Gods, that was a nice smile. A sad one, but… maybe sad things could be nice, too.

“Guess I don’t like people suffering because of me, either,” Martin said quietly.

“Knew there was a reason I liked you.” Gerry rearranged himself again until he was facing east. It was still dark, but he was beginning to see the first threads of gold on the horizon. He sat back, leaning on his hands. “There’s still some time for sleep, if you need it.”

“I’ll be alright,” Martin assured him. “Besides, I always liked watching the sunrise.”

Gerry grinned. “Any chance of a song this morning?”

“You don’t have to make fun,” Martin grumbled. “I know I’m not that good.”

“Says who? You sound perfectly lovely—”

“Oh, not you too,” Martin groaned, only to cut himself off at the last minute. Gerry glanced at him with a thoughtful frown, tucking the moment away to consider later.

The silence settled again, no longer a miasma around Martin but a comfortable blanket shared between the two of them. Together they watched the first threads of morning brighten, stretch, and touch the plains.

Chapter Text

The morning after he was almost killed by fiends, Tim woke to an odd sight.

Sasha was asleep, having taken second watch after Tim. Martin’s shift had been after Sasha’s, and Gerry’s after Martin’s, but both of them were awake. Tim couldn’t tell whether they were talking or simply sitting together, almost shoulder to shoulder, by the banked fire. Either way, it was peaceful. Comfortable, even. Maybe even friendly.

He sat up, biting back a groan when his body protested, and watched as Gerry looked over, then nudged Martin to get his attention. When did they get so chummy? He hadn’t been unconscious that long, had he?

Martin was getting up and making his way over. “Got enough magic in you for a healing spell or two?” Tim asked, shaking Sasha awake.

Martin cast one in answer, and Tim clenched his teeth around the slight discomfort that usually came with one of Martin’s spells. His aches and pains eased, and after a moment Sasha sat up and started fingercombing her hair around her horns.

“Are you two alright?’ Martin asked, somewhere between anxious and relieved.

Tim looked over, and found Sasha already looking back. He recognized the look of steely determination in her eyes, and sighed. “We’re alive. But.”

Martin’s expression wavered. “But?”

“But we need to talk.” Sasha’s eyes were on Martin now, steady and hard.

For his part, Martin didn’t seem particularly nervous, or confused, or even all that surprised. Quite the opposite, actually. He looked resigned, like he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Can we eat first?” he asked wearily. Without waiting for an answer, he wandered back to the fire.

“Think he speaks Infernal after all?” Sasha asked under her breath. “He must, if he expected this.”

“Dunno. He didn’t bring it up in Swain’s bookshop.”

“Nobody asked,” Sasha pointed out. “Swain only asked me because I’m a tiefling.”

“Well, the devil was shouting it pretty loud. I didn’t see him react, did you?”

Sasha finished messing with her hair. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Gerry was looking quite a bit less dead than he had been yesterday. Even after a healing potion, he’d looked seconds away from passing out all over again. But now he was wide awake as he stoked the embers back to a proper fire, scooting over so that Martin could hang the kettle over it.

Tim took a seat nearby, helped pass around the breakfast rations, and waited for the fussing to be over. Sasha sat by him and made it to the end of Martin’s usual morning tea-preparation ritual without demanding answers, which was a level of restraint that Tim rarely saw in her.

But it could only last so long. As soon as Martin put tea in her hands, she broke the silent, growing tension. “So.”

Gerry glanced up, frowning, while Martin continued to fuss with the kettle. “You wanted to talk,” said Martin.

“Actually, I think you’re the one who needs to be talking right now,” Sasha said coolly.

“Um,” said Gerry.

Martin took a deep breath. “Dare I ask, about what?”

“Hey,” Tim said sharply. “I thought we agreed already that we’d quit keeping secrets that affect everybody.”

Martin flinched. “Would that have helped?”

“What d’you mean would that have helped—”

“Even if I had any way of knowing this would happen,” Martin went on, with infuriating calm. “What were any of us supposed to do to stop it?”

“I really don’t think—” Gerry began.

“So you did know,” Sasha cut in.

“I just said I didn’t!”

“Hey!” Gerry barked. “What is going on? Why are you shouting at us?”

“We’re not shouting at you, just at Martin,” Sasha assured him, which wasn’t actually that reassuring.

“Well then why are we shouting at Martin?”

“I’d actually like to know that, as well,” Martin said hesitantly.

“Don’t pretend to be surprised now,” Tim snapped.

“Just because I’m not surprised doesn’t mean I know exactly what brought this on!” Martin retorted.

He flinched back as soon as he said it, as if caught off guard by the volume of his own voice. He looked away again, and Tim followed his gaze to the other camp within the circle of wagons. There was movement there as well, but nowhere near enough to overhear.

Seeing that, Martin turned back to them with a sigh, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “So what’s this really about?” he asked.

“The chain devil,” Tim gritted out. “Yesterday. Sasha and I heard it clear as day—the hounds went for the rest of us, and the devil told them to go for you.”

“Wait—” Gerry shot a quick glance at Martin, less angry than just confused. “What? Are you sure?”

“It spoke to them in Infernal,” Sasha explained. “Hell hounds can’t speak, but they have enough brains to do what they’re told. It said ‘save the meat for later, kill the cleric.’ Couldn’t get much clearer than that.”

Instead of explaining himself, Martin simply shut his eyes.

Anger welled up within Tim too quickly to bother trying to shove it back down. “I spilled my guts to you,” he snarled. “And so did Gerry. And you couldn’t even bother to warn us before a bunch of hellspawn almost killed us?”

“Hey,” Gerry said sharply. “You want to be angry about this, fine. But you don’t get to decide that I’m angry too.”

“I didn’t know,” Martin broke in before Tim could reply. “You can believe me or not, but I didn’t know I had fiends after me. I swear I would’ve told you if I’d known.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tim informed him. “The second Sasha and I opened our mouths this morning, you knew what we were going to say. You didn’t even bother pretending to be surprised. Why play dumb now?”

“I’m not—look, I didn’t know it was going to be fiends—”

“Martin,” Sasha broke in again, just as Martin’s eyes were starting to shine. “Maybe, instead of telling us what you did or didn’t know, you could tell us what’s going on, instead.”

Martin turned away briefly, his jaw shifting as he clenched his teeth. Then, all at once, the tension left him, less out of relief than resignation. “Okay,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t think this would happen. I would’ve gone on my own from the start if I had.”

“Then why did it?” Tim asked.

Martin took a deep breath. “Because I’m not a cleric of Ioun,” he said in a rush. “I don’t serve the Knowing Mistress and I never have.”

“Oh, great start,” Sasha muttered.

“The closest I’ve come to serving one of the Prime Deities was Pelor,” Martin went on hesitantly. “That was when I was younger and my mum had ideas, but it never went anywhere. I-I actually don’t know all that much about religion…”

He paused, as if giving the others time to speak, but no one had anything to say just yet.

“But I’m still a cleric,” he went on. He reached into his pocket and drew out his little rune stone, which he played with to busy his fidgeting hands. “It’s just that the god that I do follow is new. Very new. Enough to have a very tenuous position in… well, everything.” He looked at them, briefly, before continuing to stare down into his cooling tea. “So, yes, it makes sense that I’d have a target on my back. I just didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

“That’s why you want to get to Vasselheim,” Sasha murmured. “It’s protected.”

“Seems risky to me,” Tim said gruffly. “Hiding out in Vasselheim when you serve a tenuous god.”

Martin shook his head. “Vasselheim takes all types,” he said. “Worshippers of old and new gods. Warlocks. As long as you’re not trying to conquer the city for whoever you serve, they care more about their own surviving and worshiping than policing everyone else’s.” Steeling himself, he looked up at them again. “And I really am meeting friends there anyway—I wasn’t lying about that part.”

“So then who?” Sasha asked. “If your god’s not the Knowing Mistress, who is it?”

Rather than answer right away, Martin exhaled slowly. “That’s, um, it’s the funniest thing,” he said, though by the look on his face he didn’t find it very funny. “The name most people use is the Ceaseless Watcher.”

Gerry choked on his tea.

“Or the Eye,” Martin went on, right back to avoiding their eyes. “The Beholding. The Wandering Eye. It-Knows-You—always thought that one was poetic.”

“Wait,” Gerry rasped.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tim broke in. “Gerry said the Ceaseless Watcher is his patron, and he’s a warlock.”

“I’ve heard that gods can take warlocks,” Sasha said thoughtfully. “I know the Raven Queen does, sometimes.”

“So it is a god.” Gerry’s voice was flat, his face carefully blank. “It’s really…”

“What did you think the Beholding was?” Martin asked. He didn’t say it like a jab, like Gerry was stupid for not knowing it. As far as Tim could tell, it was an honest question.

“Wasn’t sure, to be honest,” Gerry admitted. “I had suspicions, but… well, for a god of terrifying knowledge, it’s not exactly forthcoming about itself.”

“So, wait,” said Sasha. “This doesn’t explain why someone sent fiends after you.” She looked to Gerry. “I thought the Watcher—I mean, no offense, but I thought it was kind of… bad news.”

Gerry shrugged. “It’s an entity of—sorry, I guess it’s a god of fear. Either way, it exists to bear witness to horror and suffering. So, yes. In a very literal sense, it is bad news.”

“Exactly, so… gods, this raises so many questions!” Sasha put her cup down roughly, heedless of the tea sloshing over the sides. “So it’s a new god, great. Where did it come from? Why? If it’s an evil god then why are fiends trying to kill its cleric?”

“I… think the answer to the first question is human sacrifice,” Gerry said, shooting a glance at Martin for confirmation. “Right? Like I said, it’s not exactly forthcoming, but I gathered that much.”

Martin nodded, his face rigid.

“Oh, great,” Tim said acidly. “Human sacrifice, of course.”

“Well, what else do you think would summon a god of fear into our planar system?” Gerry asked. “Entities like that can’t exist without a whole lot of suffering. As for why, it’s usually the same—someone or a group of someones wants power, and they don’t care who they have to chew through to get it.”

“Then why the fiends,” Sasha repeated. “And why, Martin, why in the Nine Hells are you serving it?”

All at once, Martin’s timid hunch uncurled. “I’m not,” he said forcefully. “Believe me, I’m not—it’s hard to explain, exactly, I may be a cleric but I don’t—I don’t serve anything. That’s not what I’m about.”

“Then what are you about?” Tim pressed.

Martin took a moment before continuing, breathing carefully until his voice steadied. “The— the Beholding,” Martin went on, sounding out the word like it hurt to say, like he was afraid of saying it. “It shouldn’t have been—it shouldn’t exist. And I didn’t—this isn’t something I wanted. But someone had to do something, and—and there wasn’t anyone else but me. As far as I know, there still isn’t. So I’m going to Vasselheim, where there are people who can help me, people who might—who might know how to fix this.” He paused, took off his glasses, and polished them like he was trying to rub the lenses down to nothing. “And in the meantime, someone wanted—someone wants very badly for the Beholding to exist, and if they know that I’m trying to ruin their work, then—well that’s probably where the fiends came from.”

For a moment, Gerry’s hand hung in the air between them, before wringing helplessly and dropping back to his side.

Tim could only stare. There were a number of things he might have expected out of this. This was not one of them. “So you—” He stopped, still finding his voice. “You became a cleric of a god you’re trying to kill?”

“Not—not really kill, just… p-put a stop to?”

Gerry shook his head. “This isn’t the sort of being you kill,” he said quietly.

“I had to try,” said Martin. “I had to.”

“I know I’m just asking the same question over and over,” Sasha said. “But why?”

“Because a lot of people suffered to make all of this happen,” Martin replied. “And if something isn’t done, then a lot more people will suffer. This… I didn’t want this, but there’s someone—there are people I need to protect, and this is the only way I know how. I’m not doing this for me.”

Tim bit his lip. “Your mother?” he asked cautiously.

A bitter smile flickered across Martin’s face. “No. None of this ever touched her, far as I know.”

“Your friends, then?” said Sasha. “Your nosy half-elf friend in Vasselheim?”

For a moment, the smile softened to something shaky and fragile. “I’m looking forward to seeing them again.”

When no more questions followed, he took a deep breath. “So? Are you satisfied?”

Tim tried prodding at his anger again, but somewhere in the midst of all the revelations, it had dulled and burned down. He wasn’t happy, but his temper had utterly deflated. He sighed. “This really seems like something that should’ve come up back in Westruun.”

Martin shrugged. “I didn’t think it would come up until Vasselheim, and by then it wouldn’t matter.”

“That’s still not a good reason.”

“Fine,” Martin sighed. “You’re right. And I’m sorry. If you want to leave, I can probably—”

Sasha held up her hand. “I’m going to stop you right there,” she said. “Don’t forget that we’ve got our own reasons to go to Vasselheim. We’re not ducking out just yet.”

“We’re not ducking out provided that you’ve told us everything,” Tim corrected.

Martin looked exhausted. “Everything that’s not excruciatingly personal.”

“Guess it’ll have to do,” said Sasha. She swiped her cup, downed the last of her tea in a few quick swallows, and stood up wiping her mouth. “We’d better break camp.”

Tim was slower to get to his feet, keeping an eye on Martin as he rose. He looked exhausted, both physically and mentally, and his eyes were red-rimmed from holding back tears. In spite of himself, Tim couldn’t help pitying him.

He knew what it was like, didn’t he. Carrying a mess like that on your shoulders, not wanting to share it around. But at the same time, the thought still stung—that Martin kept his mouth shut after Tim tore himself open to tell them about Danny.

He turned away, with a quiet sigh. No point in dwelling. It was out now, for both of them, and not a moment too soon. All they could do was keep dodging fiends until they were stepping through Vasselheim’s gates.

He hoped like hell that would be enough.

As Tim and Sasha moved off, Gerry let out the breath he’d been holding.

It didn’t help much with his nerves. Over the course of the conversation his heartbeat had, very slowly, come down from its rabbit-quick pace, and the leftover blood coursing in his veins left him feeling equal parts faint and far too alert. With the tension defused and tempers momentarily eased, he was left hanging.

Martin was turning away, grabbing his abandoned cup of tea. With a mental lurch forward, Gerry finally caught up with himself right as Martin was about to chuck it.

“So—this whole time,” he said, startling Martin by accident. “We’ve both been walking around on the same god’s leash.”

With a sigh, Martin gave his lukewarm drink one last indecisive glance before knocking it back in one swig.

“I guess this sort of fits in with how much you didn’t like me at the start,” Gerry went on, noting when a look of discomfort crossed Martin’s face. “Weird, that. Sort of makes more and less sense at the same time.”

“Gerry,” Martin began.

“You could’ve said something. That’s all.” He kept the hurt out of his voice. No point letting Martin hear that. Hurt feelings weren’t much use, not when there were more important things to to think about. “But at the same time… I get why you didn’t. You’re trying to fight an evil god, I serve the same evil god—”

“I just didn’t know what it meant,” Martin said quietly.

“Guess I should be thankful you didn’t jump straight to knifing me.” Gerry crossed his arms, hiding the way his hands balled into fists.

Martin shrugged. “Just because I was suspicious didn’t mean I was sure,” he said. “Some of the kindest, bravest people I’ve ever met thumbed their noses at gods, or looked at divine patronage like—like a business transaction instead of a devotion. And some of the paladins I’ve met have been the biggest pricks.”

Gerry snorted. “Think that’s just how paladins are,” he said. “I don’t know much about them, but I do know that.”

“Maybe.”

In the silence that followed, Gerry cautiously probed at his own connection. It wasn’t a fraction as noticeable as it had been the previous day. The Eye always sharpened its focus whenever he was in a fight, and at the moment he could barely feel its usual weight. He could only assume that meant the Eye was focused elsewhere.

Good.

“So… what exactly is your plan?” Gerry asked. When Martin didn’t answer, he added, “Not like I’m planning on snitching or anything.”

“Don’t really think it matters,” Martin said wryly. “God of dread knowledge and exposed secrets, and all that. Would probably find out whether you snitched or not.”

“Sad but true,” Gerry agreed.

“Not that it matters,” Martin went on. “It’s not like I started out with some grand design. I need help, and that’s why my next step is getting to Vasselheim.”

“Never mind what you’re doing next,” said Gerry. “What about where you started? How’s becoming a cleric of the bloody thing supposed to help you get rid of it?”

Martin shrugged. “It’s a god of dread knowledge and exposed secrets, like you said. Maybe somewhere in all that is the way to put things right again.”

“That sounds… incredibly risky,” Gerry informed him. “You realize that, right? I mean, using a dark god’s source of power against it sounds very impressive and poetic, but in practice it’s a bit… how should I put this…”

“Hubristic?”

Gerry blinked. “That’s a word?”

“I was just as surprised as you are,” Martin said with a shrug. Gerry bit back the laugh, but not the grin.

His smile faded after a moment, as he remembered the issue at hand. “Martin.”

“Yeah?”

“I have to ask—are fiends the only thing after you?” Gerry asked. “And I’m not talking about the Clasp. I mean you, specifically, and for the same reason as that devil.”

Martin hesitated a little too long. “Why?”

Because we wandered into a fey revel not too long ago,” Gerry reminded him. “Dunno if you remember, you were spelled at the time, but the troupe master spoke to us that night. She said, ‘There you are.’ And she wasn’t looking at me.”

“Oh.” Martin’s mouth tightened. “Of course she wasn’t.”

“So you’ve got denizens from multiple planes after you,” said Gerry. “And on top of that, you’re picking a fight with a god—and not just any god, but the one god that’s the only reason either of us have any spells to our names.”

Without warning, Martin’s expression shuttered. It was sudden enough to be alarming. “I’ve made my choices,” he said. “I know it’s not what you signed up for, and I’m sorry about that, I really am.” He shook his head and turned away. “We should get moving. I said I’d help you get to Vasselheim, and the sooner I do that, the better.”

“Wait, me? Me, in particular?” Gerry darted around to keep pace with him. “Why’s it sound like you’re about to wash your hands of me?”

Martin shot a bewildered look at him. “Me? What about you? I just told you I’m planning on taking away the one thing that’s protecting you.”

“And?”

“And, I get it if you want to be gone as soon as you have the chance—”

“What is it with all of you and deciding how I feel about things this morning?” Gerry demanded.

Martin paused, staring at him in mute shock.

“Hey!” Sasha called over. “Are you two gonna get a move on, or what?”

“In a second!” Gerry shouted back. She did have a point, though—she and Tim were nearly finished already. He turned back to Martin, who was still staring at him like he was seeing him for the first time.

Martin’s face cycled through emotions, and for a terrifying moment Gerry thought he was about to cry. But then he settled, and blinked a few times, and his breathing evened out.

“I cast Augury before we left the Silvercut Crossroads,” he said. “Did we tell you that?”

“You might have mentioned it?” Gerry said uncertainly.

“We had two options, to get to Emon from there,” Martin went on. “We could take the straightest path west, or we could go south through Kymal and add days to the journey.”

“And you took the long way.”

“I rolled the dice,” said Martin. “Four ones for the short path. Two and two for the long way. And after yesterday, I think I finally understand why.”

He turned away to start packing again, but Gerry stopped him. “Wait—what do you mean?”

“Just thinking.” Martin met his eyes again, and the earnestness there made it hard to look back. “We barely survived that, between the four of us. And those fiends would’ve found us no matter where we were. If we’d gone straight west, we’d have met them without you.”

He didn’t elaborate beyond that, but his eyes said enough on their own. For the life of him, Gerry couldn’t put together a proper answer.

The wagon train had long left by the time they set off again, but their party wasn’t alone for long. On the final stretch to Emon, there were plenty of travelers on the road, most of them headed in the opposite direction. Merchants, caravans, and solitary travelers crossed their path as they headed steadily northwest. All the while, the road gradually drew nearer to the coast. Before the day was half over, the view of the Ozmit Sea had become constant. Sasha admired it from afar; it had been too long since she last saw shoreline. Westruun was lovely, plains and mountains were lovely, but being landlocked made her miss sights like that.

“We’ll be sailing that pretty soon,” Tim remarked to her.

“Can’t wait,” Sasha said happily. “It’s been years, though. I hope I don’t embarrass myself.”

Gerry, who was riding close enough to overhear, glanced over with a curious look. “You used to sail?”

“Not as a job or anything,” Sasha replied. “But I did travel a lot when I was younger.” She gave Tim an affectionate elbow to the ribs. “Then I met this one stomping around in the mountains, and I stopped that for a while. It’ll be nice to smell sea air again. I’ve missed it. What about you?”

Gerry shrugged. “We traveled a lot, I suppose. Only on Tal’Dorei, though. This’ll be my first time leaving the continent.”

Then Martin surprised her by speaking up. “My mum was never well enough for travel,” he said. “I never had the chance, growing up.”

Gerry nodded. “You said you’ve got people waiting in Vasselheim, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Martin’s face softened to wistfulness. “Feels like ages since I last saw them.”

Sasha saw her opening and took it. “Well, what’re they like? Any family?”

Martin shook his head. “Just friends. And, um, as for what they’re like… well, there’s Melanie. She’s nice, I guess. As long as she isn’t angry at you. Oh, but if you want to talk to someone about traveling, it’s her. She’s been all over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Martin leaned forward a little in his saddle, as if he could urge his horse faster that way. “She’s a member of the Cobalt Soul, so. If you’d like to meet someone who actually follows the Knowing Mistress…”

Sasha’s eyes lit up. “The Cobalt Soul, you said?”

Tim scoffed quietly. “Sasha, you’re not gonna interrogate one of his friends as soon as we meet them.”

Sasha put her hand to her chest. “Is it my fault Cobalt Soul monks know the best gossip if you get them talking?” Tim rolled his eyes at her, prompting a laugh from her as she turned back to Martin. “Well, we’ll see. Anyone else interesting?”

The look that Martin gave her was sharp and measured, and Sasha wondered for a moment if she was pushing her luck. It was just so rare for Martin to get chatty, and he almost never talked about himself. Considering how much trouble they’d gotten into from not knowing much about him, the last thing Sasha wanted was to ruin the moment in an attempt to know more.

After a moment, Martin softened again. “There’s also Georgie. Last time I saw her, she’d just taken an oath to Bahamut.”

Sasha whistled. “Paladin?”

“Yeah, but she’s… I mean, she’s pretty friendly.”

“What’s she like?” Gerry asked cautiously. It made sense for him to be nervous; he’d sworn a pact to an evil god and didn’t have the advantage of a previous friendship.

“I… honestly, I don’t actually know her that well,” Martin admitted. “She was always more Jon’s friend than mine. They knew each other in school, and I wasn’t there for that.”

“Who’s Jon?” Tim asked.

(Sasha bit back a sigh of relief. It had been touch and go on whether or not he and Martin were still talking.)

“Oh! He’s, um…” Martin hesitated.

“Your nosy half-elf?” Sasha chipped in.

A small smile twitched at Martin’s lips. “That’s him, yeah.”

Sasha still burned with questions, but she set them aside and let the conversation end on a positive note. With it, she felt one more knot of tension loosen and unravel.

By the next day, the road had gone from mildly busy to downright bustling. Barely a minute went by without them encountering others on the road. Sasha even spotted the wagon train that had left them behind the day before, as well as a few other faces from the river..

The crowds might have been downright pleasant, had they been the only thing Sasha noticed as they moved forward. Once the observation had properly stuck in her head, she waited until they reached a gap between crowds to bring it up.

“Are we getting a lot of attention, or is it just me?”

“It’s not just you,” Gerry said flatly. “People are staring.”

Martin looked worried. “Are you sure?”

“Believe me, I know what being watched feels like,” Gerry told him. “Can’t quite tell if it’s fear or admiration, though.”

“It’s a mixed bag,” said Sasha.

“Not sure which is worse.”

“I’d say fear,” said Tim. “Definitely fear.”

Gerry shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Admiration has its own problems, but sure, fear feels bad all around, generally.”

“We’ve been passing people who were resting by the riverbank,” Martin spoke up, far too nonchalantly for Sasha’s taste. “People who saw us kill a devil and three hell hounds. Word must’ve spread.”

“If that’s it, then where’s the fear coming from?” Tim asked sharply. “We almost died fighting those things.”

Gerry gave another shrug. “It happens. You throw around power like that, survive things people don’t expect you to survive, it’s bound to make them nervous no matter what you’re actually doing.”

“Speaking from experience, are you?” Tim asked dryly.

Gerry’s grin was all teeth and no joy. “Sometimes you swoop in to the rescue and people wind up more scared of you than they were of what you saved them from. Shit happens.”

“It’ll let up once we’re in Emon,” said Martin. “We’re out on the road right now, and people are seeing us head-on. Big cities are easy to get lost in.”

Tim groaned quietly. “How long ‘til then, do you think?”

Instead of answering, Martin simply pointed.

The shoreline was not a place of hills and valleys. As flatlands went, it was as flat as they came. To the west lay the Ozmit Sea, to the south behind them lay the Daggerbay mountains, but to the east and all around them was gentle green plains as far as the eye could sea.

To the north, where Martin was pointing, the shoreline curved into an indent, forming the ideal harbor for a port city. And there, nestled at the deepest point—

“Is that it?” Sasha blurted out. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“That’s Emon,” Martin confirmed.

The city was still far away, but the distance just made Sasha appreciate the scale even more. In terms of size, it dwarfed Westruun, and the sturdy walls bordering it did little to hide the buildings and towers that bristled into the skyline. Here, the land did rise into a hill, encircled about a third of the way up by a secondary wall around the center of the city. The highest point of the city’s central hill held up what Sasha could only describe as a proper palace, though from the distance it was hard to say for certain.

The city spilled out past its own outermost wall, the overflow alone almost half the size of the city proper, even without the surrounding farmland.

“Well, damn,” Tim remarked.

“Should be there in an hour or so,” said Martin. “Less if we hurry.”

Tim urged their horse to a faster pace, forcing Sasha to hold onto him to keep her balance in the saddle. “Well why don’t we? We’re leaving these horses here, aren’t we?” At a trot, their gelding overtook Martin’s. “I’d say the time to pace ourselves is past.”

Martin looked startled for a moment, before matching their pace. “I guess you’re right.”

“We’re in the home stretch!” Sasha cheered.

“Just on this continent,” Gerry reminded her, as his mare fell in step with them.

“Home stretch on this continent!”

A half-mile away from the city gates, the crowds forced them to slow their pace again, but with their destination so close, none of them were about to complain. Single-file, the four of them wove around wagons and caravans, careful maneuvered around the unlucky few traveling on foot, and slowly, steadily closed the distance.

It was only as they approached the overflow to the south—the sprawl of buildings that lay outside of the protection of the city walls—that a new thought occurred to Sasha. Since the battle with the fiends she’d hardly touched her magic, aside from the odd cantrip when she needed an extra hand or a quick fire. But now she reached for it again, this time pulling together enough for a proper spell.

Her nose itched as it settled into place, but with the edge of Emon approaching it made her feel more secure.

Gerry was the first to notice. “Er, Sasha? Any particular reason why…?”

Martin made a noise of surprise, and Tim looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at her. “Everything alright?”

“I’m fine.” She knew very well that it didn’t look right; that was the point. She had shaped her disguise spell to look as little like her as possible—pale skin, short blonde hair, missing some height. “But we’re heading into Emon, remember? It’s an even bigger city than Westruun.” They were well into the lower slums of Emon by now, and she cast about just in case there were denizens near enough to listen. “Big cities mean more room for certain thieves’ guilds to operate.”

Tim’s face darkened, and he didn’t question her any further, but Martin didn’t look quite convinced. He dropped in closer, matching her volume. “Are you sure we need to be worried about that?” he asked. “We left Rentoul and the others in—in the Feywild, remember?”

“Rentoul was buddies with his Spireling,” Sasha said shortly. “Can’t be sure he didn’t have friends in other places as well.”

To her relief, Martin merely nodded and left it at that.

They reached the gate within the hour. The only obstacles were the crowds, and the guards stationed there to keep the peace and give cursory checks to wagons. Without one, the four of them quickly passed through the gate and into the capital city of Tal’Dorei.

The gate took them straight into a sprawling district. Past the first few courtyards and official-looking public buildings, it looked to be mostly residential. From here within the city, Sasha could see more inner walls—one near the gate and another in the distance northward, both of them cutting through the city rather than surrounding it—district dividers, maybe?

“So, what are we doing?” Tim asked. “Where are we headed first?”

“Well…” Martin was taking in the city as well, turning as much as his saddle would allow. “Alright, so this is the Central district. I think I remember where some of the good inns were. So. We can get rooms for the night, return the horses, and… that’s it really. Rest of the day, we can arrange for tomorrow and rest up.” He looked to them uncertainly. “Sound alright?”

“I’ve got no objections,” said Gerry.

They proceeded to do… well, exactly that, more or less. With Martin in the lead, they carefully navigated the crowded streets, until at last they came upon the Piper’s Inn (“Oh, I remember this place,” said Martin, eyes lighting up at the sign. “I stayed here once after a night out.” “Too drunk to make it back home?” Sasha asked, and he pretended not to hear.) To their very good fortune, there were two rooms available. By this point they had unpacking down to a science, and it didn’t take them long to unburden their mounts and leave their belongings locked safely in their rented rooms.

They had to backtrack a bit to deal with the horses. The stables that would take them were close to the other gate—the one that they would have entered through, had they gone straight west from the crossroads. To reach it, they had to pass through one of the inner walls that divided the city.

The district they entered boasted wider, cleaner streets and a refreshing dearth of crowds. Everyone Sasha saw was on foot, and it didn’t take long for Martin to dismount as well. The others followed suit, and their path took them along the dividing wall toward the outer gate.

As Sasha walked along at Tim’s side, her gaze was drawn to the center of the district, where a massive building made up the centerpiece of this portion of the city. In fact, she had to wonder if the buildings surrounding it weren’t part of it—they were similar enough in design for it to be likely, and all of them built out of the same polished white marble.

Wait. “Martin,” she spoke up. “Is that the Alabaster Lyceum?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Martin answered, a little sheepishly. “We’re in the Erudite Quarter, which is basically a part of the city for scholars and students.”

“You lived here?” Gerry asked.

“Oh, gods, no.” Martin shook his head. “I-I mean, there are rooms available for students at the Lyceum, but they weren’t—I mean. I just didn’t have the funds. I actually, er.” He made a vague gesture toward the outer wall. “Lived outside the walls, for most of it. Until I—well, I got lucky and I-I found someone willing to go halves on a room in the Central District.” He seemed to steel himself. “That was Jon, actually. That was how we wound up friends. So that was better. Not that it’s bad! Living outside the walls. It was just easier to get to class from inside.”

“What was it like learning there?” Gerry asked, which wasn’t the most delicate way to steer the conversation away, but Martin leapt on it readily enough.

“Oh, it was—I mean it was fine. Better than fine.” Martin hesitated. “It’s most well known for its wizards, but it’s got a decent program for aspiring bards of lore. A-at least, it did when I was there. I haven’t been, for years. Can’t think of any reason why it wouldn’t anymore, but… anyway. I liked it, when I was here.”

“I’m a bit torn, personally,” Sasha remarked. “Because on the one hand, learning more about magic sounds like a dream, but on the other… well. I don’t mix well with stuffy arcane academic types. Not for lack of trying, but…”

“No, I get it,” Martin said emphatically. “Me too, honestly. At least bard students know how to have fun.”

Sasha shot him a sympathetic look. “Didn’t get on with wizards, did you?”

“Most wizards.” Martin’s mouth twitched into another of his very brief, blink-and-you-miss-them smiles. “Some of them grow on you.”

They reached the stables. Martin produced some paperwork from his pouch and presented it to the stablemaster, who looked over it, checked each of their horses, and took one final payment before sending them on their way. Sasha gave her and Tim’s one last thorough petting on the nose (and glanced over to find Martin and Gerry doing the same) before the four of them left the stables more permanently on foot.

Outside the stables, Martin paused and turned to them again. “So, er, is there anything else you all would like to do right away, or…?”

Tim sighed. “Much as I’d love you to give us a full tour of the entire city…” Martin very obviously tried not to pull a face. “Yeah, I thought so. How much should we stock up here? We’ll be sailing for the next stretch. What do we need?”

“We should definitely pack provisions,” said Sasha. “Most ships that take on passengers have ample food stores, but it’s better to be safe than hungry.”

Martin nodded. “If we need more than we already have, we can do that in the Central District. If we need any equipment, then the Promenade is the place for that.” He pointed to the dividing wall that bordered the other side of the Erudite Quarter. “That’s where you find most of the traders and craftsmen in this city.”

“Well, we’ve got plenty of daylight left,” said Gerry. “Sasha, how much more time do you have on that spell?”

“Half an hour, but I can cast it again.” Sasha squinted up, checking the position of the sun. It was getting on to early evening. “By the time I run out, we’ll probably be done for the night anyway.”

“What’s on the docket, then?” Tim asked. “Food, supplies…?”

“I’ll have to make arrangements, as well,” said Martin. “Find us a ship that’ll take us across the Ozmit Sea.”

“Speaking of,” said Sasha, as the thought occurred to her. “How soon can we leave for Issylra? Will we even be able to catch a ship on short notice?”

“Well, it’s not exactly short notice,” said Martin. “I still have acquaintances in the city—people who can help out with that. I sent out letters before I hired you two, actually.”

“Martin!” Sasha exclaimed, with mock dismay. “You mean you have friends in the city and you didn’t tell us?”

“I’m telling you now,” Martin said, rolling his eyes. If Sasha didn’t know better, she’d say the gesture was almost fond. “Besides, she’s not a friend, exactly? More of a, a colleague. Former colleague.”

Sasha opened her mouth, already full of more questions, then thought better of it. “Well, then why don’t we get that out of the way first? It’s still early in the evening, and if we want to leave tomorrow then we probably shouldn’t put it off much longer.”

“I don’t know if it’d make much difference, but…” Martin’s voice trailed off. “Fine, fine. We can split up, though. I don’t think we need all of us to meet with her.”

“I can head back to the inn,” Tim offered. “See what we have left in terms of food. How long d’you think this will take?”

“Oh, not long,” said Martin. “She does the books for the Owl’s Head in the Central District. It’s on the way back to where we’re staying, actually.”

Sasha flung her hands upward. “Then why bother splitting up? Come on, Martin, let’s go see your friend—sorry, colleague, and after that we can all go shopping together.”

“Alright, alright, fine!” Martin conceded at last. “Don’t understand why you want to meet her so bad—”

“Keep in mind you’re arranging a boat ride for all of us,” Tim reminded him. “Don’t blame us for wanting to be there for it.”

“Right, makes sense.” Martin beckoned them on. “Let’s go, then.”

The Owl’s Head turned out to be a pub that took up a full street corner. It was a nice enough place, with tables and seats clustered outside for overflow even though no one was sitting outside in late winter. Martin led the way inside and out of the cold, and Sasha found herself admiring the cozy atmosphere. This was the kind of place you went to for a good lunch, or casual drinks with friends, or a place to sit down with a book and a hot drink. Plenty of people inside were doing exactly that.

Behind the counter, a middle-aged dwarf woman was multitasking between taking payment from a couple of customers and stacking dirty dishes onto a tray. Once the customers left, she took up the tray and swept into the back with it, vanishing behind a door right as Martin reached the counter. Moments later she emerged again, wiping her hands on a small towel. Sasha noticed the moment she caught sight of Martin; her eyes lit up in recognition, and she skirted around the counter to meet him.

“Martin!” she exclaimed, seizing his hand in her excitement. “Is that really you? Gods, how long has it been?”

“At least a year,” Martin replied. “Probably more.”

“Definitely more,” the dwarf half-scolded. “Haven’t heard a peep from you in all that time, either. If you hadn’t written last month, I’d have thought you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Sorry about that,” Martin said, with an apologetic smile. “Things have been a bit weird. It’s good to see you again, Hannah.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll be staying long,” Hannah said hopefully.

Martin shook his head. “Just tonight, unless something goes wrong. I’m, um, we’re actually on our way to Vasselheim.”

Hannah’s eyes flickered past him to Sasha, then Tim and Gerry. “I see.” She sounded disappointed. “I take it you want to talk to Rosie.”

“Is she here?” Martin asked hopefully.

“You’re in luck.” Hannah turned away, beckoning. “Come on. All of you, it’s alright.”

The group made their way around the corner and into the back, down a hallway that led past the kitchens. Sasha’s curiosity overcame her. “So I take it you knew Martin when he was in school?”

“That’s right,” Hannah replied. “He’d come here after his classes from time to time. Used to sit all by himself and write poetry, until—”

“Hannah,” Martin sighed.

“I’m only saying,” the dwarf said fondly. “It’s always nice to see you coming around with friends. You always look happier when you aren’t alone. How is Jon, by the way?”

The floor they were walking on was perfectly flat and uncluttered, but Martin still managed to trip. “Jon’s fine. I mean, the usual? Like he always is.”

Hannah clucked her tongue with disapproval. “Well in that case, make sure he’s eating properly, next time you see him. That man, he always hated being fussed over, unless you were the one doing the fussing, of course—”

Martin sighed heavily, and Sasha stifled a giggle.

At the end of the hallway, a door stood ajar. Hannah opened it to reveal a cluttered office containing a few cabinets, a single desk, and a chair stacked with books, at the top of which sat a gnome squinting through spectacles at the ledger she was writing in.

“Martin’s here to see you,” Hannah announced. “With guests.”

The gnome glanced up, slipping her spectacles off her nose when she saw them. “Oh. Finally—gods, Martin, I was expecting you a week ago.”

“Took the long way around,” Martin explained. “Hello, Rosie. Hope you’re not too busy?”

“I’m always busy,” Rosie said, shutting the ledger. “Come in, come in. Sorry about the mess.”

While Hannah slipped back to her post, the four of them squeezed into the cramped office. Tim shut the door behind them.

“Sorry for the lateness,” Martin began, and Rosie snorted as she hopped off the chair to rummage through the bottom drawer of the desk.

“I suppose it doesn’t make much of a difference,” she said grudgingly. “But it was worrying. Especially given all the rumors flying.”

“More rumors,” Tim said dryly. “Wonderful.”

“It… can’t be that bad?” Martin said without much hope.

“Sinister happenings in the Bramblewood, far too close to Westruun for comfort.” Rosie pulled another book from the drawer, a slim blackbound volume marked with a ribbon. “Fey running rampant in the Verdant Expanse. Shadows in Ironseat. Then this recent business with fiends, only two days away from the capital—”

No one said anything, but Gerry shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and several uncomfortable glances were exchanged. That had only just happened, and yet word had reached Emon already.

Rosie clambered back to her previous perch and opened the book. “Then there’s whispers of some dark priest or other running around,” she went on. “‘The Cleric of the Wandering Eye,’ or some such nonsense. Or not nonsense, I have no idea.”

“Oh,” Martin said faintly.

“And to top it all off, no one’s heard from Archmage Bouchard lately,” Rosie went on. “Which could mean anything from an impending calamity to, he got himself arrested on a misdemeanor again.”

“Again?” Tim muttered near Sasha’s ear.

“So, Martin,” Rosie finished, turning to Martin with a flinty look in her eyes. “With all of that in mind, perhaps you can understand why a full week’s delay with no word from you might concern me.”

Martin winced, looking properly cowed. “Sorry.”

“Water under the bridge,” she sighed. “So. Who’re your friends?” Her sharp little eyes turned on them, and Sasha spotted the calculating curiosity in them as easily as she did her own.

“Right, uh, this is Rosie,” Martin said awkwardly. “Rosie, this is Tim, Sasha, and Gerry.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Rosie said politely.

“You know an awful lot for an innkeeper,” Gerry remarked.

Rosie snorted. “Not an innkeeper,” she said. “I started doing the books as a favor when Hannah had her baby. It’s very calming, after dealing with Bouchard’s administrative messes.’

“Wait, you work for the Archmage?” Sasha asked.

“Formerly,” Rosie replied. “These days, I have a secretarial position at the Alabaster Lyceum.” She gestured toward the ledger and the book she had just retrieved. “Among others.”
Tim craned his neck to peer over her shoulder at the blackbound book she had opened. “And that is?”

“Harbor schedule,” Martin answered for her. “She knows people who know people.”

“A passenger ship to Issylra left a week ago, by the way,” Rosie informed them. “So I hope that delay was worth it.”

“It was,” Martin said firmly.

Rosie shrugged. “Fair enough. You’re in luck, though. There are four ships setting sail for Issylra in the next couple of days. All merchant ships, though, so it’s anyone’s guess how comfortable you’ll be.”

“As long as at least one of them is willing to take us,” said Martin.

Rosie nodded. “I figured that would be the case. Meet me at the harbor tomorrow morning, and I’ll have something for you.”

Martin let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Thanks, Rosie. I owe you one.”

“You won’t for long,” Rosie assured him smoothly. “Whatever you pay for passage, I’ll be getting a cut, so don’t you worry about me.”

“Right. Still, though.”

“Just be careful,” Rosie said. “I thought I was leaving the strangeness behind when I left Bouchard’s employ, and the rest of the world seems determined to make up for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Martin promised.

The four of them were shooed out of her office, and together they found their way back to the front. Hannah was busy with customers again, but managed a wave at Martin as they left the pub.

“Strange friend,” Gerry remarked once they were outside. “Not Hannah, she was nice.”

“How did you know her again?” Sasha asked. “Rosie, I mean.”

Martin shrugged helplessly. “It’s hard to know what to call her,” he said. “I was a student, and I saw her around the Lyceum a lot but she wasn’t faculty or a student. She was just kind of around, and she made things go smoother just by being around.”

“Makes sense, if she worked for the Archmage—oh, damn it,” Sasha’s hand went to her forehead. “Should we have told her we saw her former boss in the Feywild?”

“Gods, that looks weird,” Gerry muttered.

“What?”

“Your hand—I can’t see your horns, so when you hit your forehead, your fingers look like they’re just sort of hovering.”

Sasha dropped her hand to her side—better not to attract attention to her disguise. “Well, anyway. Where to next?”

“Back to the inn,” said Martin, already setting off again. “We’ll check supplies, buy whatever we need, then eat and sleep. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

“You know,” Gerry said casually. “You were the one who said we had an early morning tomorrow, remember?”

It wasn’t that he was complaining. The incense that Martin always used was nice enough—certainly better than the ones Mum favored. But still, he did have to sleep here, and he wasn’t sure how aromatic smoke infused with divine magic would affect his dreams.

“I won’t be long,” said Martin. “Just trying out a spell.”

“Ah.” Gerry lay back on the comfortable bed, hands clasped behind his head. “Any luck?”

Martin sighed. “No. Do you feel anything on your end?”

Gerry quieted, careful not to reach out to the Watcher and draw its attention that way. “Not really.”

Another sigh, this one more forceful and frustrated. “Damn.” Martin put the incense out, stowing the rest of the unburnt stick back in his pouch.

“Don’t know why you’re so desperate to talk to it,” Gerry remarked. “Really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, if I’m being honest with you. Half the time it spits out useless and unpleasant facts.”

“There’s too much I don’t know,” Martin answered. He’d replaced the incense stick with his little rune-covered Message stone, which he played with between his fingers.

“Ah, right.” Martin’s plan—such that it existed—sort of hinged on using their patron as a resource to facilitate its own destruction. Which still sounded like a disaster in the making, but after getting brushed off the first time, Gerry wasn’t about to waste breath belaboring the point. “How’s that going for you, then?”

“Terrible,” Martin growled out. “My connection’s almost nonexistent as it is—I can cast spells, and that’s about it. Which, you know, great that I can stay alive in the meantime, with fiends coming out of the woodwork, but…”

Gerry frowned. “So, you never get nudges from time to time?” he asked. “Helpful or unhelpful knowledge popping into your head? Surprise shots of fear whenever something’s about to impale you?”

Martin shook his head. “Closest I’ve ever come is casting an Augury spell,” he replied. “I don’t get anything out of this unless I cast a spell for it. I’ve tried to push further, but…”

“But you’re never sure what’ll happen if you push too far,” Gerry finished for him, and after a moment Martin nodded in agreement.

They lapsed into silence far too easily, and Gerry tried not to sulk when he felt the distance between them again. It was like a missing tooth, sometimes; no matter how much he poked and prodded it, no matter how sure he was that it was getting better, that some torn and bleeding thing was healing, the empty gap remained.

He wasn’t used to building bridges. The last solid one he had, he’d burned. The amulet hung heavy around his neck as a reminder.

“Gerry.”

Startled, Gerry snatched his hand away from the amulet. “What?”

Martin was looking at it, his face tense and pensive. He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it again. He did this twice more, every false start more painfully hesitant than the last.

“I know you said earlier—” Another pause. “Well, we sort of got interrupted, and we never picked it up where we left off, but… when we get to Vasselheim…” He broke off again, sighing in irritation. “Gods, this is presuming a lot.”

“Just say it,” Gerry told him.

“I just want you to know, if you ever need help, after we get there, you can just ask, alright?” Martin said in a rush. “I don’t know exactly what will happen, but I promise—I won’t stop what I’m doing, I can’t, and I’m sorry about that, the last thing I want is to put you in danger by doing this, but I don’t have any other option. So if whatever this is, if whatever I have to do—if it ends up hurting you, by taking away your protection, then just ask and I’ll help. I understand if you don’t want to, but—”

“Stop,” Gerry broke in, sitting up. “Stop, stop—you’ve already lost me.”

“You know what I’m trying to do,” Martin told him. “You have to know that if I succeed, I might take away whatever’s protecting you.”

“Yes?” said Gerry, slowly limping to catch up. “I realized that when you first told me.”

“Oh.” Now Martin looked faintly off-balance. “Good?”

“Yeah.”

“So, whatever you end up doing, when you get to Vasselheim,” Martin continued.

Gerry sighed shortly, cutting him off. “Do you want me gone, when we get there?”

Martin blinked.

“Yes or no?”

“I mean I thought you would. Want to be gone, I mean.”

Biting back another sigh, Gerry pushed his hair out of his face. “Right, yeah, no. I don’t think I ever said that. Pretty sure I was about to say the opposite, before we got interrupted the other day.”

Martin didn’t answer except to stare blankly at him.

“Here’s the thing,” Gerry went on. “Whether our mutual patron likes it or not, I’ve sort of devoted myself to dealing with things from beyond the planes. I mean that literally—in fact, I sort of included it in the pact I made with it. So, if said patron happens to be one of those threats…”

“Wait,” said Martin.

“I didn’t throw in with the Ceaseless Watcher out of love or loyalty,” Gerry told him. “I did it because I was alone and desperate, and I didn’t have any other options.” He gestured between them. “That’s changed. Hasn’t it?”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was becoming dangerously endearing.

“So, yes,” said Gerry. “If I find myself needing help once we’re in Vasselheim, I will be asking you. Because, hopefully, you won’t be all that far away.”

He was toying with the charm at his throat again, drawing Martin’s gaze to it. “Think that’ll still work, if you lose your connection to the Eye?”

“I dunno. Maybe? Morning after I made my pact, I woke up with it clutched in my hand.” Gerry shrugged, then flashed him a grin. “But maybe if we pull off whatever your goal is, it won’t matter. What’s my mum to a couple of godslayers?”

He laughed at the wry face Martin pulled. “Ugh, go to bed,” Martin told him. “Early morning tomorrow.”

“You’re the boss.”

It was almost too easy to fall asleep. Gerry hadn’t let himself rest without casting an alarm spell since before he’d learned how, but tonight, it simply slipped his mind. For once, the fear of unguarded sleep didn’t plague him until exhaustion forced his eyes shut. Whenever the old dread crept in, the sound of Martin breathing just across the room eased it away again.

When he opened his eyes to darkness and unfamiliar sounds, he was almost resigned. Of course there was a catch—he could never just have one restful night.

Even though the fog of dreaming, he recognized it. All the smells of the forest, with an extra bite in every breath. The low hum of wild magic suffusing every blade of grass, every leaf, every slight breeze that stirred the air. Pinprick-eyes glinting in the dark, watching, always watching, as if from every point in the shadows.

And among them, the Eye watched as well. His patron was always keen on his dreams, no matter how Gerry might rankle at the intrusion.

He supposed, reluctantly, that a little curiosity was warranted. It wasn’t often that his dreams took him to the Feywild.

His steps carried him through the tangled undergrowth, every one observed by the multitude of unfriendly eyes. A small shadow, vaguely fox-shaped, darted across his path, cold fur brushing past him before it vanished again.

When Gerry stepped into the hollow, the lights in the amphitheater were low, and the music and fireworks were nowhere to be seen or heard. The space between him and the wall stretched on for too long, until finally it allowed his steps to take him near. The stage was silent and empty, but for the vague shapes of set pieces hidden beneath multicolored sheets.

Lee Rentoul sat on one of the topmost rows of seating. He did not scream, though his mouth seemed to be locked open by the branch that grew—either down his throat or out of it, Gerry could not be sure. His body was melded to his seat, hands and legs and wood so equally distorted and bloodstained that it was impossible to say where the flesh ended and wood began. The signs of his struggle were everywhere—from the fingers he’d lost trying to rip his hands free, to the teeth torn from his mouth trying to bite through the branch in his throat. Gerry couldn’t even tell whether or not the man still had a tongue.

At some point, the man’s glassy, rolling eyes settling on him—or on something past him—and bulged with mingled terror and rage. The sound he made around the branch in his mouth was horrible.

And then, as Gerry watched in mute horror and revulsion, a hunched, wizened figure materialized behind Rentoul and settled gnarled hands on his shoulders.

“You poor, poor thing,” she whispered. “I can get you free. Would you like that, my dearest?”

The sound that Rentoul made was no less awful, and yet it was unmistakably a plea.

“It’ll cost you,” the old woman said with a pleasant smile. “Do you still want this? Scream once for yes.”

Rentoul still couldn’t scream with the branch down his throat, but he did his best.

“That’s it.” From beneath her moth-eaten cloak, the old woman drew out what Gerry thought was a long knife. A second look revealed its single serrated edge, and the shape of a handle that looked to be more bone than wood. “Here we are, then. I’ll have you out in a tick.” Wielding the thin-bladed saw in one hand, she set about cutting him free.

At one point in her task, she paused amid Rentoul’s muffled cries to wipe her hands on her apron. Smiling with all the satisfaction a job soon to be well done, she lifted her bright eyes toward the spot where Gerry stood, still itching under the Watcher’s gaze.

“Might want to make yourself scarce,” she said. “Before the troupe master gets back.”

The scene melted before his eyes, colors running together like a painting in the rain. They blurred, and then they faded, along with the forest and the eyes and the hum of magic that soaked the Feywild, until only muted gray fog remained.

Alone with his patron once more, he drifted in suffocating silence until he finally opened his eyes to the morning light streaming through the window shutters.

Sasha woke feeling refreshed and rested, which was more than the others could say. Tim had been tossing and turning before she went to sleep the night before, and was already up and about when she awoke. Martin was quiet and sullen, more or less rested but nowhere close to refreshed. And Gerry didn’t seem to have much of an appetite at breakfast, for whatever reason.

The lack of horses was the morning’s sole break in their otherwise fixed routine. Martin led the way through the Central District to the harbor on foot. Sasha had her disguise in place again, though hopefully she’d only need to cast it once. As soon as they set sail, she was dropping it. Martin had promised that Rosie wouldn’t set them up with a ship full of Clasp, and Sasha could only take him at his word.

They passed through another dividing wall to get to the harbor district, and Sasha’s heart quickened in anticipation. “Looks like this is it,” she said. “Last chance, Martin—is there anywhere you want to visit before we go?”

“Not really,” said Martin. “I saw the Erudite Quarter, and I said hello to Hannah. I don’t need any more than that. Besides, Rosie’s waiting.”

They followed the streets down to the ports, where the usual morning activity was in full swing. Boats lined the docks, from smaller two-man vessels to full-sized ships. Dockworkers loaded and unloaded cargo. Passengers darted back and forth from one dock to the next, searching for the right vessels.

And in the midst of it all, a gnome woman stood beneath a signpost bearing the lists and schedules for the day. She wasn’t alone; the dwarf Hannah wasn’t with her, but three others were. As they got closer, Sasha recognized them as human, a halfling, and a half-orc. She wasn’t sure who they could be; they certainly didn’t look like dockworkers or sailors. Two of them were dressed in blue robes, for gods’ sake.

Wait.

“Are they Cobalt Soul monks?” Tim muttered.

Ahead of them, Martin slowed for one step, then seemed to brace himself before moving forward again.

“Hello, Rosie,” he said stiffly.

Strangely, Rosie looked almost apologetic as she acknowledged his greeting. “Martin, you made it.”

The human monk waved. “Sorry to show up unannounced,” he said. “When we heard you were in town, we had to see for ourselves.”

“Sorry I can’t stay long,” Martin replied, without sounding very sorry at all. Sasha cleared her throat as politely as she could. “Oh, right. Um, this is Sasha, Tim, and Gerry, they’re traveling with me to Vasselheim.”

“Charmed,” the half-orc monk said, showing her short tusks with a friendly grin. “Martin probably hasn’t mentioned us, he’s more of a friend of a friend.”

“I mentioned Melanie,” Martin said, flushing slightly. To Sasha and the others, he added, “They’re friends of Melanie’s. Andy and Antonia are monks like her, and Sarah’s a friend of theirs.”

Andy the monk grinned and waved again. Sarah, a halfling with close-cropped dark hair, flashed a brief smile.

“Charmed,” said Sasha. Briefly she considered dropping her disguise, but decided against it. Not until she was on the boat. “Come to see him off, then?”

“Guess we’ll have to,” said Antonia. “Would’ve loved to catch up, but you look like you’re in a hurry.”

“Bit of one, yeah,” Martin replied.

“Tell Melanie we said hello, won’t you?” Andy offered a hopeful grin. “It’s been ages since I saw her, and she doesn’t write near as often as she should.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

“Georgie, too,” Andy added. “Have you talked to her lately?”

“She’s been in Vasselheim lately, so no.”

Rosie coughed loudly, drawing their attention back to her again. “They’re on a schedule,” she said, right on the edge of impoliteness.

“Won’t keep you, then,” Antonia said, putting a hand to Andy’s shoulder. “Have a safe voyage.”

“We have no control over that,” said Gerry.

Antonia shrugged. “Alright, die then,” she said, which startled a laugh out of him. Martin shot him an amused look, then moved to follow Rosie as she led them down the dock.

“Hey, Martin, one more thing—” Andy called after them, stopping them for a moment. Even Martin, as impatient as he was, paused to look back. The look on Andy’s face was almost painfully earnest. “It’s just—it was really good to see you again. I mean that.”

“Thanks,” Martin said politely. “You too.”

“And I’m glad you’re on your way to Vasselheim, too,” Andy went on. “Especially with Georgie, you know how she gets sometimes. She’s been worried about you.”

Martin blinked, and the polite blankness on his face barely wavered.

“She’s got a funny way of showing it,” he replied, and walked off without another word.

Bewildered, Sasha looked from Martin’s retreating back to the trio seeing them off. Gerry seemed just as surprised, while Tim was already following him.

As much as Sasha hated to admit it, there was a time and place for curiosity. With a hearty mental shrug, she waved to Martin’s acquaintances and darted after her friends.

Rosie, who walked at a surprising clip for someone her size, led them toward the northern end of the port. The vessel she brought them to was middling in size, slim and sleek and built for speed. It was well-kept and cared for, fitted with new sails, and looked ready to break anchor at any moment. Sasha hoped they hadn’t delayed anything.

“Truth be told,” said Rosie. “I’m not sure if this counts as luck or not.”

That brought Martin up short. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing catastrophic,” Rosie answered. “She’s fast—probably the fastest you’ll find in this harbor. She’ll get you to Issylra in good time.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but,’” Tim muttered.

“If the crew and captain are crooked,” Martin began.

“They’re not,” Rosie assured them. “Not in any of the ways that matter, anyhow. They won’t take your money and dump you in the ocean halfway across, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She paused, squinting thoughtfully as she hunted for the right words. “It’s just their reputation—well it’s not bad, exactly. Just… odd. You’ll see.”

The four of them exchanged glances among themselves.

Rosie flung her hands into the air. “Lawbearer’s tits, do you want it or not?”

“We can do odd, can’t we?” Gerry spoke up. “We’ve been dealing with—well, I know I didn’t join you at the start, but we’ve been dealing with odd since I got here, at least. What’s a little more?”

“We might as well meet whoever it is,” Sasha pointed out.

“Unless we don’t mind delaying again,” Tim added, and that decided it more than anything else.

“No, you’re right,” said Martin. “We’ll take this one. Thanks, Rosie.”

The gnome sniffed at them. “You’re welcome,” she said primly, then walked out toward the end of the dock. “Come along, I may as well introduce you.”

On their approach, a figure emerged at the edge of the deck, vaulting easily over the railing and onto the gangplank before descending at a slightly more sedate pace. He was dressed as simply as any of the other crew members, in a waterproof coat and polished but well-worn boots; if it hadn’t been for context clues, Sasha wouldn’t have picked him out as the captain. He was easily as tall as Gerry, broad and well-built, with a neatly-trimmed beard and the edge of a tattoo creeping up from beneath the loose collar of his shirt. His brown skin was tinged with the faintest hint of blue, and it glistened in the sun as if he’d slipped out of the water rather than stepping off the deck of his ship.

He approached them with wide arms and a broad smile. “So, these are the passengers that dear Rosie has brought me!” he greeted them. “Welcome, welcome aboard. I am very happy to have you. Happy to have your money, of course, but I always love to have passengers. I find it adds… oh, how do I put it… a bit of color to a voyage.”

He wasn’t wet from the sea, Sasha realized faintly. She was looking at a water genasi. A water genasi, captain of a fast ship, with a reputation that was not bad so much as merely odd…

“Oh,” she said faintly.

“Oh,” Tim agreed.

The genasi’s grin widened. “I see from your faces,” he said. “My reputation precedes me?”

“A bit, yeah,” said Tim.

“Then you ought to know, from my reputation,” the ship captain went on. “That I will get you where you need to go?”

Martin was looking at them, confused and slightly lost. Gerry, she noticed, was not—he was watching the genasi with equal parts wariness and curiosity.

But Martin was looking to them for a cue.

Sasha looked to Tim, who looked to her, and together they came to an accord. “We’re good,” she said to Martin. “It’s like Rosie said—odd, but good.”

“I don’t recall using the word ‘good,’” said Rosie. “But I suppose it’s one that fits.”

Martin squared his shoulders, mind made up. “Right then,” he said. “How much are you asking for?”

“Come.” The genasi gestured to the gangplank with a welcoming hand. “We can discuss such matters in my cabin. I promise, my price is very reasonable. But—oh! Where are my manners?” He inclined his head, flashing another rakish grin at them all. “Mikaele Salesa, at your service. Welcome aboard the Dorian.”

Chapter Text

Salesa’s stateroom on the Dorian was comfortably furnished and elegantly decorated. It wasn’t opulent by any means, but Tim could see the money that had gone into making it look nice. That all made sense, considering Salesa’s line of work and the company it would put him in. By his manners and the state he kept his quarters in, Salesa was used to entertaining.

On the central table, sea charts were neatly put aside in favor of a tray bearing a decanter and a collection of glasses. Salesa ushered them all in and poured them each a glass with graceful manners, then waited for them to take seats before pulling up the largest chair for himself.

“Truly a pleasure to have you all aboard,” he said cheerfully. “Now—to business.”

There was a brief pause as the four of them silently deliberated on who would play spokesperson. “How much did Rosie tell you?” Martin asked finally.

“Not much,” Salesa replied. “No more than exactly what I needed to know—she always has valued her efficiency.” He clasped his hands together. “She informed me that an old acquaintance was traveling to Vasselheim with three companions. And, here you all are.”

“How close to Vasselheim can you take us?” Martin asked.

Salesa reached over to sift through his charts for a moment. “Yes, yes, where did I—ah. Here it is.” He slid it closer, revealing not a sea chart but a map of the continent of Issylra. “This is where, perhaps, our goals may align. My current intended destination is here, Shorecomb.” He indicated a coastal town marked on the eastern edge of the continent. “For this, I will only charge for your room and board on my ship, not extra for travel, since I would not be going out of my way.”

Tim leaned forward. “How far is Vasselheim from Shorecomb?”

A tap of Salesa’s finger indicated their destination further north, surrounded by a cluster of mountains. “A few days, on horseback. A week at most, I should think.”

Martin pursed his lips, clearly dissatisfied. Tim sympathized; the sea voyage bit felt like it should have been the last leg of the journey. But Vasselheim wasn’t exactly near the coast, so that never would have been possible.

“I could take you closer,” Salesa went on. “But it would cost you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw Sasha’s eye twitch. At this point, she had as close an eye on their supplies and funds as Martin did. If they were short on the money…

Salesa’s eyes were sharp as he watched them, and Tim decided then and there that going into debt with this man probably wasn't a good idea.

Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Martin nodded reluctantly. “Shorecomb it is. That was my initial plan anyway—we can figure it out when we get there.”

“Ah, that will not be a problem.” Salesa waved a hand. “There is so much travel between Shorecomb and Vasselheim, it is practically an industry itself. The journey may take time, but you will have no trouble finding transportation.”

Tim nodded. “Makes sense—a city like Vasselheim would need trade.”

“Trade, pilgrimages,” Salesa said with a shrug. “So, we are in agreement.”

“I guess we are,” Martin sighed. “How do you want to do this? A lump sum now, or would you rather we have a tab?”

Salesa chuckled. “Lump sum is fine, I won’t waste time tallying up every crumb and bedsheet. And, should any of you die before we reach Shorecomb, I would be happy to reimburse you for a pro-rated amount.”

“Great,” Martin said flatly, prompting another laugh from their host.

“Now, if those are all the questions you have for me, I have one of my own for you.” Salesa sat forward, never losing his pleasant smile. “How much will ferrying you across the Ozmit Sea cost me?”

A heavy, uncomfortable hush settled over them. They exchanged glances, half of them confused and the other half grim.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Martin asked evenly.

“Well.” Salesa spread his hands wide. “I run a very lucrative, but often very delicate business. I have not survived as long as I have by taking unnecessary risks, or tolerating any degree of blindness. I like to know what I am getting myself into, before I forge ahead. So I am asking you now—what am I getting myself into, by allowing you on board my ship?”

Tim opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.

What were the chances they were ambushed again, the way they were before?

“I hear many rumors, in this line of work,” Salesa went on. “You could say that I thrive on rumors. And lately, I have been hearing many things about the Wandering Eye and its servants.”

Martin bridled. “I am not— wait. You’ve heard rumors about the Wandering Eye?” He had his rune stone in hand again, flipping it between his fingers like a coin trick. He barely seemed to notice that he was doing it. “Like what?”

“Oh, all the usual scary stories.” Salesa flapped his hand dismissively. “I do not pay attention to what people say of gods—what would they know of what gods do? No, I am more interested in what I hear about you.” His attention slid to Gerry. “And you as well, I presume. I hear of shadows in the little town of Kymal, and of Clasp agents vanishing in the Verdant Expanse, and of fiends appearing in the plains—and every time, I hear of the Watcher’s heavy gaze, of the Eye wandering close, and I hear of you. Walking away alive and well.”

“It’s not that simple,” Tim said tightly. “The last one, we almost didn’t walk away from at all.”

“So you see my concerns,” Salesa agreed. “Can you promise me that my ship will not run into any more of such incidents, with the four of you on board?”

The uneasy silence that followed was probably answer enough. “And what if the answer’s no?” Tim asked. “Is our business done?”

Salesa narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, considering his answer.

“Mr. Salesa,” Martin spoke up. “You’ve mentioned your business a few times. But what exactly is your business?”

“Hmm.” Salesa tapped his chin. “I suppose there is no harm in telling it—it’s no dirtier than the secrets you must have.” He smiled and winked. Martin did not smile back. “I am a merchant of rare goods. I seek, I find, I buy, and I sell. Much of my merchandise are items that… shall we say… certain people in authority would prefer off the market.”

“You fence stolen goods,” Sasha said flatly. Tim kicked her under the table.

Luckily, Salesa merely laughed. “I’m sure the authorities would prefer that! It would be much less complicated for them. But no—I deal in very rare magical artifacts, some of which could be considered dangerous. But I rarely argue with customers—they know best what will satisfy them.” He looked to Martin again. “Why do you ask? Do you have something to trade?”

“Not necessarily,” said Martin. “Just information.”

Salesa’s eyes sharpened with interest. “What sort of information?”

Here, Martin hesitated. His hand, previously resting lightly on the surface of the table, curled inward just slightly, just enough to turn his fingertips white. He drummed them as if to hide it, then turned to all three of them.

“You could—you could leave,” he said calmly, almost dismissively. “For this next part.”

“Why would we?” Sasha asked, because of course she would. Things were just about getting good.

“Because it’s to do with—with the stuff that brought on the chain devil before,” Martin replied, no longer looking at any of them. “Since we’ll be in Vasselheim soon, if you don’t want to get involved then I don’t want to—”

Tim cut him off. “Martin, need I remind you—we weren’t upset that you got us involved, we were upset you got us involved without telling us.”

“Yeah, so sending us out of the room isn’t really tackling the problem,” Sasha added.

Martin looked to Gerry, who shrugged and made no move to get up. “We’ve had this conversation. I’m not repeating it.”

With a quiet sigh that sounded a bit like Right, okay, Martin turned back to Salesa. “Have you heard rumors out of Westruun recently?” he asked. “It would’ve been a little over a year ago. Winter’s Crest, in the Bramblewood.”

At this, Salesa’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Take that along with the shadows in Kymal, and the Feywild rifts in the Verdant Expanse, and the fiends running rampant on Tal’Dorei soil,” Martin went on.

“And the recent appearance of your Ceaseless Watcher, I presume?” said Salesa. At Martin’s nod, he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And you suggest these are all connected.”

“They are,” Martin replied.

“Some have already noticed,” Salesa told him.

Martin shook his head. “Rosie’s noticed. We both know she’s an outlier.”

At that, Salesa chuckled. “That she is, that she is. But what more can you tell me?”

Martin hesitated again, still white-knuckling the table. Then—“I know who’s responsible for the Ceaseless Watcher.”

Tim gaped at him, while Salesa merely raised his eyebrows. “You know who summoned the Eye and turned its gaze upon our world? Who?”

“Elias Bouchard.”

“Fuck off,” Sasha blurted.

Tim said nothing. They had met him in the cottage of an Archfey. Gerry said he used to make deals with his dread sorceress mother. Martin bristled every time his name was mentioned. How surprising was this, really?

Salesa didn’t look surprised either, though his eyes slowly slid shut as if in resignation. “So the rumors are true, then,” he murmured, half to himself.

“What rumors?” Sasha demanded. “Since when were there rumors that the Archmage was summoning dark gods?”

“Never, to my knowledge,” Salesa replied. “But for a man who is always looking for assistants, aides, even proteges—he never seems to have any, does he.” He shook his head. “All unfounded, of course. Outlandish speculation, most of it in jest. And the usual rumor-mongering that comes of being in a position of high power.” He chuckled. “Do you know how many Archmages haven’t had rumors of dark magical practices? All of the boring ones.”

“Wait,” Gerry spoke up. “Martin… how do you know about this?”

Martin fussed with his scarf as he continued to stare off to the side, his face flat and blank. “I knew one of those assistants,” he said.

“Oh?” Salesa’s eyes lit up again.

“I heard from them that... that Bouchard was looking into the writings of Jonah Magnus,” Martin went on.

Gerry pulled a face. “Yeah, that explains it.”

“Jonah Magnus?” Sasha asked, beating Tim to the punch.

“Famous wizard from hundreds of years ago,” Martin explained. “These days most people know him for making strides in divination—I didn’t think much of it when I found out Bouchard was looking into him, since he’s a seer, but…”

“He made strides in a few areas besides that,” Gerry said grimly. “My mum was always after old grimoires, arcane research, that sort of thing. She sent me out after Magnus’s scribblings more than once. She swore he was working on a ritual to summon a god before he died, but she never found it when I was with her.” He looked to Martin. “I’m guessing she was right?”

Martin nodded.

“To summon a god into the world,” Salesa said thoughtfully. “Impressive, for someone more well-versed in the arcane than the divine. And Bouchard found this ritual, I presume?”

Martin nodded. “And performed it. And… well, here I am.”

Tim’s heart sank like a stone. No wonder Martin was desperate to get to his paladin and wizard friends in Vasselheim, if he was picking a fight with someone like that.

In spite of the grim news, Salesa looked pleased. “You have given me much to think about,” he said. “Is there anything more?”

“Not yet,” Martin replied, grimacing slightly “I can’t go into detail, partly because I don’t know the details yet. I’ll be looking for them in Vasselheim.” For a moment, his eyes settled on Salesa’s face. “I’d be willing to share them with you once I do.”

For a moment, Salesa merely looked thoughtful. Then he laughed again, quietly to himself as if over a private joke.

“Perhaps your god would like me,” he said. “Because in spite of my better judgment, I am curious to see what happens.” He held out his hand. “Very well, then. I will take this risk.” His eyes glinted dangerously. “Do not make me regret it.”

With far more outward confidence than Tim felt, Martin nodded and shook his hand. He took Salesa’s grip without flinching, and the genasi grinned his approval.

“Wonderful,” he said, releasing Martin’s hand. “Now, let us finish here, and I will show you your berth so we may get ready for launch.”

In the end, an amount of money changed hands that made Sasha visibly cringe. Tim couldn’t help but feel relieved; the next leg of their journey was in someone else’s hands, more or less. They were passengers now, and Salesa and his crew could handle the heavy lifting from here on out.

After everything that had happened since Westruun, it’d be nice not to have to think about their next move for a while.

Afterward, one of the crewmen showed them to their berth—little more than a cramped space with two bunks, and just enough room to stow their belongings. It was… austere, to put it kindly. But Tim wasn’t about to complain, and neither were any of the others. He had the distinct feeling that they’d all slept in worse before.

“Martin,” Sasha began, once they were alone again.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, but you said you knew someone who—”

“I did,” Martin said shortly. “He didn’t die. That’s the important part.”

Sasha looked pained, and a little desperate to press him further. But before she had the chance, a bell sounded somewhere above. She perked up then, nearly clipping her horn on the side of the top bunk that she’d claimed. “Sounds like the ship’s about to launch.”

“Should we go up to the deck, then?” Gerry asked.

“If we’re done here, then yes. The launch was always my favorite part of the voyage.” Sasha was already darting back out. “Come on—I’ll show you where to stand so we’ll get a good view without getting in the way.”

There was no need for that, as it turned out. As soon as they emerged, Salesa caught sight of them and waved them up to the upper deck. Tim wasn’t sure what it was called—the one in the back with the wheel on it.

“Come watch the launch with me, my friends.” Salesa was smiling widely, out of reach of the flurry of activity from the crew. “Fair winds today. We will make good time. Once we reach open sea, who knows?”

Sasha was already at the railing, leaning out as far as she could with her tail up as a counterbalance. Martin was the first to join her, followed by Gerry, who leaned out a bit before quickly backing off again.

“Someone’s excited,” Tim murmured as he stepped into his usual place at Sasha’s shoulder.

“Can you blame me?” She turned her eager smile on him. “We’re this much closer to Vasselheim! It’s been so long since I went somewhere really new.”

“Guess that’s true.”

Slowly, the ship began to move beneath them. With each wave, the docks bobbed further and further away, picking up speed as the sails caught the wind. Tim looked back and caught sight of Rosie’s diminutive figure in the distance, standing alongside Andy and Antonia, Martin’s two acquaintances. They were watching the launch from afar, Andy waving eagerly. Tim looked to Martin just in time to see him lift a hand to wave back. The other rested on the railing, playing with his Message stone again.

“Might want to put that way,” said Sasha. “It’ll get choppy pretty soon, and you might lose it over the side."

Hastily Martin shoved it back into his pocket. “Right, thanks.”

At that moment, the ship caught a sizable swell on the way out of the harbor. The deck rose and fell beneath their feet in a slow but inexorable undulating motion. Tim gripped the railing to steady himself, disoriented for a moment.

A bitten-off groan drew his attention to Gerry, who was already white-knuckling the side of the ship with a queasy look on his face. “Think it’ll get smoother once we’re out of the harbor?” he asked hopefully.

Salesa barked out a hearty laugh. “Smoother? Than this?” He clapped Gerry on the shoulder, which didn’t seem to help at all. “You know that saying? Still as a millpond. Maybe we will see proper rough seas before we reach Issylra, hm? Get you some proper sea legs.”

“Um,” Gerry said, a little desperately.

“I stocked up on ginger tea before we left,” Martin assured him. “For now, just focus on the horizon if you feel sick. It’ll help.”

“Not your first voyage, is it?” Salesa chuckled.

Martin shrugged. “I’ve known people who travel,” he said. “They talk.”

“Seasickness cures come up in conversation a lot?” Sasha teased.

That actually got a smile out of him. “You’d be surprised.”

“I’m not seasick,” Gerry insisted. “Just got caught off guard, that’s all. I’ll be fine once I’m used to it.”

“You have to admit, it’s a little ridiculous,” said Sasha, as they lingered outside their shared berth.

“That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?” Tim asked, which wasn’t fair at all, in Sasha’s opinion. It shouldn’t count as rudeness if it was the truth.

“I mean, think about it!” Sasha threw her hands vaguely upward. “Gerry Keay, dread warlock of the Ceaseless Watcher, servant of the Wandering Eye, struck down by a bit of choppy water.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Sasha, I don’t know if you noticed, but I didn’t eat for our entire first day at sea. And you can’t tell me your first time on a ship wasn’t hell.”

“For your information, I…” Sasha’s voice trailed off. “I actually don’t remember, because my family traveled a lot when I was a child. I had my sea legs before I could walk.”

“As a passenger.”

Sasha glared at him. “Oh sure, and you’ve been—what, climbing the rigging and battening the hatches this whole time, have you?” Tim laughed, which didn’t help her scowl very much. “I’m only saying… Out of everyone in our little party who’d wind up half-dead with seasickness, it’s Gerry?”

“Yeah? As opposed to who?”

Before Sasha could answer, the door opened, and Martin stepped out with his pouch hanging from his hand, digging through it as he went.

“I’m heading down to the galley,” he said. “Sasha, would you mind boiling water again?”

“Out of tea already?” Sasha asked.

“He kept bringing it back up this morning,” Martin replied, already walking away. “If he’s sick again while I’m gone, have him drink a bit of water.”

“Charming,” said Sasha, once he was gone.

Tim heaved a sigh, then pushed back through the door himself. “Let’s go check on him.”

“Do we have to?”

Gerry looked every bit as miserable as he had for the past two days, since the ship’s rocking had gone from uncomfortable to unbearable. He was curled up in one of the bottom bunks, his face so pale it was almost gray. His hair was a mess of sweat and tangles draped over the pillow beneath his head, and the currently empty bucket had been shoved within easy reach.

“Up for some crackers?” Tim asked brightly.

“Next time I heave, I’m aiming for you,” Gerry rasped.

Sasha, who was already keeping her distance, took a careful step further out of range.

“Martin’s on his way back with more tea,” Tim offered. “Which… I think is good. Is it even helping? The tea?”

“Think so.” Gerry pulled a face. “Wish the ginger stuff didn’t burn on the way back up, though.”

Sasha made a faint noise of revulsion. Tim ignored her. “Sleeping alright, at least?”

“Sometimes. This really takes it out of you, you know.”

The relief was clear on Sasha’s face when Martin returned with a full kettle. With a snap of her fingers it was boiling, and she beat a hasty retreat out of the room with her hands over her ears, just in time to miss Gerry gagging again.

It subsided before Tim made it back to the door. “Rinse your mouth out,” he heard Martin tell him. “I’ll get more tea ready.”

“Ginger again?” Gerry asked dryly.

“No, mint this time—shouldn’t be as bad coming back up.”

“We really need to work on your bedside manner, Miss James,” Tim drawled as he joined Sasha in the corridor outside.

“I know, I know, I just… really don’t like listening to it.”

“I know,” Tim replied patiently. “I was there when you begged Martin to deafen you before bed.”

Sasha looked pained. “We’re passengers on a boat. What else is he going to use his magic on?”

“Isn’t that spell technically necromancy?”

“Not the point!” Sasha crossed her arms. “Besides, you and Martin have enough bedside manner to make up for me. Especially Martin, he’s been puttering around like it’s his job.”

“Very true,” Tim said with a grin. “Is it bad that I’m almost glad this happened? What would Martin even do with himself if he didn’t have someone to fuss over?”

“Get seasick himself, maybe,” Sasha suggested. “I still can’t believe that—Gerry’s bedridden two days in, but Martin’s fine? Did he even look bothered by it, on the first day? How does that even happen? He said he’s never been on a boat before.”

Tim almost laughed out loud. “Really?”

“What?”

They reached the deck. With practiced ease, Sasha led the way through the usual crowd of busy sailors, dodging and skirting them as they went about their posts. Salesa had pointed them all to the places they could safely loiter without getting underfoot. One such spot was on the aft deck, overlooking the starboard side of the boat.

“Come on, Sasha.” Tim let his volume drop. “Ever since we met him it’s been one revelation after another. You can’t really believe he’s—what, naive and incompetent like you thought.”

“I never said or thought he was incompetent,” Sasha said pointedly. “Naive, alright. Inexperienced, definitely. But as for the rest of it, he might be a new cleric of a new and most-likely-evil god, but he’s still new. It’s not as if dark eldritch power makes him immune to vertigo.”

“Probably does in some cases,” Tim mused. “I’ve heard there are things down in the deep sea you can pact with. ‘Immunity to seasickness’ is probably a given, if you’re dealing with one of those.”

“Interested?” Salesa asked, standing at his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Tim hissed, and barely managed to avoid flailing and elbowing him in the throat. “Where did you come from?”

“Around,” Salesa replied. “I have been busy these first few days, so when I saw you here I thought I would check on you. How are you finding the Dorian so far?”

“It’s a fine ship,” Tim replied, because that seemed like the thing to say. “We’re finding it very well, thanks.”

“Some better than others,” Sasha murmured.

“Ahh, yes, I have heard about your friend.” Salesa nodded sympathetically. “Happens to even the most eager of new sailors. Sometimes the sea can be cruel.”

He sounded so grave about a bad case of seasickness that it almost came around to being funny. “Gerry’ll be fine,” Tim replied after a moment. “As risks go, I’d say that one was the least of our worries.”

“Ah, yes.” Salesa joined them at the railing, leaning on his broad arms to look out at the waves. “I know all about your risks, and mine most of all.”

While Tim was turning those words over and over in his head, wondering how he could possibly respond, Sasha simply scooted closer to their host and asked. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I run a delicate business,” Salesa replied. “And, as I said before, I am taking a great risk, having you on board.”

“Right,” Sasha said hesitantly. “How’re we doing so far?”

Salesa chuckled. “Some better than others. Hopefully your friend’s stomach settles, or we will run out of water keeping him hydrated.”

“Oh, Martin’s got a spell for that, actually,” Tim said helpfully. “Give him a barrel of seawater and he could purify it for you.”

Salesa looked please. “Oh, yes?” he said. “Ahhh, the perks of traveling with a cleric, I suppose. I will be sure to keep that in mind.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a minute or so, watching the horizon as if the opposite shore would manifest before their eyes. Tim shot a carefully surreptitious look at Salesa again. He seemed relaxed and comfortable, even more than he had on the first day in his stateroom. Tim could relate, just a bit; Salesa looked at the sea with the same calm comfort as Tim wore when he saw mountains.

“Tell me,” Salesa went on. “What do you two know of my business? I gather you know more than what little I told you, on your first day.”

He was standing between them, so Tim leaned back a bit to exchange a glance with Sasha. “You’re a proprietor of rare magical artifacts,” Sasha answered cautiously. “You do business on almost every continent, and you’re known not to discriminate who you do it with. Governments, common folk—and the Clasp and the Myriad.”

“It is a dangerous business at times,” Salesa said with a serene smile. “But a lucrative one. Tal’Dorei, Wildemount, Marquet, Issylra… I find buyers everywhere.”

“Issylra, too?” Tim asked. “Does that include Vasselheim?”

Salesa heaved a sigh. “Vasselheim… The short answer is, yes, but they do not make it easy for me. They live and breathe the divine, and treat the arcane with suspicion.” His eyes glinted. “But I have contacts. Well… one main contact. She has never concerned herself with such matters. Still, should the authorities learn too much of my operation, they may make things difficult for me.” His eye twitched in a wink. “So, perhaps, be discreet about who brings you to Issylra’s shores.”

“Of course,” said Sasha. “From the sound of it, doing otherwise would only hurt us.”

“True, true.” Salesa nodded. “When I take passengers, I tend to favor those who understand the importance of secrets and caution.”

The slight emphasis on the last few words stuck in Tim’s brain, loaded with more meaning than Salesa was letting on. “We told you what we know about your business,” he said, after a moment to gather his nerve. “How about you tell us what you know about ours, hm?”

Salesa’s eyes lit up again, not with offense or derision, but with interest. “Fair enough,” he said. “You want to know about the Wandering Eye?”

“We want to know what you know,” Sasha added. “Could be about the Eye, could be about us in general. Are people saying anything interesting about us, besides what you mentioned before?”

“It is interesting enough, is it not?” Salesa said with a smile. “To survive so many dangers, while a fledgling god of fear wanders the planes and watches your every move, lending aid when it sees fit? Or so the stories say.”

“You sound awfully happy about it, considering you said it made us a risk,” Sasha pointed out.

“If nothing else, a risk makes things interesting,” Salesa replied. “Every one of you is a risk in your own way. You two, with your feud with the Clasp. Your cleric friend and his god. You even travel with Mary Keay’s only child.”

Tim stiffened, and Sasha drew in a sharp breath.

“Yes, I know of her as well,” Salesa went on. “I will admit, I was a little alarmed when I met your friend. I had heard that Mary Keay was dead, and yet her son has the look of someone fleeing.”

Even with Salesa eyeing them closely, Sasha couldn’t quite suppress a wince.

“He’s actually the least risk,” Tim offered. “He’s got a charm against scrying.”

Salesa nodded, looking somewhat mollified. “Well then, there is that.”

“So that’s it, then?” Sasha said. “You took a risk on us because we’re interesting?”

“That, and Mr. Blackwood made a good case,” said Salesa. “And… if I am honest, I am somewhat in your debt.”

“Wait, what?” Tim blurted out. “Why? How?”

“I deal with the Clasp from time to time,” Salesa said with a shrug. “Lee Rentoul is a prick, and a thorn in my side until recently. If nothing else satisfies you, then consider my help a repayment for stranding him in the Feywild.”

“We—” Sasha’s mouth snapped shut, then opened again. “We didn’t… really…”

Salesa glanced at her, then at Tim, noted their matching looks of discomfort. “Ah. An unfortunate accident, then.” After a moment, he shrugged again. “Oh, well. It’s the result that counts.”

It wasn’t even a real illness, and in some ways that was the worst part. Besides the embarrassment of it all—being on a ship full of seasoned sailors, and Sasha who’d traveled by sea since childhood, and Martin who stepped onto the ship and not once seemed bothered—he couldn’t even have the mercy of being sick enough to stop feeling things. It wore him out and kept him awake at the same time.

He’d managed to eat a few times, though with how often it came back up again, Gerry wasn’t sure if any of them really counted. The only thing he could keep down with any consistency was water and tea, and even that was dicey. Every time he thought he’d gotten used to the rocking, the ship would hit another big wave and set his stomach churning all over again.

So here he was, stuck on the bottom bunk with a bucket in easy reach, while Martin hovered and Tim made bad jokes and Sasha looked at him like she was half-convinced seasickness was catching.

He almost missed the brief hour or so at the beginning, when she’d thought it was funny.

Light footsteps alerted him to Martin’s return. He knew it was Martin because Tim didn’t soften his steps like that and Sasha didn’t come in at all if she could help it.

“Were you sick while I was out?” he asked, and Gerry wanted to laugh. He hadn’t stopped feeling sick since the boat first left Emon. But that wasn’t what Martin was asking.

“Came close, but no,” he replied. His stomach had settled for the moment, enough that he felt he could talk without risking it.

Martin glanced at the bucket, as if he thought Gerry might be lying about it. “Think you can sleep a bit?”

“Dunno,” Gerry mumbled into the pillow. “Every time I think I might, I start getting nauseous.”

“Well, I brought chamomile this time,” said Martin. “Should help you sleep. Would you like some?”

Feeling bold, Gerry managed to sit up. “Sure, I’ll try anything at this point.” Martin pushed the cup into his hands, and he sipped at it gingerly while Martin’s hands hovered, as if to make sure he didn’t drop it.

Gods, he was seasick, not an invalid.

There wasn’t much in the cup; it was probably half Martin’s usual serving. Gerry passed the cup back over and curled up again, relieved when the ache in his stomach only kicked up a little.

“Sorry about this,” he sighed, as exhaustion and probably a bit of hunger sent him drifting.

“Don’t be sorry.” Martin’s voice sounded distant. “Just sleep.”

Eventually he managed to drift off. His dreams were jumbled, not the vivid visions that sometimes crept up on him if he wasn’t careful. His mother’s face flashed across it from time to time, but otherwise it was a mess of shadows and shapes, vague feelings, and the usual multitude of staring eyes.

Even his sleeping mind found that a bit distasteful. What was there to even look at? Was the Eye so starved for suffering that this was feeding it?

Gerry dozed and woke again, as uncountable hours passed. He drank water when it was offered, forced himself to pick at the bland, inoffensive food Martin offered, and tried to keep both down afterward. All the while, the rocking continued, and his misery plateaued but did not improve.

At some point he opened his eyes and found the other beds occupied. Across the way, Tim was fast asleep and snoring faintly below, and Sasha’s limp tail hung over the side of her bunk above. Even in the dark, Gerry could see the end of it twitching in her sleep.

He barely had time to register all of this when a wave tilted the ship from side to side. Nausea washed over him, sending him reaching for the bucket on pure instinct. Resigned, he tried to at least keep quiet. There wasn’t much for him to bring up.

His had swam by the time it subsided, and he was ready to lie back down again when a cup of water was pushed into his hand. Grimacing, he rinsed and sipped at it until it was empty. He barely had time to wonder what to do with the empty cup before it was taken from him without a word.

The bed beneath him had stopped being comfortable partway through the first day, but he lay back anyway, took a deep breath, and resigned himself to another wretched night of this. Probably another day beyond that. Maybe it wouldn’t stop until the others dragged him off the boat and back onto dry land.

Soft padding footsteps returned. Newly emptied, the bucket was set down with a quiet thud. Moments later, the bed above him creaked as its occupant climbed back in. For a while, Gerry lay in silence and heard nothing but Tim’s faint snoring and the waves lapping against the hull.

And then, from the darkness above, a song.

He didn’t recognize the tune, and was too muzzy to make out the words. Neither surprised him; he was too sleep-deprived and nauseous to be much use for anything, and… well, if Mum or her acquaintances ever hummed while they worked, it never sounded like this.

Sometimes he thought he had memories of being sung to sleep. Not Mum—someone else. He liked to think they weren’t just imagined.

But right here, right now, someone was singing, and it was coming from above him so it must have been Martin again. Somewhere in his muddled brain he understood that it was special. Martin didn’t do it often, if ever. Last time—the only time, really—he’d thought they were asleep, hadn’t he. He’d stopped when he realized they weren’t.

Gerry shut his eyes and lay as still as he could. He didn’t want him to stop.

Another cresting wave rocked the ship again. He braced himself for the inevitable wave of nausea, felt the bile crawling up his throat—

And then the song sank in. It loosened the tightness in his throat, cutting through the tension in him until he sank down, down, into what little comfort the bed beneath him could offer.

…Truth be told, it was a bit more than he expected.

Magic, he thought distantly. Bardic magic. Someone had mentioned it, hadn’t they? That Martin was a bard at some point?

It enveloped him, lilting in time to the rocking of the Dorian, to the rise and fall of the waves that had tormented him since he first set foot on the ship. With the sickness finally settling, it was almost as much of a comfort as the singing was.

Guided by Martin’s soft singing, he sank into the depths of sleep, like submerging beneath the depths of a calm, dark sea. There was nothing beneath, not sickness or fear or anything but silent, comforting darkness. By the time the song finally released him, not even the Eye could disturb him with dreams.

The sun was almost blinding when Gerry finally ventured onto the deck for the first time. The glare was enough to make him scowl, less out of any real annoyance and more as an excuse to squint. His forehead ached already, and he’d only just come out.

There was a difference between being on deck and being below it, for all that it was the same ship on the same sea. Down in their windowless berth, curled up in his bunk with a blanket pulled over his head, he couldn’t see the way the ship moved with the rocking sea. But he was still aware of it, and powerless to do anything but rock with it.

“It’s the disconnect,” Martin had explained. “Your body feels motion, but your eyes can’t see it. That’s the main thing making you disoriented—well, that and the inner ear. Yes, the inner ear, it’s to do with fluids in your ears—look, I don’t remember the details so just take my word for it—”

The point was, staying below deck had probably made his seasickness worse. But being above it for the first time took some getting used to, as well. For one thing, he could very much see the rocking now, and the fact that his eyes were finally telling him the same thing his body was feeling didn’t make it any less disorienting.

The Eye leaned heavily on him, watching every unsteady step as he made his way past busy sailors to their designated safe spot on the aft deck. Once there, he felt its weighty attention turn to the surrounding sea. Rebelliously he kept his eyes fixed on the deck, before his patron’s will steered his line of sight up and out. He settled for staring at the horizon, and was relieved when the dizziness passed.

There was something oddly meditative about watching the horizon from the deck of a ship. He knew that, if he were to make a circuit of the entire ship, following the railing around and around until he reached his starting point again, he would see nothing but that same straight line, splitting sky and sea. No part of the horizon yielded any sign of land. Solid ground was far out of reach in every direction, especially down.

On some level he grasped the terror of it. But here and now, leaning against the rail and watching the distant, unmoving horizon, fear felt distant.

“Beautiful, is it not?” He hadn’t heard Salesa’s footfalls as he approached. “That view never gets old. You should see it from the crow’s nest—nothing but that infinite plain in every direction.”

“Sounds like an offer,” Gerry replied.

“Perhaps. Interested?”

“Pass,” Gerry said flatly. He’d just gotten used to existing on a boat without having to crawl around on riggings or grapple with heights. Thank you, but no.

“It is not for everyone, I suppose,” Salesa conceded, resting his forearms on the railing. Every time he shifted, it left a smear of water on the smooth wood. “It is good to see you up and about. We were worried, those first few days.”

Gerry hummed in vague acknowledgment before all the words sank in. “Who’s we?” he asked.

“Myself. Your friends. A couple of the crew—Floyd asked after you.”

Gerry wracked his brain for any memory of a Floyd, and came up empty. “Thanks for the concern, I guess. But, like we've already told them, it wasn’t a big deal. Not like I was dying. Just seasick.” Honestly, the other three had been a bit ridiculous when he got up that morning.

“There are still dangers—dehydration, poor nutrition,” Salesa pointed out. “And, I get the impression your friends don’t like to see you suffer.”

“Right,” Gerry forced out past the growing lump in his throat. “That too.”

The two of them watched the sea for a minute, and then another, as the awkwardness of standing in silence with a virtual stranger gradually passed. Once it felt safer, Gerry sneaked a glance at him and marveled at his silent approach. Mikaele Salesa was a big man, broad and muscular and plenty heavy enough to make noise when he walked. And yet Gerry hadn’t heard a thing.

He wasn’t quite sure what, exactly, Salesa did. Sure, he was a merchant, and one who bought goods from people who probably shouldn’t have had them in the first place, and sold them to more people who may or may not have been any better. Gerry wasn’t sure whether that put him on the level of a common criminal, or someone who’d be right at home taking tea in Mum’s parlor.

Regardless—whatever it was he did, Gerry was sure he was good at it. Whether that was good or bad for them…

“I can feel your questions burning all the way over here,” Salesa said blithely. “Go on, I have time if you need to unburden yourself.”

Gerry frowned. “Don’t you have a whole ship that needs captaining?”

“Always. It is a good thing, then, that I am not the captain.” Salesa grinned at him. “As a sailor, I am well enough. But my talents lie in business. The Dorian is my ship for all intents and purposes, and her crew and captain follow me, because they know that I will lead them to money.”

“Must have a lot of time on your hands,” Gerry remarked. “For—what? Chatting up passengers and scheming?”

“Among other things.” Salesa’s grin crooked to the right a bit. “But that is not your real question, is it?”

Gerry ground his teeth, hating that he was so easily read—if Salesa wasn’t just bluffing on a guess. But he was right, that was the problem.

“Tim said you mentioned my mother,” he said, reluctantly.

Salesa, the bastard, didn’t even pretend to look surprised. “And there it is.”

“You said you know of her, according to him,” Gerry went on. “And that’s fine, plenty of people do. But you also said you heard she was dead, and a lot less people know that.”

“A secretive woman, your mother.”

“Add to that the nature of your business, and I have to wonder,” Gerry finished. “Did you actually know her? Personally?”

“Hmmm.” Salesa looked toward the sky with a thoughtful squint. “That is a difficult question—people like Mary Keay are difficult to know, personally or otherwise.” He chuckled when Gerry scowled at the non-answer. “For my part, I tried not to. But I will say that I have met her more than once, and done business with her as little as I could manage. I do not consider her a friend, nor a business partner, nor anything else that might worry you.”

Gerry relaxed, just a little.

“There was a time when I dealt in rare arcane books,” Salesa went on with a shrug. “Mary Keay was an enthusiastic buyer. I made a lot of money off of her.” He paused. “I no longer deal in rare arcane books, nor with her.”

In spite of himself, Gerry barked out a laugh. “Can’t say I blame you.”

“Let it not be said that I don’t learn from my mistakes.”

“Well, that’s how it is with Mum,” Gerry said dryly. “You learn fast or you die.”

Salesa hummed quietly, and they lapsed into silence again. This one didn’t last quite as long before Salesa broke it.

“Would you mind satisfying my curiosity?”

“Sure, if I can.”

“Is Mary Keay dead?”

Gerry’s hand flexed involuntarily, nails digging divots into the wooden railing beneath it. “You know, I could’ve sworn she was,” he said, swallowing against the phantom taste of blood and ash at the back of his throat. “Guess it didn’t take.”

“Ahh.” Salesa closed his eyes, both looking and sounding disappointed. Gerry didn’t blame him at all. “The perils of the arcane, I suppose.”

Gerry grimaced and didn’t answer.

Without warning, Salesa’s large hand came around to clap him on the shoulder. “Take good care of that amulet,” he said. “And thank you for not leading her to my ship. Gods forbid she remember me as someone useful.”

Gerry tried to smirk, but with his teeth gritted and bared, he wasn’t sure how it came off. “She won’t hear about you from me.”

Salesa grinned back as he turned away. “Thank you, Gerard.”

“It’s Gerry,” he called after him.

Salesa left, and his—companions? allies? friends?—took his place within moments. Whether they’d been waiting for Salesa to leave, or Salesa had left when he saw them approach, Gerry wasn’t sure.

“Still up and about, then?” Tim asked, slumping over the railing beside him. “Has the danger passed?”

“For now,” Gerry replied. “If we hit a storm, I’m fucked.”

“Well, you’re fucked then,” Sasha said, almost cheerily.

Gerry tried not to feel the wave of fear that rose up in response. He’d found that if he acknowledged it, it only made him sicker.

“So what did Salesa want?” Martin asked, and if he was changing the subject on purpose than Gerry was enormously grateful.

“Small talk, I think,” Gerry answered. “Or, what passes for small talk, with a man like him.”

Tim’s elbow came to rest on Gerry’s shoulder, and Gerry managed to not shrug him off on instinct. “I’m a bit hurt, if I’m honest, after hearing that last bit,” Tim said with an overdramatic sigh.

Gerry frowned. “What last bit?”

“He means the part where you told Salesa to call you Gerry,” Sasha explained helpfully.

“What about it?”

“I thought that was our special nickname for you,” Tim lamented, leaning like he was trying to tip him over.

Gerry shot a helpless look at Martin, who shrugged. “It did feel a little special when you told us to call you that.”

“A proper friendship milestone,” Sasha added.

“Oh. Well, uh, I guess it sort of is? Er, was.” Gerry shifted his stance so that Tim’s friendly lean didn’t send him swaying. “I didn’t think you’d read that much into it, to be honest.”

“It did seem important to you,” Martin said quietly.

“It is.” Something rose within him, not bile like he’d come to expect on the ship, but a strange tightness that traveled up from his chest to his throat. “It really is.” He shrugged, as best he could with Tim occupying one shoulder. “I think I said before that the people who call me Gerard are my mum and the people who only know me for my mum.”

“You did,” said Sasha.

“Well, whatever they think I am, I definitely don’t want to be,” Gerry said firmly. “And you all don’t seem to mind about her, so…” His voice trailed off, and he cracked an embarrassed grin. “Sorry. Probably doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“No, it does,” Martin replied, with a strange weight to his tone. “My mum never called me the name I wanted, either.”

Gerry blinked at him, shocked. He couldn’t remember Martin mentioning family or a mother to him before.

“Well, that’s heartless,” Sasha sniffed, making Martin wince.

“She was stubborn about a lot of things,” he said. “And it’s not like she called me the wrong name or anything, she just sort of… stopped calling me anything, I guess?”

Sasha wrinkled her nose, an expression that Tim mirrored. “Yeah, that’s really not better,” he said distastefully.

Martin shrank a little against the deck’s railing. “There’s no point in getting angry on my behalf,” he muttered. “She died years ago, and… gods, I hate saying this, but things did get better, for me. F-for a while, at least.” He shook his head, as if he was trying to dislodge the unwanted thoughts. “The point is, it’s in the past.”

Gerry nodded along. “Mine is too, if I have anything to say about it.”

“I reserve the right to want to fight both of your mothers,” Sasha said primly.

Gerry couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “Hope you don’t mind me praying to every god you don’t get that chance,” he said. “Well, for mine, at least. Do with Martin’s mum as you like.”

“No one’s fighting my mum,” Martin said in a long-suffering voice. “Passed away years ago, remember?”

“There’s spells for that, I hear,” Sasha said thoughtfully.

Martin let his forehead knock against the railing, and Gerry reached over to give him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. Beyond the aft deck where they stood, the rough, booming harmony of the crew singing rolled in to fill the silence.

Gerry listened, enjoying the way the voices rose and fell with each line of song. It took some getting used to, since he hadn’t heard much of it during his miserable first few days on the ship, but there was something strangely serene about a ship full of sailors singing to keep time as they worked.

Tim nudged Martin lightly. “Any chance we’ll hear you joining in, Mr. Bard?”

“Tim, I was a poet,” Martin sighed, with the exasperation of a tired argument.

“Martin, Martin, Martin,” Tim said patiently. “What’ll it take to convince you that we like your singing, too?”

“What do you mean, ‘too’?” Sasha teased. “Don’t tell me Martin’s shown you some of his poetry and not me—”

“I haven’t,” Martin assured her.

“We’ll come back to that,” said Tim. “But face it, Martin, you’ve got a nice voice and we’ve all heard it, right, Gerry?”

A few very recent memories sprang unbidden to the forefront of Gerry’s mind. “Best I’ve ever heard, that’s for sure,” he answered. Martin’s face was bright pink, which was fascinating on its own, but the way the color quickly spread to the tips of his ears made it a bit harder to categorize.

“Look, I’m not used to singing in front of other people,” Martin spluttered. “I’ve only ever done it for fun before, usually because—because someone else was doing it and insisted I join in. I haven’t done it in a while, and it’s—it’s just embarrassing, alright?”

“Alright, alright,” Tim conceded. “Just thought I’d ask.”

“Thank you,” Martin said, sagging a little with visible relief.

“We’ll just have to wake up early and catch you at it,” Gerry said, and watched appreciatively as the blush spread to Martin’s ears again.

“Did someone move my incense?” Martin asked.

“Mmf?” Gerry responded, face still pressed into his pillow.

From her bunk, Sasha looked up from the book she was curled around—borrowed with permission from Salesa’s stateroom—to see Martin digging around in one of their packs. Gerry was closest to him, mostly buried in blankets and making no move to get up and help. Tim was already asleep.

Sasha was about to wake him when her memory sparked. “Oh! Check the other bag,” she called down as quietly as she could. Martin reached for the nearest. “No, the other-other one.”

Eventually he grabbed the right bag, and found his bundle of incense sticks in the inner pocket where she’d left them. “Why are they in here?”

“You stuck them in the bag with the healing potions,” Sasha answered. “I figured you wouldn’t appreciate damp incense, if one of the bottles sprung a leak or something.”

He raised an eyebrow at her as he drew out a single incense stick. “I think if our potion bottles sprung a leak, the damp would be the least of our worries.”

Sasha chuckled. “Guess it would. What’s the occasion, by the way?”

“Just trying a spell.” Still seated on the floor, Martin lit the stick and placed it carefully in an incense holder—which, on second glance, proved to be a repurposed inkwell. Sasha had to wonder if gods could get offended about things like that. Especially the dark, evil ones. That, or they couldn't afford to be choosy.

The smell of burning incense reached her as Martin dug around in the original bag and withdrew his old leatherbound book. She’d seen him pull it out before when casting spells, and had always assumed it was some holy text of Ioun, but now…

“Does your Ceaseless Watcher even have holy texts?” she asked. “You mentioned it was new.”

Martin winced. “I did. And… not really?” He tapped a finger against the cover of the book. “This is mostly just making do with what I have, but it seems to work, so…”

“What is it?” Sasha asked.

“Old diary of mine,” Martin said, flipping through it. He selected a page and carefully tore it out.

“What’re you doing that for?”

“The spell requires an offering,” Martin replied, holding up the page against the twisting smoke. “And... this one likes secrets.”

He focused, and Sasha shifted uncomfortably beneath the sudden weight of unseen, unwanted attention. The page went up in green flames that consumed it entirely.

All at once the weight vanished, leaving Sasha blinking in a slight daze. Once the colored spots had left her she looked down to find a disappointed Martin putting his book away. Within less than a minute, the incense stick had burned down to nothing.

“I take it that didn’t work?”

“I’m still not strong enough to cast it,” Martin said with a shrug. “But I’m getting there.”

“Same spell as always?” Gerry asked, startling them both. Sasha had thought he’d fallen asleep already.

Martin recovered first. “Yeah, Divination,” he replied hesitantly, like he expected to get yelled at for it. “Let’s you ask the god a question directly.”

“And you’re sure you want to draw attention to yourself like that?” Gerry asked. By his tone, it sounded like a discussion they’d had before.

“I just…” Martin’s voice trailed off as he plucked the burnt-out incense stick out of the inkwell and flicked it into a corner of the room. “There’s too much I don’t know. I know the risks, but I have to try.”

“It is pretty weird,” Sasha remarked. “You, trying to get in direct contact with a dark god you’re trying to kill. But I guess if I were you, I’d want to try it too.”

“Sasha, why.” Oh. Tim was awake.

Sasha picked up her pillow and tossed it down at him. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t want to know what would happen.”

Tim caught it and threw it back. “Don’t project your suicidal curiosity on me. Martin, go to bed and stop trying to contact dark gods.”

With an exasperated sigh, Martin finished packing his things away. “Fine, fine.”

Even after the lights were put out and everyone was in bed, the air smelled sweet and spicy, not quite cinnamon but somewhere in the vicinity. Sasha fell asleep with the last traces of incense-smoke still lingering in the air.

Chapter Text

At noon, two-thirds of the way across the Ozmit Sea, the sky went black.

To be fair, they saw it coming. The crew saw it coming, at least. For the passengers, the looming, ominously dark clouds came too late to be a proper warning. Thick storm clouds blocked out the sunlight, the wind picked up, the rain began to fall, and the sea got rougher.

All at once, activity exploded on deck. Sailors ran to their posts and got to work, weaving amongst themselves with little room for error. Tim had never paid much attention to what the crew got up to, but now, with the sea getting rougher and their well-being now firmly in the crew’s hands, he couldn’t help but keep an eye out. Sailors swarmed the rigging, some of them climbing up to mess with the sails, others scrambling down to the relative safety of the deck.

A large wave sent Tim clinging to the railing for balance. Sasha managed to stay on her feet, but Martin was knocked flat on his face, and an alarmingly pale Gerry wound up down on one knee.

Beyond that, the majority of the crew were still on their feet and still rushing to their tasks with well-practiced efficiency.

“Should we… help…?” he asked hesitantly, even as Sasha gave him a dubious look.

“A very good thought, but no,” said Salesa, appearing without warning as usual. “I’m afraid you would only be in the way.” He smiled unwaveringly, even as the ship continued to pitch beneath them. “Leave this to us—you are in very capable hands. And, feel free to ride this out in my stateroom. The rocking should be the least severe there.”

It was phrased like an invitation, but Salesa—tall and broad and flawlessly balanced on the tilting deck—delivered it with the gentle firmness of a very polite order.

Without another word, Tim hauled Martin to his feet. Gerry staggered upright, and together the four of them made a break for Salesa’s cabin.

Once inside and out of the crew’s way, Tim let himself relax a bit. It didn’t quite sit well with him, sitting high and dry in Salesa’s nice cabin in the middle of all of this, but it made more sense than tripping up the actual sailors outside.

Sasha threw herself into the comfiest chair available, draped her tail neatly over the arm, and stretched comfortably. “Awfully nice of Salesa to lend us his room for the evening.”

“It’s barely noon,” Martin reminded her, almost falling into his own seat when the ship rocked again. With a grim look, Gerry dragged a chair to the cabin’s only window and planted himself there to stare out at the increasingly choppy ocean.

“You alright?” Sasha asked worriedly.

“I hate this,” Gerry said tersely. “So I’m just gonna sit here and try to look at the horizon so I don’t puke on Salesa’s nice rug.”

“Will that even help?” Tim asked dubiously. “The horizon’s a bit…”

“Wiggly,” Sasha offered.

“Guess we’re about to find out!” Gerry forced a strained grin. “Anything you can do, Martin? Could’ve sworn I heard somewhere that clerics can control the weather.”

“Gerry, that’s one of the most powerful spells that’s theoretically in my wheelhouse,” Martin informed him gently. “And I think we already established I’m not even strong enough to ask a bloody question.”

“Ah, well, worth a shot.”

The storm wore on, muffled within the shelter of Salesa’s stateroom but ever-present and inescapable. Winds howled outside, mingling with the distant shouts of the crew. The timbers creaked with each rise and fall of the ship. Beneath it, Tim could almost hear something else—a constant, dull roar that never seemed to end, while thunder and rain and wind and groaning wood came and went.

He wondered if that was the sound of the ocean itself.

“So,” Martin spoke up suddenly, breaking the silence—if there could even be silence in the midst of a storm. He had his Message stone out again, like he always did when he needed something to do with his hands. “Have—have you two given any thought to what you’ll do, once you get to Vasselheim?”

“Won’t know for sure until we get there, will we?” Tim said with a shrug. “Not like I’ve ever been to Vasselheim before.”

“Salesa said there’s a monster-hunting guild,” said Sasha, and Tim looked at her sharply. “Seems worth looking into.”

“Wait, when?” Tim asked. “When did he tell you that?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t spend every second with you. I caught him in a chatty mood.”

“When isn’t he in a chatty mood,” Gerry muttered.

“Basically we’re still open to suggestions,” Tim said with a shrug. “I mean, Martin, you’ve got friends there. What do they do?”

Sasha flopped over in her seat. “Haven’t we asked him that yet?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Gods. Can’t believe I’ve never asked, I ask everyone about everything.” Sasha sat up. “Better late than never. So, Martin, what do a monk and a paladin get up to in Vasselheim?”

“And a wizard,” Gerry added, without turning his head from the window.

“Oh right! Can’t forget the wizard.” Sasha cracked a grin. “We’ve got loads of time, looks like. No better pastime than good old-fashioned gossip.”

Martin looked a little wide-eyed, like he hadn’t expected the conversation to go in this direction. “Um, gossip? I can’t really—I mean, I haven’t seen them in over a year.”

“You write, though, don’t you?” Tim asked.

“Not—not really, no.”

“Why not?” Sasha asked.

Martin shrugged, firmly avoiding their eyes. “Dunno. Didn’t think they’d want to hear from me, if I’m being honest. I’m not really—I’m not the best company.”

“Oh bullshit,” Tim blurted out, because honestly. “When you’re not chucking axes and calling on your scary god, you’re… I mean.” He gestured at him vaguely.

“Very pleasant, actually,” Sasha finished for him.

“You ooze pleasant out of every orifice,” Gerry agreed.

Martin gave a brief, wry grin. “And as long as we’re talking about scary gods giving me magic, remember one of them is a paladin?”

Sasha winced. “Oh. Yeah, I can see how that might make things awkward.”

“Right. So, like I said, it’s been a while.” Martin took a deep breath and let it out. “I haven’t wondered about it much. They were sort of vague on what they were planning when they left. But Vasselheim’s got the Cobalt Vault and the Platinum Sanctuary, so it’s not like Melanie and Georgie wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

“And Jon?” Sasha asked.

“Jon’s…” Martin took another deep breath, though this one looked and sounded a bit more like a proper sigh. “Jon’s a scholar, more than anything else, and Vasselheim’s the oldest living city in the world. He could set up in the Cobalt Vault and never leave.”

The Cobalt Vault, to Tim’s limited knowledge, was one of the biggest repositories of information in the world. Strongholds of the Cobalt Soul tended to wind up that way. Between that and the monster hunting guild…

Well, he had options. Either one of those could put him one step closer to that theatre in the Feywild.

“I don’t think we’ll have any problems when we get there,” he said, keeping his tone carefully light. “You worry about yourself, Martin.”

Martin nodded, with another brief and thin smile. “Always do.”

Sasha snorted. “I’ll believe that when you stop lunging for the nearest teakettle whenever someone’s upset.”

The sky remained dark gray throughout the storm, and by the time it finally abated, the sun had already set. The last dregs of daylight lingered in faint streaks of orange and pink and dark purple, enhanced by the remaining clouds.

The door to the stateroom was flung open, and Salesa came striding in looking extra-damp, bedraggled, and weary. “The worst is past,” he announced. “Thank you for your patience, please leave.”

Gerry was the first to dart back out to the deck for fresh air, narrowly beating Sasha. When he looked back, Martin and Tim were following at a more sedate pace.

The air still felt charged, thick with the smell of rain and lightning. The deck was drenched, as was everything and everyone on it, but the flurry of efficient but frantic energy had died down to normalcy once more. Heavy clouds still hung in the sky, but now they loomed toward the stern as the Dorian drifted further away.

“Should be smooth for a while.” Gerry hadn’t been introduced to the entire crew, but Floyd Matharu paused to chat often enough for Gerry to recognize him easily. “Bad timing, though.”

Gerry shot a glance at Sasha, who looked just as confused by the comment as he felt. “How do you mean?” she asked.

“You never know what’ll happen, with storms,” the sailor explained. “That one blew us off course. Unless we change our route, it’ll take a few extra days to get to Shorecombe.”

“Huh. Good to know.” Sasha gave the man a grin. “Thanks, Floyd.”

“Welcome.” He moved off, clearly busy, and Gerry jogged the rest of the way to their usual spot on the aft deck. His queasiness wasn’t gone by any means, but at least it had somewhat settled. With the edge of the storm behind them, the ship pitched and rocked more than usual, but it was bearable. Gerry doubted he would ever enjoy sea travel the way Sasha seemed to, but at least he was getting used to it.

Only Sasha and Tim joined him at the railing; Martin was nowhere to be found. Tim, seeing his questioning look, jerked his head toward the hatch that led below deck. “He went down to the bunks. I think he’s ready to turn in.”

“Poor man,” Sasha said quietly. “How’d he look?”

“Less queasy than Gerry.”

“Not like that’s hard,” Gerry muttered. “And Martin hasn’t been seasick at all.”

“I know,” Tim sighed. “Lucky bastard. Must be all that tea he drinks. He’s more chamomile than man.”

“That, or he was lying when he said he’s never been on a ship before,” Sasha said thoughtfully, and Tim threw back his head and groaned.

“Seriously? You think he would?” When Sasha didn’t answer, Tim nudged her. “No, really. I know he lied about at least have the things he told us when we met him, and—let’s be honest, he’s probably still hiding plenty more—”

Coming to Martin’s defense was a habit that was gradually morphing into an instinct. Gerry started to disagree, then thought better of it a moment too late.

“I’m serious,” Tim went on, looking pointedly at Gerry as he spoke. “We’ve been traveling together for weeks without him saying one word about Elias Bouchard summoning dark gods, and then Salesa puts on a little pressure and out it comes.” He shook his head. “Not the point. The point is, despite that, I can’t think of any good reason why he’d want to lie about being on a boat before.”

“Well maybe there isn’t one,” Gerry said simply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gerry shrugged, keeping his eyes on the water. “I’ve lied plenty. I like to think I’m good at it. Probably wouldn’t have lived this long if I wasn’t. But, once in a while, for no reason at all, someone will ask me a question that doesn’t matter, and I’ll lie.”

“What for?” Sasha asked.

“Just said it’s for no reason, didn’t I?”

Unfortunately, they seemed to find his explanation less helpful than he’d hoped, and all it accomplished was a brief but very awkward silence. Gerry continued to watch the waves.

He was feeling better, at least. The fresh air was doing him good, for all that it was still thick and wet and charged from the storm. The waves had shrunk down to a more manageable bumpy ride, and the horizon was once more a steady straight line.

As Tim and Sasha went back to chatting beside him, Gerry tuned them out and cast his eyes upward, to the stars winking into view in the gaps between clouds. Still too cloudy to recognize constellations, which was a shame. Hopefully Salesa’s navigator didn’t need those stars or anything. He lowered his eyes back down to the waves, to the touch of silver from the moonlight reflected on the surface, shifting and scattering with each wave.

He prodded his pact-bond like a loose tooth, relieved when he found the Watcher’s gaze distant. He was feeling alright so far, and the Watcher paid the closest attention when he was rattled or in danger. It probably fed on that, which didn’t surprise him. That was part of the pact, after all—he’d suffer for his choice, and no one else. It could feed off him all it liked, as long as it didn’t try to take sips from Tim or Sasha.

Martin, too, he thought with a jolt. Martin was lucky so far; Martin had somehow slipped beneath its attention all this time, instead of having each of his most desperate moments scrutinized. And that was fine by him. The more the Eye focused on him, the more freedom Martin had.

Movement drew his eyes downward. He usually tried not to look straight over the side of the ship—in the beginning, that was how the seasickness had started. But now he risked a quick look, just in time to spot a dark, shifting shape beneath the water. A whale, probably. Curious, Gerry leaned further and squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature. Sasha had probably seen loads of whales before, but Tim might appreciate it. Shame Martin hadn’t stayed up here with them.

He caught sight of it again—massive, but smooth and streamlined as it moved beneath the ship, drifting closer to the surface—

In a split second of blind, unreasonable panic, Gerry flung himself backward and away from the railing. Fear hit like a javelin through the chest, snatching the breath from his lungs as it drove him backward. A long, dark shape appeared over the railing in a dark blur, and lashed out at the space where he’d been standing only seconds before. The tip of it curled over the railing and yanked, cracking the wood as it spattered the deck with saltwater.

Sasha shrieked, grabbing Tim and yanking him back from the side of the ship. A second appendage whipped out from the water and latched onto the side of the ship, shifting as it began to pull down.

No, Gerry realized with a jolt. It was pulling itself up.

Shouts of alarm rang out among the rest of the crew. Gerry turned to look. Daylight was almost entirely gone, but he could see the sheen of seawater running off gaunt, humanoid bodies as they climbed up over the railing and onto the deck.

“Watch out!” Sasha’s warning shout brought his attention back to the problem in front of them. Another figure crawled up the railing alongside the gripping tentacles, this time close enough for Gerry to see. A gaunt, crone-like face leered at them, framed in sodden hair the color of rotten seaweed.

Tim was the first to recover, drawing and swinging his short sword in a single fluid motion. The blade cut across the hag’s face, but the swing carried him within reach of her claws.

Gerry reached up to the space over his shoulder where his sword hilt usually hung. His hand met empty air—he’d left his sword leaning against his bunk. Why the fuck had he left his sword? He always kept his sword on him!

Thankfully his sword wasn’t the only weapon he had. He’d stolen a fireball wand from his mother’s stash when he first escaped, and he still had that on him. His aim was true; a streak of light shot from the tip and struck the sea-hag full in the chest, exploding in a ball of flame that knocked it back overboard.

Sasha stood by with a dagger drawn, eyes darting between the gripping, dragging tentacles, and the hatch that led down to the bunks. “Tim, where’s your bow?”

“Left it by my bunk,” Tim snapped, before reaching out and seizing Gerry by the arm. Magic sparked in his grip, passing between the two of them until Gerry’s blood hummed with it. “Get downstairs,” Tim told him. “Grab our weapons and get Martin up here. And whatever you do, don’t trip.”

“Don’t what?”

“Go!” Tim barked, and Gerry turned and ran for the hatch.

He almost fell flat on his face after three steps, when those three steps carried him faster and farther than he’d ever managed to run before. The Eye’s attention seared into the back of his neck as he dodged around sailors rushing into the fight and threw himself down the stairs. Magic coursed through him, driving him onward and downward with otherwise impossible speed.

Reaching their bunks, he found Martin on his feet and looking concerned. “I was just about to come—up,” he said, as Gerry rushed past him to grab his sword. “Did someone cast a Haste spell on you? What’s going on?”

“Longstrider, actually,” Gerry replied distractedly. Tim’s quiver hung from the corner of his bed; his bow leaned against the bottom bunk alongside Sasha’s rapier. “Ship’s under attack. Grab Tim’s stuff, will you?”

“Under attack by what?” Martin demanded, struggling to keep up.

Gerry reached back to pull him along. “Sea hags, probably. And something else—maybe a kraken? I think?”

If Martin had an answer for that, Gerry didn’t catch it. The two of them had reached the top of the steps, and the deck beyond swarmed with Salesa’s crew, every one of them armed to the teeth against the wet, seaweed-slick bodies crawling onto the ship from the water below. He’d been partially right before; sea hags were scattered among the invading force. But the rest, the bulk of them, were more fishlike in appearance. A few of them had long tentacles sprouting from their heads and shoulders, their faces split open into wide lamprey mouths that bristled with teeth.

Screams rang out—not from the crew, but from the creatures themselves. As Gerry watched, a handful of sailors went down clawing at their ears.

Deep scions, he thought—he Knew.

There had to be dozens of the things, not enough to outnumber the crew, but in the dark and chaos of the rocking ship, the sailors were struggling. One man stood by the starboard railing, cutlass drawn to keep more from climbing aboard. Gerry’s eyes passed over him just in time to see him lean out too far. In a split second, a harpoon punched through his chest. The screaming sailor grabbed for the railing and missed, and was dragged overboard before anyone could reach him.

Sea hags don’t use harpoons. Merfolk? No, merfolk hate deep scions and steer clear of kraken . Must be a merrow, there are merrows picking us off from the water—

Familiar fear lanced through him, the closest the Eye ever got to screaming in his ear. Martin grabbed his arm, fingers digging into his bicep, until Gerry looked to him and followed his gaze.

Tim and Sasha still stood on the aft deck, the former with his sword drawn, the latter glowing with fresh magic. A small handful of men stood near them, all facing the stern.

The creature that climbed over the stern was the stuff of nightmares. Half of its body was built like a massive fish, its spiked head flanked by two massive fins, armored and jagged enough to dig into the wood on the deck. But the rest of it, splitting and sprouting from the base of its tail, was a squirming, grasping mass of dark, dripping tentacles. As Gerry watched, Tim swung at one of them hard enough to cut into the thickly-scaled flesh. The tentacle flicked backward, but the monster as a whole barely flinched.

Gerry reached them with Martin a few steps behind, nearly throwing Sasha’s rapier at her. In an instant his sword was out, the piercing heat of the Watcher’s attention setting it aglow. Gerry swung, and the glowing blade cut clean through the nearest tentacle.

This time, the monster screamed.

In a fit of boldness Gerry almost charged again, but Tim caught him and held him back.

“Don’t,” he warned, and pointed with his short sword. “See where I scored the deck there?” Gerry caught sight of the gouge in the wood and nodded. “Beyond that point, the whole stern’s trapped within hidden spikes. Hoping that might slow it down.”

“It won’t,” Gerry said wearily.

Tim set his jaw grimly. “Then hopefully it’ll hurt it anyway. Do you have any bright ideas?”

At that moment, Martin caught up and pushed Tim’s bow and quiver into his waiting hands. “Here. Can you keep an eye on our backs while we deal with this thing? The deck’s crawling with sea hags.”

Tim actually growled at that as he sheathed his sword to take them from him. “Yeah, I noticed.” He strung his bow in a single fluid motion, then nocked an arrow and shot the nearest one.

“Don’t get to close to the sides!” Gerry called out, loud enough for the nearest sailors to hear. As if on cue, a harpoon skimmed off the top of the railing, narrowly missing one of them. She sprang back, spitting curses as the harpoon was yanked back down to the water.

He focused back on the kraken. It was still coming toward them, pulling itself further onto the ship with its front fins. It took a moment for Gerry to realize that the wet trail it left behind was too dark to be water. The thing was bleeding from a multitude of cuts, all of them opening on its belly and tentacles and the undersides of its fins. With every movement it thrashed and snarled in pain, but it neither stopped nor slowed. One of its bleeding tentacles shifted within reach, and Gerry swung at it twice, nearly severing it even without any magic behind the attack.

When the tentacle withdrew, Sasha sprang into the space it left, hand blazing as she aimed magic missiles at its eyes. By Gerry’s reckoning, it only made the thing even angrier.

“Maybe a kraken, I think,” Martin muttered just loud enough to be heard. Gerry got the distinct impression that he was being mocked.

“I only saw one tentacle before I had to run down and find you,” he groused. “Could’ve been a squid for all I knew. And it’s a lot smaller than I would’ve expected.”

Tim stared at him like he was crazy. “What the hell do you mean smaller?” he demanded. “Look at the size of that fucking thing!”

Another tentacle swung out at him, and he sprang to the side to avoid it. His dodge took him closer to the railing, well within range of the harpoon that shot over the side. Before Gerry could shout a warning, the spear grazed Tim’s shoulder, then clanged off the curved blade of the sword in Salesa’s hands. Moments later, when a deep scion’s face appeared over the railing, Salesa ran it through.

“This is a juvenile, I should think,” he remarked, nodding to the kraken. His sword hung from one hand, already well-spattered with dark, greenish-black blood. “If it were full grown, we would not be standing on a ship anymore.” He swung at the nearest tentacle, grimacing when he barely cut it halfway. “Much as I would love to help, there isn’t much I can do against a kraken. I will send you what spellcasters I can spare.”

“What do you mean spare—” Tim barked out, but Salesa was already gone.

The smell of ozone filled the air, now familiar after the storm. The hairs on the back of Gerry’s neck rose, prickling as the charged air nearly paralyzed him. It wasn’t hard to determine the source. Lightning darted over the kraken’s scales, gathering together into a single bolt of spark-hot energy. Half blind from the brightness of it, Gerry looked to the creature’s face and found its dead-fish eyes staring straight at him.

He tried to dodge. He may as well have tried to avoid an actual lightning strike.

It struck like a red-hot battering ram. Gerry opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back, struggling to breath while the gaze of the Wandering Eye blazed down on him. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself halfway to a sitting position, where the first face he saw was Martin’s. His eyes were wide, his hands already glowing as he stepped toward Gerry with a healing spell at the ready.

“I’m fine!” Gerry yelled, even as his lungs and chest protested. “Keep fighting! Don’t let it any further onto the ship!”

It was a little late for that. The kraken was, more or less, on board. Whatever spell Tim had cast to make the deck more painful to walk on hadn’t slowed it down at all, and its bulk took up well over half the aft deck. It was injured and missing at least one tentacle, but it showed no sign of slowing its advance.

Adult kraken are known to attack ships small enough to drag underwater. The thought came to him unbidden—finally the Eye was being helpful.

But—but if that were true, then this didn’t make sense. This was a young one, not an adult. As big as it was, it wasn’t big enough to sink the Dorian with strength alone. So what was it doing? What did it want?

The air around Martin shimmered, and the spectral form of a giant axe materialized out of thin air beside him, glowing a faint and eerie green. Martin’s arm slashed through the air, swift and decisive, and the spectral axe swung into the kraken’s hide. It recoiled in pain, fins and tentacles slipping and—just for a moment—struggling to hold its body up. Its eyes flickered and rolled wildly, before settling back into dead-fish blankness, now focused on Martin.

Gerry climbed laboriously to his feet, just as a merrow, apparently impatient with attacking from the water, climbed over the railing with its harpoon clenched in its teeth and hurled itself at him. Gerry caught the jagged spear on his sword, gritting his teeth when the reverberations sent stinging pain lancing through his fingers.

Knowledge unfurled in his mind—merrows were slow and clumsy out of water, it had tried to catch him off guard to kill him, and with that failed, it was good as dead. In the end, he didn’t even need magic to end the fight, though he felt the Eye’s attention settling on him as he tugged his sword free from its body—calm and satisfied, like a contented cat.

An arrow whizzed past him, landing in the throat of a scion that was trying to sneak up on him. Gerry finished it off by pinning it to the deck like a fly on a board, then forced down the pain in his chest as he rejoined his friends.

One of Salesa’s sailors lay dead. Sasha was bleeding from one arm as she stepping over the body of a sea hag. Tim still bled from his harpoon wound, and Martin face was scratched from flying shrapnel. Before them, the kraken advanced. Behind them, so did the scions.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck,” Sasha chanted under her breath. Her eyes flickered back and forth between both threats.

“Gerry,” Tim gritted out. He was facing the oncoming force of behind them. “I don’t think I’m gonna be much use against that thing. Can you and Martin handle it?”

“Can we handle a kraken?” Gerry hissed back.

They weren’t alone, at least, True to his word, Salesa had sent them backup. One woman, eyes rimmed red with rage, held a battle axe in both hands. A man stood with steam rising from his hands, still hot from hurling fireballs.

Without another word, Tim set his back against Gerry’s, facing the scions while Gerry faced the kraken. After a moment’s hesitation, Sasha did the same for Martin.

“I’m nearly out of spells,” she said. “We’ll watch your backs. You two worry about the kraken.”

“Guess we don’t have much choice,” Gerry muttered.

He shot a glance at Martin, hoping for at least a commiserating look before they all hurled themselves to their deaths. But Martin didn’t even turn his head. He was facing forward, eyes fixed on the kraken before them as it pulled itself toward them, slow but unstoppable and huge. Martin’s face was eerily blank, his eyes glassy and far away—but they glowed, backlit with a faint tinge of green.

“Martin?” Gerry reached across.

His hand was inches form touching Martin’s shoulder when Martin shuddered and recoiled as if struck. In an instant his face cleared, and he steadied himself again with one backward step.

“Martin?” Gerry repeated, squeezing his arm. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t—I think—”

Another bright fireball from Salesa’s wizard cut him off. The kraken shrieked in pain, already gathering lightning into another bolt. Behind them, Tim and Sasha took on a scion between them.

Beneath Gerry’s grip, Martin was shaking. “I-I can hear it. The kraken. I can hear it.”

“What do you mean you can—”

“I mean I can hear it!” Martin snapped. “I don’t know what I did, I’ve never done it before, I just—I looked at it and I focused and I just—”

“Okay,” said Gerry. “What did you hear?”

“I couldn’t understand,” Martin said faintly. “It wasn’t a language I know. But there was a voice on top that—fuck!” He brought his hands up, magic shimmering into a shield—a second too late. The kraken’s lightning struck.

When Martin fell to his knees, Gerry didn’t think. He stood over him, sword in hand, blade blazing as it cut through another tentacle in two strikes. When the kraken recoiled, Gerry dropped to one knee beside him.

“It’s dominated,” Martin gritted out, teeth clenched in pain. “It’s not here because it wants to be, it’s here because someone sent it.”

Gerry stared at him blankly, speechless as the words sunk in and became his own thoughts. The kraken came because someone sent it. Someone dominated a fucking kraken.

That single thought brought the Watcher turning upon him again, and Gerry was lost to the horror and unstoppable certainty that it poured into him.

Elias Bouchard.

“What?” Martin’s eyes lit up.

Oh. He’d said that out loud. “Elias Bouchard sent it,” he repeated. His own voice sounded far away, but it didn’t waver. There was no room for doubt; if the Ceaseless Watcher said it was so, then it was so.

And then he saw it again—the greenish light behind Martin’s blue eyes, now sharpened by fury. Martin was pale, his face frozen and tight as he got to his feet. Nearby, a deep scion screamed in fury. The wizard collapsed, Sasha went rigid and still, and only the weight of the Watcher’s attention kept Gerry from following. But Martin stood tall, facing the kraken in all its ugly fury.

“Well,” Gerry heard him say quietly. “That changes things, doesn’t it.”

Beneath the thick scarf around his neck, his holy symbol blazed like a star.

When the spots cleared from Gerry’s vision, the light did not—not entirely, at least. It coalesced into points floating in the air, spread out but centered around Martin. Each point of light went from shapeless and blinding to solid, visible, and clear.

Concentric bands of light and wheels of fire hovered in the air, turning and rotating within each other as smoothly as clockwork. Wings unfurled from each one, first in pairs and then in multitudes, until each shape bristled with glowing feathers.

For a moment, they all stared—Gerry and Tim and Sasha and Martin, Salesa’s men, the attacking scions, even the kraken itself.

And then the eyes opened, on the bands and wheels, on the wings and feathers, within the light itself, and stared back.

A deep scion screamed again as the light tore into it. Burn wounds seared into the kraken, scales blackening and curling back to expose the raw flesh beneath. It lashed out in a rage, but its tentacle passed harmlessly through the glowing spirit and came out seared and smoldering with radiance.

Behind them, the deep scions backed off, injured and wary. Everywhere the light touched, it burned, except for their own party and Salesa’s crew.

“Holy shit,” Tim breathed.

“Martin?” said Sasha. Her rapier was in her left hand; her right arm was tucked against her side, dripping blood. “What exactly are these things?”

“Spirit guardians,” Martin said tightly. “…I think.”

“Haven’t seen you pull this off before,” Tim remarked.

“I don’t think I could, before.”

The kraken thrashed, rocking the ship in maddened pain. Its size was now a detriment; no matter how it twisted and struggled, it couldn’t escape the harsh light from Martin’s spell. Emboldened, the axe-wielding sailor took off another of its flailing tentacles, and the wizard loosed another fireball. Steam rose from the kraken’s eyes—from Martin’s spell or the wizard’s, Gerry couldn’t tell.

An idea came to him, half formed as if plucked out of thin air and placed in his head. He reached for his fireball wand again, and this time he aimed for the eyes.

The kraken screamed again, tossing its head from side to side as the flames dissipated. For a moment, the dead-fish blankness flickered again. Past the blood and steam and burned, ruined flesh, Gerry could swear he saw the glassy haze clear for good. For a split second, the creature looked almost confused.

And then its half-ruined eyes settled on Martin, still glowing at the center of his own spell. The second bolt of lightning hit him before Gerry could make a move.

He got behind him just in time to catch him before he fell, grasping Martin’s shoulder in an effort to steady him. For a split second he thought Martin was unconscious or worse, before he shuddered in Gerry’s grip and stumbled upright again. Tim left off keeping the deep scions at bay to catch Martin’s other shoulder. Healing magic raced from Tim’s fingertips to Martin’s many injuries, soothing burned skin beneath this scorched clothes.

As Martin’s concentration wavered, so did his summoned spirits. But after a moment, Martin drew himself back to his own too feet, and the spell held.

“How’re we looking?” Gerry asked.

“Not great,” was Tim’s grim reply. “I’m seeing a lot of dead scions, but we’ve lost some crew.”

“It’s impossible to keep more of the bastards from coming over when we can’t get too close to the sides,” Sasha complained. “And I’m out of spells.”

“How much more do you think it’ll take to kill that thing?” Tim asked, tossing his head at the kraken.

“Well, here’s some news,” Gerry said with forced calm. “I don’t think it’s dominated anymore.”

“And that’s… good?” Sasha asked.

“No,” Salesa’s wizard grunted. “Just means it’s killing us because it wants to.”

“Kraken are naturally aggressive.” Martin was wheezing slightly. “They’re not dumb animals, either—they prey on ships naturally—this one probably just needed a push.”

“Lucky it’s just a juvenile,” the wizard spat. “Why not send a big one and get the job done?”

Martin was either smiling or baring his teeth. “Probably because whoever sent it couldn’t pull it off.”

“Lucky us,” Tim said dryly.

“Watch out!” the axe-woman roared.

The ship shuddered again, deck planks cracking as the kraken heaved itself forward, teeth bared in the face of Martin’s summoned spirits. Its remaining tentacles whipped out in a frenzy.

Tim dodged out of the way. Sasha followed him, narrowly missing death or when a tentacle slammed down on the spot where she’d been standing. One of the kraken’s flailing limbs caught Gerry in the side, tossing him off his feet.

He landed and rolled with the impact, losing his grip on his sword. Years of habit had him rolling into a crouch and scanning his surrounding for the nearest creature that might try to kill him.

It was the only reason he saw Martin in that moment, diving out of the way only to be caught when one of the kraken’s tentacles whipped around his middle and hauled him into the air.

Gerry was up and running when, with an almost careless flick of its limb, the kraken flung Martin overboard and into the sea below.

He didn’t think—not about his dropped sword, nor about what it would mean. Mind blank with panic, Gerry raced to the side of the ship where Martin had vanished. The waters were already churning, the ship surrounded by dark, piscine bodies. Gerry searched the dark, foaming waters for any sign of Martin.

Instead, he locked eyes with a merrow that rose from beneath the surface, harpoon in hand. Moonlight glinted on the sharpened metal barb as it sailed through the air, heading straight for him.

He must have dodged or flinched, because it took him through the shoulder instead of the heart. The pain had barely hit when the merrow yanked on the line and dragged him over the side. Pure, instinctual panic had him grabbing the railing as he went over.

For a split second he hung there, mindless with agony, hanging by one arm as the harpoon dragged him toward the water and the waiting merrows and deep scions. Martin was already down there. Once the merrow pulled hard enough, Gerry would join him.

All things considered, this was a slight improvement on how he used to think his life would end. He’d always thought he was going to die alone.

And then, because it could never leave well enough alone, especially when he was brought low and suffering, the Wandering Eye settled upon him once more. Green fire burned through the opaque fog that muddled his thoughts, until all that was left was ice-cold fear and bright, unwanted clarity.

A dead man couldn’t fight. A corpse made a poor defender. The kraken was still there, the ship still swarmed with invaders from beneath the sea, Tim and Sasha were above him and Martin down below—

And Salesa would not care.

Salesa was a practical man. Salesa would protect what was his. Salesa would not protect them—not from this. Not with several of his crew already dead and lost.

And what do you fear most, now? the Ceaseless Watcher seemed to ask. What do you have to lose?

Moving his left arm was the most painful thing he had ever done. But he did move it, just enough to draw the fireball wand from his belt and point it down, at the harpoon’s line and whatever held the other end of it.

With a scream from below, the line went slack, just as Gerry’s fingers began to slip from the railing.

Two pairs of willing hands caught him before he could lose his grip. Sasha held on only until she was sure Tim had it handled, before turning to cover him as he pulled Gerry up.

Gerry cried out as the harpoon was pulled from his shoulder, before Tim replaced it with a healing hand.

“Did you see Martin?” he asked. Gerry didn’t reply, but from the look on Tim’s face, he understood anyway.

When Mikaele Salesa saw the cleric fall overboard, his first though was, Such a shame.

Martin Blackwood was an easy man to like. He seemed bright, and tenacious, and absolutely bursting with power and potential.

But Mikaele had known that this might happen. He had known that taking on any one servant of the Ceaseless Watcher would mean danger for him and his crew, much less two of them at once. And here, in the wake of a perfectly mundane storm, was that danger.

He understood it for what it was, of course—between the behavior of the kraken species, and the signs of domination in a beast of that size and nature. He had knowingly brought danger onto his ship, and his crew was already paying for it with their lives.

And as Martin Blackwood plummeted toward the ocean, followed closely by Mary Keay’s only son, he fervently hoped that it might mean the battle was over.

But it could never be that simple, could it?

He was pulling his blade free of the body of a deep scion when the air beside him shimmered, and a man dressed in raven feathers stepped out of the darkness itself. Without a word or a glance at Mikaele, he killed an oncoming sea hag with a dispassionate swing of his glaive.

Mikaele allowed himself a moment of bafflement. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to be surprised, in his line of work.

But he knew his manners, so he inclined his head respectfully and asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of the Raven Queen’s attention?”

The man’s eyes were deep and bottomless as he returned the nod. “Get Martin Blackwood out of the water, and I’ll help you fight.”

Short, clear, and to the point. Mikaele liked him already. Without a word of protest, he ran to the side of the ship, vaulted cleanly over the railing, and dove down beneath the waves.

Gerry had dragged himself to sit against the side of the ship, below the railing and out of reach of any more harpoons. Tim had healed most of the damage to his shoulder, but it still bled sluggishly and hurt to move. The wounded kraken stood between him and his dropped sword.

Tipping his head back, Gerry caught side of the moon, half-hidden and wrapped in a shroud of thick clouds. It would be dark soon, which felt appropriate for how things were going. Martin was gone, maybe already dead. That alone was enough to sharpen his teeth on rage. But when Martin went overboard, his spirits had vanished, and without their protection, the deep scions were already making their way back onto the aft deck. Within a minute, he, Tim, Sasha, and the few crew members unlucky enough to be there would be crushed between them and the oncoming kraken. Even with all its injuries, the thing was determined to kill everything on the ship. Any moment now, their luck would run out and one of them would get hurled to their death in the sea like Martin.

All the while as Gerry sank deeper into hopelessness, the press of the Watcher grew heavier.

“This what you wanted?” he hissed, not sure if it was listening, if it cared at all. It let Martin go without much of a fight—why would his death be any different?

His patron did not answer, not even with its usual scraps of useless knowledge. As always, it loomed over him as he toed the line of despair.

It always did like to watch him squirm.

Moonlight bled over the clouds. He had enough magic left in him for one last spell, but what good did that do? All his magic was good for was giving his sword an extra bite, and if he went for his sword now, he’d be dead before he got halfway there.

The kraken knocked Sasha to the edge of the aft deck. When Tim ran to help her, it lashed out again and plucked him off the deck. Gerry threw himself forward, falling back to one knee when his head swam from blood loss. His wand was out—how many more charges did it have?

He waited for it to throw Tim overboard. It didn’t. Instead, the tentacle dragged him in, pulling him close as its jaws opened wide to receive him. Panicked, Gerry threw another fireball at it, freeing Tim just long enough for Sasha to reach him and drag him to relative safety. The kraken tossed its head, recovered from the blast of fire, and slowly turned its furious gaze on Gerry. Its tentacles lashed out again as, slowly but surely, it began to drag itself toward him.

The Eye never blinked.

“Just gonna watch, then?” he spat under his breath. Why was he bothering? It didn’t care. All it ever did was watch.

The dregs of his magic twisted into a tight coil, ready to be unleashed, but with nowhere to go. How could he do anything? How could he stop a kraken with one arm, no weapon, and a patron that was happy to sit back and drink in his terror?

What was he even good for?

“This is what you want, is it?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “All the horror in the world, and you just sit up there and watch.”

The Watcher’s gaze burned into him, but that didn’t help. Gerry wasn’t the one who needed burning right now.

Overhead, the moon went out. The light simply vanished, swallowed up by clouds. Beneath it, the kraken roared as it bore down on him.

“You want horror?” Gerry snarled, pouring every last drop of magic and fury into each word. “Fine! Here it is! Take a good, long look.”

High above the ship, where the moon had once shone, the Eye opened.

The light that poured from it was pale and ghostly, silver tinged with green in a mockery of moonlight. It streamed down in a pillar, landing on the kraken’s battered scales. For a breath, nothing happened, and it was simply light.

Then the kraken thrashed and screamed, seconds before it burst into silver-green flames.

The cleric was still awake enough to struggle when Mikaele spotted him, standing out in the light of radiant flames that burned the merrow nearest to him. By the time Mikaele reached him, Blackwood had gone limp, the waters around him running dark with blood.

Mikaele struck the merrow holding him with the force of a shark. It was already injured from Blackwood’s efforts, and it hadn’t seen him coming; killing it was simplicity itself. When others turned upon him in a fury, Mikaele dove beneath the water and killed another before snatching their quarry out of their reach.

He broke the surface again, supporting Blackwood against his shoulder, to find the sky brighter than it had been last. When he turned his head up to look, he found the sky quite literally looking back. Judging by the roars and screams from the deck, and the distant flicker of ghostly fire, the kraken was not pleased with this development.

By the time he returned to the deck with his burden, pulled up on a line thrown by a helpful crewman, the deck was strewn with deep scion corpses. The Raven Queen’s emissary stood among them, his glaive resting comfortably against his shoulder. He caught sight of Mikaele, and of Blackwood, and nodded his approval.

On the other end of the ship, the kraken thrashed and struggled, lashing out in pain and fury, forcing everyone in range to dive for cover. Slowly, the Raven Queen’s emissary stepped away from the bodies of the dead and walked across to where the kraken sprawled over the aft deck. A few surviving deep scions fled from his approach. Some were cut down by Mikaele’s own men. One dodged the kraken’s whipping tentacles and stumbled into the pillar of light, where it screamed as its piscine features were burned away, leaving its original human form to fall dead to the deck.

The emissary stepped onto the aft deck. Against the eerie pillar of light, Mikaele could nearly see the faint silhouette of dark, spreading wings.

The kraken froze as its injured eyes fell upon the point of pitch-blackness standing before it. With one last shuddering cry, it finally—finally—crawled back off of the deck and out of the pillar of burning light, dragged itself off the ship, and slipped back into the water.

Overhead, the Eye turned its burning gaze upon the merrows in the water. Mikaele tried not to smile at their screams.

Sasha couldn’t move.

The eye wasn’t even looking at her—it hadn’t looked at her at all, not really, not even when its light still touched the ship. It had looked at the kraken until it fled smoldering into the sea, and then it had turned upon the merrows in the water.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gerry list to the side and fall to the deck. Freedom returned to her limbs, and she ran to his side to check on him. She had only just reached him when the deck beneath her feet was bathed in pale light, throwing her shadow into stark relief.

She stopped. Tipped her head back. Stared up, up, and up into the unblinking Eye.

But she didn’t burn. It didn’t touch her in a way that mattered. It didn’t need to—all it did was fill her with the sudden terror of being Seen by a god, of being Known by some thing Unknowable, and that was enough to pin her to the spot.

A miniature eternity passed before, at long last, the Eye slid shut. The clouds broke overhead, and her heart seized when the light returned, only to relax again when she recognized the softer silver-white of moonlight.

“Sasha?” Tim was there. When had Tim gotten there? “Sasha are you alright? What’s wrong?” What did that mean? Why did he look so scared?

Sasha’s vision blurred when she blinked, and she realized then that she was crying—that she had been crying, and her face was already streaked and wet.

Below them, Gerry stirred.

“Still alive?” Tim’s voice only shook a little.

“Think so,” Gerry answered faintly. He rose halfway to his elbows, slowly and shakily like nothing in his body would obey. “Where’s—where’s Martin? Are the merrows gone? Did someone look for Martin?”

“I have him here,” Salesa announced, having made no sound whatsoever upon his approach—extra ridiculous since, true to his word, he was carrying Martin over one shoulder like a flour sack. And, flanking him at a distance—

“You again,” Sasha blurted out. The Raven Queen’s nameless messenger waved awkwardly, as Salesa knelt down and set Martin’s limp, sodden body on the deck.

“Thomas,” Tim said with a nod of greeting.

Blake returned it, along with a fleeting smile. “I’m afraid not. Try again.”

“I’ll get it eventually.”

Gerry had dragged himself up to his knees by the railing. “Is he okay?”

Martin didn’t look okay. His face was ghost-white, his lips blue from the cold sea. Icy seawater dripped from his soaked hair and clothes onto the deck, tinged pink and red with blood. Sasha felt the side of his throat and found a weak pulse.

“He isn’t dead yet,” Blake told them helpfully.

“Only unconscious,” Salesa agreed. “And quite injured. But his heart’s still beating. If any of you can manage a healing spell, I’d appreciate it if he could carry himself to your berth.”

A venomous look flashed across Gerry’s face, there and gone so quickly that Sasha almost missed it. “How’s your magic, Tim? I could run for one of our healing potions.”

“I’ve got at least one spell left in me.” Tim knelt down with a weary sigh of relief. His hand glowed faintly as he placed it on Martin’s chest.

Martin stirred as the spell was cast, eyelids flickering. They opened briefly, only to flutter and squeeze shut again as if staying open was painful. His chest steadily rose and fell, and some of the color returned to his face.

“I think he’ll be alright,” Tim said cautiously, and looked to Blake as if for confirmation.

“He’s in no danger.” Blake had relaxed visibly. “Thankfully, I won’t have to leave with him. I’d hate to have gone to the trouble for nothing.”

“What trouble?” Sasha asked.

Blake turned his head and nodded to the rest of the ship. Sasha followed his gaze to the bodies on the deck—many of them, nearly all deep scions and sea hags. Salesa’s crew was already busy piling them up and heaving them overboard with grim efficiency.

“You did all that?” Tim said dubiously.

“No,” Blake replied. “Just enough of it.” His eyes flickered in the dark. “I saw your merchant friend hesitate before rescuing him, so I provided incentive.”

“Why?” Gerry rasped out. He was crouched at Martin’s side, still injured, cradling his head to cushion it against the deck. “I mean—thanks for that. But what are you getting out of this? What do you want?”

“You have been pretty mysterious about that so far,” said Tim. “Helpful, mostly. But none of us know why.”

Blake sighed. “Things are complicated. I think you’ve all figured that out by now. Complicated, and dangerous, and much bigger than any of you.” His gaze settled on Martin again. “I’m cautiously optimistic about what he’s trying to do. If it’s possible, and he can pull it off, then we’ll all be better off. If it isn’t, then he could jeopardize the entire world by trying.”

If he’d said this the last time they met him, Sasha would have called bullshit or demanded an explanation. But with gods involved, and Martin explicitly trying to destroy one…

“I hate how much sense that makes,” Tim groaned.

“Like I said. Cautiously optimistic.” Blake’s eyes softened for a moment. “I want to believe he’s right. But things are still uncertain—especially with yet another rift opened.”

“Another?” Gerry said sharply. “Tonight?”

Blake nodded. “It’s what brought me—a young kraken and a small army of deep scions and sea hags, straight from the Elemental Plane of Water. It’s being taken care of,” he added. “They won’t trouble you again for the rest of the voyage.”

“Small mercies,” Tim sighed, then grinned ruefully at him. “Don’t suppose you could stick around until we dock, could you?”

“I can’t stay,” Blake replied, and Sasha could have sworn he sounded genuinely regretful. “There are limits to what I can do without showing my lady’s hand.”

She could no longer contain herself. “Does all of this have to do with the Ceaseless Watcher?” she asked, unable to contain herself. “And Elias Bouchard?”

At the name, Blake’s expression darkened again. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, it does. He has a lot to answer for.” He stepped away. “I have to go. Tend to your friend.”

“Wait,” Tim intercepted him before he could leave—however he meant to do that, on a ship in the middle of the sea. “You’re looking for Bouchard.”

“I am.” Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Have you met him?”

“In the Feywild,” Tim told him. “In the Verdant Expanse, like you warned us. He was having tea with—we think she was an Archfey? Her name was Angela. Old woman, lived in a cottage with jigsaws decorating the walls.”

Blake had gone still and intent. “You’re sure.”

“He didn’t do much, but he was there. Just in case you needed leads.”

A moment passed, then Blake reached out and gave Tim’s arm a light squeeze. “Thank you. And good luck.”

Before anyone could get another word out, Blake turned and vanished into thin air.

“Sure that was a good idea?” Sasha asked.

Tim shrugged. “Why not? Martin says Bouchard’s bad news. And if the Raven Queen’s out to get him, then he’s definitely bad news. I don’t mind ratting him out.” With that, he returned to Martin’s side and crouched down by him. “Right. Let’s get downstairs.”

Between Tim and Gerry, with Sasha keeping the path clear for them, they managed to help Martin to his feet. He leaned on them heavily all the way down to the safety of their berth, never speaking. Once there, he gently shrugged them all off and went to his bunk himself, where he set about peeling off his sodden layers while the rest of them readied themselves for sleep. He looked dead on his feet, and it didn’t surprise Sasha at all to look back and find him asleep in his shirt with his scarf still around his neck.

“Can’t believe that thing is still on him,” Tim remarked. “He got through a battle and a dip in the ocean without losing it.”

“Better take it off,” Gerry suggested. “Might make it easier for him to breathe.”

“Yeah, got it.” Carefully, Tim untangled the soaked scarf from around his neck, struggling a bit with the knot. He reached up to hang it to dry, turned back to Martin, and swore quietly under his breath.

Sasha looked up, potion in hand. “What’s wrong?”

“No wonder he wears that thing all the time,” Tim muttered. “Have a look.”

Sasha looked, bracing her hand against Gerry’s shoulder for a better view. Martin’s head was tipped back on the pillow. For the first time since Sasha met him, she could see Martin’s throat uncovered; he’d even taken off his holy symbol and stowed it away.

A jagged scar stretched from one side of his neck to the other, as if someone had taken a knife and tried to carve him a second mouth.

“Fuck,” Gerry whispered. His hand crept forward, as if he was about to reach out and touch. At the last minute he snatched it back to his side.

“So,” Tim said flatly. “How much do you want to bet there’s still a lot he hasn’t told us?”

Gerry glared at him. “He’s told us enough. He doesn’t have to tell us every little awful detail, and frankly, I don’t want to hear about it, especially if it means digging it out of him.”

“I’m just saying,” Tim grumbled. “The last time he hid something from us, we almost got slaughtered by fiends. And tonight, we almost got slaughtered by monsters from the deep. I think, after everything we’ve been through—”

“Not like you told us what it looked like when your brother died,” Gerry gritted out.

Sasha saw Tim’s eyes flash, and decided that was enough. Briskly, she pushed past both of them and uncorked the potion bottle with her teeth. “We can ask him tomorrow,” she said firmly, careful to step on Tim’s foot to keep him quiet. Lifting Martin’s head off the pillow, she carefully tipped the potion into Martin’s mouth. “And if he feels like sharing, he’ll share.” Tim, with his eyes still fixed on Gerry, opened his mouth to reply. “Tim. Fuck’s sake, he didn’t mean it that way.”

“How am I supposed to take that?” Tim snapped.

Gerry rolled his eyes. “I meant you’re being a hypocrite. None of us have demanded the gory details of your darkest memories, so don’t go complaining about Martin not opening up to you about the time he got his throat slit.”

Scowling, Tim looked away and didn’t argue further.

As the effects of the potion took hold, the color returned to Martin’s face, and his breathing eased. He stirred, with some difficulty beneath the encumbering blankets. His eyelids slowly opened halfway, then slid shut again. “What’s going on?” he asked, by Sasha’s best guess. His voice was so faint and slurred that it was hard to tell.

“Nothing,” Gerry replied. The harshness had vanished from his voice. “Everything’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

Martin hummed quietly in answer, and didn’t stir again for the rest of the night.

Gerry woke before the others the following morning, but remained in his bunk, lying awake and staring up at the wooden ceiling. The seasickness always threatened to rise again when he woke up, as if falling asleep made him extra-sensitive to the ship’s every movement. He was far better at adjusting than he had been in the first few days, but it still made for uncomfortable mornings.

In the bed below his, he heard Martin stir, and thought nothing of it until the wooden frame creaked. Turning over carefully, he peered over the edge of the top bunk to find Martin awake sitting up. He couldn’t see his face, only his tousled black hair, but he could guess by the angle of Martin’s arm that his hand was at his throat—still uncovered, with the scarf hanging to dry.

Martin turned his head, and their eyes met. Neither of them said a word. Martin did not explain himself, and Gerry did not ask.

And then Martin retrieved his drying jacket and slipped his hand into one of the pockets. Then the other. Then the first, again. From above, Gerry watched as he flew into a very subdued and silent panic.

The blankets were ripped up, the threadbare mattress flipped. Other pockets were checked—his trousers from the night before, his pouch, his rucksack, and his jacket again. He dropped to the floor to check beneath his bunk, then on the other side beneath Tim’s.

Without a word, he threw on his clothes, slipped into his shoes and his jacket, and left their berth. Gerry climbed down, careful not to wake the others, and paused just long enough to pull on his boots before following.

Martin kept his head down as he made his way through the ship, up the steps, and back to the upper decks. They were quiet this morning. Both sea and ship were calm; aside from those on watch duty, there wasn’t much work to be done just yet. And so, there was no one to hinder Martin as he slowly made his way back to the aft deck, and no one to hinder Gerry as he tailed him.

He watched Martin pace the deck for a few minutes, eyes glued to the wooden planks, still battered and stained from he previous night’s battle. Finally, the energy left him in a rush, and he came to a halt at a certain spot on the railing, where he settled down to watch the waves below.

Gerry didn’t need any input from the Eye to know that that was the spot where he’d fallen overboard last night. He couldn’t have forgotten it if he tried.

Minutes blurred together as Gerry watched the back of his head, dithering with indecision. Weeks ago he would have kept his distance or thrown Tim or Sasha at the problem, but things were different now, Tim and Sasha were still asleep, and Tim had gone to bed angry anyway. There was no one around but him.

Martin didn’t even twitch as Gerry cautiously approached. His arms were crossed at the top of the sturdy, solid wooden railing, eyes hooded against the spray. He’d left his scarf back on his bunk, and the scarred skin across his throat was perfectly visible, if Gerry tilted his head at the right angle. He did not; instead, Gerry leaned up beside him, shooting glances to see if Martin would look over at him. But Martin’s eyes never left the water.

“Morning,” said Gerry, for lack of anything better to say.

“I went over last night,” Martin said. “Who pulled me out?”

“Salesa,” Gerry answered, and was rewarded when Martin finally looked at him. He seemed surprised. It might have been a funny expression, if it weren’t for the way the angle of his head pulled at the scar beneath his chin. “Yeah, I didn’t think he would, either. He almost didn’t, but—you remember Blake?”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “The Raven Queen’s…”

“Mm-hm.” Gerry very determinedly focused on Martin’s eyes, not his scar. “Dunno exactly what he said to convince Salesa to dive in after you, but all the deep scions onboard were dead by the time he got you back up.” He hesitated. “Along with some of his crew.”

It couldn’t be helped, not in a battle like that. And Salesa had known the risks, and taken them on anyway. But it still stung.

“And Elias?” Martin asked.

“What about him?”

“You said he was the one who dominated the kraken. You’re sure?”

“The Eye told me,” Gerry replied.

Martin shut his eyes. He might have nodded, but Gerry couldn’t be sure.

“Blake spoke with us before he left,” Gerry went on. “He said the scions and the kraken came from the Plane of Water. So, that’s another planar rift under our belts.”

“Fuck.”

“Look on the bright side. Maybe we’ll find them all and win a prize.”

Martin heaved a sigh, and let his forehead rest in his arms.

It took a moment for Gerry to work up the nerve to reach over, and another just to lightly brush his shoulder. When Martin didn’t flinch or pull away, Gerry let his hand rest there. Martin let it stay.

“What’s the matter?” Gerry asked.

Slowly Martin raised his head, just high enough to let his chin rest in the nest of his arms. “Lost my Message stone,” he answered. “It was in my pocket last night. Must’ve fallen out when I went into the water.”

“Oh,” said Gerry. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “No going back for it now.”

“Still. Maybe we’ll find some in Vasselheim?”

“Maybe.” Martin’s eyes flickered to the hand resting on his shoulder, then further along the arm attached. All at once, he went still.

It only took Gerry a moment to realize what Martin had seen. Awkwardly he took his hand away and resisted the urge to cross his arms or fuss with his sleeves. They’d gotten rucked up in his sleep, bunching back at his elbows, and he hadn’t stopped to fix them or put a jacket on before he followed Martin outside.

On reflection, this would be the first time Martin had seen them, wouldn’t it? It wasn’t that Gerry went out of his way to keep them covered, but he only ever took off his jacket in poorly lit inn rooms and dark campsites with the fire burned down to embers.

“Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Right. Those. Sorry, I know they aren’t pretty to look at.” The burns had healed years ago, fading to discolored and roughened skin, and now they itched under the weight of Martin’s scrutiny. Before he could think of anything to say, light footsteps heralded Sasha’s arrival, with Tim trailing behind sleepily.

“You’re looking awfully alive,” Sasha said, a little too cheerfully. “Feeling better? You gave us a real scare last night.” Her eyes flickered downward, briefly. Gerry had no way of knowing for sure, but she was probably glancing at his throat.

Martin didn’t answer, or even look back. When Sasha’s questioning eyes met Gerry’s, he could only shrug.

“We do have some good news,” she went on, undeterred. “Well, some bad news and some good news. Bad news is, between the storm and the kraken attack we’ve been blown off course. Good news is, we were blown north. Salesa says there’s a coastal town just south of the mountains around Vasselheim. That’s where we’ll be landing in a few days.”

“Straight shot to Vasselheim from there,” Tim added.

“Good,” said Martin.

“He speaks!” Sasha exclaimed. “Thank the gods—oh shit, Gerry, did that happen yesterday?”

“No,” Gerry answered wearily. “I visited the plane of fire years ago. Don’t ask.”

“We have the worst luck with planes, don’t we,” Tim remarked. Martin made a face at that.

“So what’s the plan once we get there?” Sasha asked, clearly eager to get things back on track. “Same as before?”

“Well, hopefully they’ll have horses there,” Martin said with a shrug. “If not, we’ll do our best on foot.”

“And then Vasselheim?” Sasha pressed.

“And then Vasselheim,” Martin replied. “I’ll track down my friends. I don’t know exactly where everyone is, but I know where to ask. From there, it depends on what they say. Either way, I’ll figure out what I’m gonna do. How I’m gonna deal with… all this.” There was something in his tone, something cold and detached, that Gerry didn’t like.

“I’m hearing an awful lot of ‘I’ and ‘me’ in there,” Tim said dryly.

“Yeah,” Martin muttered. “I guess you are.”

“Seriously?” Sasha groaned. “Are we doing this again? Just once, I’d like us to celebrate one hard-earned victory without you expecting us to cut and run just because things got a little rough.”

Martin flinched.

“I mean, why?” Sasha demanded. “Sure, Tim kind of tore into you about keeping secrets, but have we ever, even once, said we’d leave if it got too dangerous? After any of the last three or four times it got dangerous?”

Martin continued to stare out at the sea, his entire body taut from head to toe. Finally, he pushed back from the railing with a sigh. “The sooner we get to Vasselheim, the better.”

They watched him walk away. Gerry took a step to follow him, only to falter and lose his nerve. Things had already felt awkward and tenuous before, and now the thought of forcing his presence on Martin made him sick with dread.

“You know, I never really know where I stand with him,” Tim remarked. “One second he’s feeling chummy, and the next he’s storming off to brood.”

“He did almost die last night,” Gerry pointed out.

“Don’t you dare be reasonable about this.”

“D’you know what I just realized?” Sasha asked. She was still staring after Martin, arms crossed, tail whisking from side to side in agitation.

“What’s that?” Tim asked.

She looked at him, frowning deeply. “Isn’t it strange that he has to travel across two continents and a sea, just to see his friends?”

Gerry looked to Tim for guidance, and found him mirroring Sasha’s worried expression. It had never occurred to him before. Not like he knew what the appropriate distance was, between friends.

“People travel and move,” Tim pointed out, though his tone was thoughtful. “The way he described them, they sound busy, and Martin… how recently was he caring for his mum?”

It didn’t account for everything, though. By the look on Tim and Sasha’s faces, they knew it too.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he said with a shrug. “He said I could come, and I’m not letting him go back on that.”

“Me neither,” Sasha said, face set with determination. “I’m in this now. If Martin wants me gone, he’ll have to tell me to my face.”

Tim snorted. “Like that’d make a difference.”

Sasha bared her sharp teeth in a smile. “Exactly. So.” She leaned up against the railing, turning her head toward the bow and the horizon beyond.

“Let’s see what Issylra has in store.”

Chapter Text

When the cry went up that land was in sight, Tim nearly missed it. His focus was split between the battered cards in his hands and the inscrutable lack of expression on Gerry’s face—for someone who had never played gin before in his life, he had the perfect face for it.

So he was very surprised when Sasha, who had thus far been waiting to challenge the winner, abruptly scrambled to her feet and nearly scattered the rest of the cards in her lunge for the railing.

“Sasha, what—”

“Don’t you Sasha-what me,” she retorted, grinning wildly. “Didn’t you hear him shout from the crow’s nest?”

“We’re on a ship surrounded by sailors, it’d be odd if they weren’t shouting all the time—”

“Land,” Gerry said abruptly, tossing his cards down to join her.

Tim hastily gathered the deck of cards and followed suit, feeling absurdly behind. “Land? Are we there?”

“Not yet.” Sasha had nearly half her body hanging over the side, tail outstretched as a counterbalance. “I can see it, though!”

Gerry shaded his eyes. “Thought it was clouds at first,” he remarked. “Are those mountains? I think I see mountains.”

“Yes!” Sasha cheered. “Somebody go grab Martin, maybe this’ll cheer him up.”

Tim turned toward the open hatch over the stairs, right as Gerry pushed away from the railing with the exact same intention in mind. Their eyes met, and after a brief flash of mutual understanding, Gerry stepped back to the railing again. Tim tried to smirk at him, but he’d already turned away. Filing the moment away for later, Tim headed down below deck.

The smell of incense still lingered in the air when he reached their berth, though any smoke had already dissipated, and Martin had put his things away in favor of lounging on his bed with two books in his lap: the battered leatherbound book he often brought out for spellcasting, and the formerly-empty notebook he had bought in the Emerald Outpost.

Tim knocked lightly on the wall. “Spotted land just now,” he said. “Dunno exactly where we are, but I expect we’ll be docking soon.”

Martin nodded, gathered his books back into his bag, and swung out to follow him without a word. Pursing his lips, Tim let the silence slide.

Ever since the attack, Martin had been… laconic was the word Gerry used. It wasn’t that he was angry, or even outwardly upset—he was just quiet, and everything he did now felt shortened and rushed, as if by getting things over with as quickly as possible, he could somehow make the ship itself go faster.

It was the perfect environment to foster tension. Tim had been grinding his teeth so much he was sure he’d worn down the enamel with pressure alone. It probably wasn’t fair to think like that; Martin hadn’t even done anything, not really.

Maybe that was the problem, though. He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t said more than two words to any of them since the morning after the attack. Tim had never liked having to wait for things.

When they joined the others, the distant shoreline had grown more visible. When Gerry pointed it out, Tim could make out the outline of mountains beyond. The air was cold and overcast, the water slightly choppy, but the Dorian cut through it all as cleanly as a blade.

Leaning up against the railing, Martin let out a sigh of relief. Some of the tension leaked out of him as if carried on his breath.

“Floyd’s been by,” Sasha informed them. “We should be there in an hour or two at most. Probably less, since the wind’s favorable.”

“We’re almost there,” Gerry said quietly. His hand rested lightly on Martin’s shoulder. “Just think—in a couple of days, we’ll be in Vasselheim.” The hand not on Martin’s shoulder was cupped near Gerry’s collarbone, where his charm against scrying hung.

“Looking forward to seeing everyone again?” Sasha asked brightly.

“Yeah,” Martin said. Relief steadied his voice; even facing away, Tim could hear the faint smile in his tone. “It’s been way too long.”

“We’ll have to have a talk with them about leaving you unattended,” Sasha went on. “Think they know how much trouble you’ve gotten into on your own?”

Martin sounded dryly amused. “They’ve probably got an idea.” Tim couldn’t quite see the look on his face when he tilted his head toward Sasha.

Sasha did. “What’s that look for?”

“You want to meet them, don’t you.”

“Can you blame me for being curious?” Sasha shot back.

“Guess not.” Martin turned back to watching the Issylran coast steadily draw closer. “Just realized it means you’ll be meeting Melanie.”

“Meaning…?”

“Something to do with houses on fire, I’ll bet.”

Sasha rocked against the railing, her energy renewed. “Oh, I can’t wait. Can’t this boat go any faster?”

Eventually, the ship’s progress toward land outlived their initial excitement. Tim tried to resume his card game with Gerry, but neither of them could remember where they’d left off. At least, Gerry claimed he couldn’t. Tim was pretty sure he’d been winning, so it was anyone’s guess.

Gradually, they began to make out the shoreline itself. It wasn’t quite big enough to be a proper harbor like in Emon, but the coastline ahead dipped inward, and nestled within that curve were a handful of docked boats. Beyond them stood the small, clustered buildings of a coastal village.

The deck was a flurry of activity again as they docked. At some point Tim lost track of Martin again, only to find him in Salesa’s stateroom.

Tim let himself in, dispensing with formality now that the trip was nearly over. The genasi looked up with his usual wide smile, as Tim stepped inside with Sasha and Gerry at his back.

“So we are all here, then,” said Salesa. “I trust you have enjoyed your trip?” Tim couldn’t help pulling a face, and Salesa chuckled. “Fair enough. Though, believe me, it is not every voyage we are attacked by forces from beyond this plane. I trust my crew’s performance has been satisfactory?”

“You got us to Issylra,” said Martin. Then, more quietly, he added, “Sorry about your crew members.”

“I will forgive you this once, and not charge you compensation for their loss,” Salesa replied. “After all, you brought the Raven Queen’s emissary to our aid. So, I am feeling generous. Which means, once we reach the dock, our business is done.” His smile widened enough to let his teeth show. “Thank you, for being somewhat less troublesome than you could have been.”

“A kraken attacked your ship, and that’s less troublesome?” Gerry muttered, wincing when Sasha kicked him in warning.

Salesa leveled his dangerous smile on him. “Seven crew members died,” he said. “More than a dozen injured besides. Altogether, that is still only half the people I lost, the last time I was foolish enough to make a deal with your mother.”

That shut Gerry up far faster than a kick from Sasha ever could.

The ship docked, and the four of them disembarked. A handful of the crew said their goodbyes; Sasha had more well-wishers than any of them, as per usual. In the end, they were left on the coastal town’s small dock, watching as the Dorian drifted back out to sea again.

“They’ll be headed south to Shorecomb,” Martin murmured, as if to himself. He shook his head. “Right. Let’s get our bearings.”

Their reception was rough but tersely polite, which was to be expected. Tim had always heard that Vasselheim was an unforgiving place to live, and apparently this town was far enough north to be much the same. Everyone they met, from the fishermen on the docks to the barman at the tavern, had a similar weatherbeaten look about them. They took payment for their services, and that was the end of it.

The four of them piled into the town’s small tavern, where Martin fished out one of his maps and spread it across the table.

“It’s uphill from here,” he told them. “Literally, I mean. Once we get through the woods we’ll be heading for the Heaven’s Stair.” He bit his lip. “Theoretically we could make it on foot, but it won’t be pleasant.”

Sasha nodded. “So, step one, find horses.”

“What’s step two?” Gerry asked.

“Step two is follow Tim, because he knows his way around mountains.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him at once. It was mildly disconcerting as much as it was flattering.

“I can get us there,” he said simply. He eyed the map again. “Judging by that distance? If we do find horses, we might reach the city by tonight. If we travel after dark, we definitely can. If not, we’ll still probably make it before noon the next day.” He paused. “Again, that’s if we find horses. Like Martin said, we can make it on foot, but it won’t be fast.”

“Won’t be much fun, either,” Gerry muttered.

“Alright, then,” Martin stood up. “May as well get started on that. Tim and I can ask around about transport, if you two watch our things.”

“We’ll find us some food, too,” Sasha offered, making shooing motions. “Go on. Find horses.”

“Right. Tim?”

“Lead the way.”

Luckily, there wasn’t much ground to cover. The town took up as little space as possible, every little bit of space either occupied by a building or sparse garden, or left as a walkway. The people were hard and quiet, unsmiling in the face of Tim’s attempts to be friendly.

Truthfully, his hopes weren’t high. This was a fishing town, largely self-sufficient on whatever the coast provided. The soil wasn’t much for extensive farming, so what use would they have for horses?

But luck was with them. They asked around, and eventually found their way to a shabby-looking stable further inland. Venturing into it, Tim was pleasantly surprised to find it occupied by three horses, overseen by a single stablehand who looked like she’d be happier on a fishing boat. When Martin asked about hiring them, Tim’s jaw dropped at the price. It was a fraction of what a horse would go for in Westruun, that was for sure.

Even Martin looked taken aback. “You’re sure?” he asked, which probably wasn’t a very good haggling technique.

The woman shrugged. “These beasts come from down the mountain, missing their riders. We’ve got no need of ‘em. Half the time they wind up as meat anyway. Do you want ‘em or not?”

“We’ll take them,” Martin said quickly, digging out his purse. “Thank you, so much.”

The woman took his money with a faint, crooked smile. “Don’t thank me yet. If you’re not careful in those mountains, they’ll just find their way right back here, if you catch my drift.”

Martin smiled weakly in return. “We’ll be back for them shortly.”

“Oh, take your time, not like I have better things to do or anything.”

They hurried back to the tavern. As promised, there was food waiting for them, mostly hard bread and smoked fish and a few tough farmed vegetables. As they ate, Martin filled them in on the deal they’d found.

“Bit ominous,” Sasha remarked. “I mean, horses wandering down by themselves. Don’t you think?”

“Hey, remember you’ve got a distinct advantage,” Tim reminded her. “You’ve got me guiding you.”

Gerry raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Have you climbed the Heaven’s Stair before?”

“No,” Tim admitted. “But I’ve crawled all over Stormcrest. I know at least a bit of what to expect, and it beats going in blind. Besides, the city’s built into the base of the mountain, not on top of it.”

“We’re south of Vasselheim right now,” said Martin. “The forest to the north of it is the Vesper Timberland, and that’s where it gets really dangerous.”

“How so?’ Gerry asked.

“It’s dark, it grows unnaturally fast, and it’s crawling with monsters,” Martin replied. “It’s possible that some of them might wander this far south, but at least this part of the woods is better traveled.”

“By riderless horses, apparently,” Sasha said dryly. “Well, it’s the last leg of the trip. There was bound to be one last hiccup.”

They set off as soon as they had all eaten. The single stablehand looked pleased to be rid of her charges, and was already trudging toward the shore as they left.

There was no path to follow, as there had been in the Verdant Expanse. The undergrowth was thick, the trees towering, but Tim led them confidently as the ground went from level coastline to a continuous upward slope. With him at the front and needing space free of distractions, Sasha wound up sharing a horse with Gerry instead.

The longer the journey went on, the more Sasha thanked their lucky stars that they’d found horses after all. Even with Tim’s guidance, it would have taken them days to get to the foot of the Heaven’s Stair by walking, and it would have been miserable every step of the way.

She voiced this thought out loud, and Martin turned to her with eyebrows raised. “Most people do,” he pointed out. “Vasselheim’s a religious pilgrimage, remember? Technically, we’ve got it easy.”

“Most people take the road from Shorecomb, probably,” said Gerry. “Instead of struggling through dense forest.”

At one point Sasha happened to look up and spot a flock of wild wyverns flying overhead. Common sense told her that a horse wouldn’t do much against those things, but she felt better seeing them from horseback than she would have on foot.

But eventually, after hours of struggling through dense undergrowth and driving off any beasts that came too close, Tim let out a cry of triumph and steered his horse over a tangle of roots. Moments later, they broke through the tree line and spilled out onto a narrow but well-traveled road.

It was late afternoon, getting on to evening, but Tim was smiling brightly as he nodded toward the mountain that lay ahead. “Nearly there,” he said, turning to Martin. “What do you think? Press on?”

“I think we should stop here for a moment,” said Martin. “Give the horses a rest.”

“Fine by me.” Tim dismounted with a grunt. “Anyone else hungry?”

They couldn’t stop for long, but Sasha was happy for the chance to stretch her legs and eat something. Even better, after crossing the sea by ship, she wasn’t heartily sick of trail rations yet.

She was halfway back into the saddle when the horse suddenly shied, sending her stumbling to the ground again. The animal’s ears were back, head tossing up and down as she tried to hold onto the reins. She looked over to the others, alarmed and confused, to find the other two horses in a similar state. Tim was already in the saddle, struggling to keep his mount under control.

“That’s not a good sign,” was all Sasha had time to say before a hulking gray shape exploded through the treeline, barely missing Gerry as he dodged out of the way.

By the time the dust settled, they were clustered together. The horses hadn’t bolted yet, and by some miracle they stayed where they were even when they saw the creature attacking them.

It could have been a bull, wide and heavy with hooves that seemed to shake the ground with each step. But it couldn’t be a bull, because bulls didn’t come in shiny plates of iron gray, like the hard carapace of an insect. Sharpened ridges lined its spine, and the horns that crowned its head were long and curved and wickedly sharp.

Glowing eyes settled on them, rolling madly in its head. The creature breathed out a noise that was halfway between a snort and a snarl, sending a small cloud of gray mist curling out of its mouth and nostrils.

“Oh fuck,” Sasha heard Tim mutter. Then, louder—“That’s a gorgon,” he called out. “Whatever you do, don’t let it breathe that shit on you.”

Simple instructions. It was one of many things she appreciated about Tim. Another was that he already had his bow out—his first arrow sank into a gap in the gorgon’s plating before it had the chance to make a move.

Gerry was only a beat behind; he’d had his fireball wand close at hand since they set out from the town. The resulting blast rocked the gorgon back on its feet, before it rallied, tossed its head, and charged. Sasha dodged out of the way, and its horn gouged through the side of her arm instead of goring her through the chest. Martin’s holy fire rained down on its face, giving her just enough time to get her rapier out. While the beast was momentarily blinded, she took the opportunity to stick it through the side of its neck before dancing back and out of the way again.

Chaos reigned from there. This was no wolf pack or wildcat that could be driven off with one good spell or a couple of arrows; the forests around Vasselheim were rife with magical creatures, and here was one of them.

Martin had a tight grip on two of the horses, which were backing away and tossing their heads, eyes rolling with fear. When the gorgon’s glowing eyes turned on them, one of them screamed, and they tore free and bolted into the woods. The gorgon charged, and Martin—knocked off balance from losing the horses—dodged too late and was thrown to the ground at its feet. It stood over him, mist gathering around its muzzle.

Gerry struck from the side, sword glowing as it opened up a gash through its side. The gorgon staggered with a bellow of pain, and Martin rolled out of the way of its hooves. Its eyes blazed with fury, and it opened its jaws and sent a cloud of mist pouring out. Martin scrambled away, and Sasha spotted the end of his scarf as it stiffened and turned stone-gray.

Gerry, on the other hand, got hit head on.

He stumbled back, wide-eyed but still moving, and for a split second Sasha thought he’d avoided it after all. But then he held up his hand, and Sasha could see the same gray color spreading over his skin.

“Shit, shit, shit—” He tried to shake it off, but his fingers seized and the gray continued to spread.

Martin scrambled to his feet and made to run to him, but the gorgon still stood in the way. It swerved around and lunged, forcing Martin back again. Another bolt to the face sent it reeling, and Sasha followed Martin as he dodged around its horns to reach Gerry. She kept her back to them, rapier out in case the gorgon came for them again, but she could still hear them.

A healing spell did nothing to slow the spread of petrification. “Won’t work,” Gerry gritted out, still clawing at his hardening skin with the hand that wasn’t petrified yet.

“Damn it,” Martin spat. “I know a restoration spell, but it’s not strong enough—”

“How do we get rid of this thing?” Sasha asked. “It attacked us, what does it even want?”

“Blood,” Martin answered tersely. “They need iron, so they eat fresh meat—oh what the hell.”

The shock in his tone had Sasha risking a glance back, while Tim kept the gorgon occupied with another arrow to the shoulder. At first she couldn’t see what the matter was; Gerry was only partially petrified, though it was still spreading. And then she spotted it.

The eyes tattooed on Gerry’s hand and wrist—now petrified—were glowing faintly. As she watched, the glow spread in a web of cracks through the gray stone overtaking his body. The light intensified, and the gray began to simply flake away, leaving normal skin and flesh behind. Within seconds, Gerry could curl his fingers again.

“Fuck that was close.” Gerry’s smile was forced as the petrification slowly receded. “I’ll be fine. Take care of the gorgon.”

They were more mindful of the mist it breathed after that. Gerry hung back until he recovered, then rejoined the fight with his sword in hand. When Sasha ran out of spells, he passed her his wand. Tim and Martin were still going strong, and before long the gorgon began to flag.

It didn’t run away, though, Sasha noted with distaste. They couldn’t simply drive it off; they’d have to kill it.

The gorgon was on its last legs, bellowing with rage even as it bled into the ground, when the forest lit up.

Sasha could feel the edge of white-hot pain against her skin. The sound was tremendous, like localized thunder, as lightning forked through the air past her and struck the gorgon full on. A low rumble of pain escaped it, before a massive crossbow bolt buried itself deep between its eyes. The gorgon hit the ground hard, and didn’t move again.

Sasha looked up and saw her own shock mirrored on everyone else’s face, before a voice rang out sharply from the trees.

“What in the Nine Hells do you think you’re doing?”

Sasha whirled around, rapier in one hand and borrowed wand in the other. A human woman was emerging from the deeper woods onto the road, striding toward them officiously with a wand in her hand. She looked to be from Marquet—Sasha always saw head-scarves like that in Ank’harel—but beyond that, Sasha had no idea who she was. At her side, towering over her, was the single scariest-looking elf Sasha had ever seen.

“Having a picnic,” Gerry shot back, wheezing slightly. One of the gorgon’s charges had knocked him to the ground, and Sasha was pretty sure it got him in the ribs with a hoof, too.

The elf woman was carrying a crossbow with one arm, unloaded and balanced against her hip. “Answer the question,” she said shortly, her voice a quiet growl. “Not really in the mood for games today.”

“What does it look like we were doing?” Tim snapped.

“Tim,” Martin warned. He was standing by Gerry, healing his ribs, but his eyes were fixed on the elf.

“What? I’m serious!” Tim scowled at the two newcomers. “We were fighting that gorgon. Do you have a problem with that?”

The human raised an eyebrow at him. “We do, in fact. I don’t know what it’s like where you’re from, but around here, poaching is a crime.”

“Seriously?” Sasha blurted out.

“The creatures of the Vesper Timberland and the surrounding woodlands are protected,” the human informed them, toying with the wand in her hands. “Hunting them requires specialized permission—”

“Oh come on,” Tim retorted. “That thing was hunting us! What were we supposed to do, apologize? Show it our papers?”

The elf’s eyes narrowed, and the crossbow at her side twitched. “Watch your tone,” she warned.

“In that case,” Martin broke in tersely, right as Tim opened his mouth to argue, “thank you.”

The human’s attention turned to him, scowling slightly as if she wasn’t sure if she was being mocked. “What was that.”

“I said, thank you,” Martin said evenly. His eyes kept flicking back to the elf. Sasha couldn’t blame him; that crossbow looked downright nasty. “For preventing us from committing a crime.” He nudged the dead gorgon with his foot. “Since, you know, we didn’t kill it. I take it you two have ‘specialized permission’?”

The human relaxed, but only slightly. “That’s correct.”

“Then we’ll leave you to it.” Martin gave Gerry a hand up. “We’ve got to be going. We’re trying to reach Vasselheim by tonight…” His voice trailed off, and his face darkened as he looked around.

It took a moment for Sasha to realize what the matter was. “Oh, shit. Did we lose all three of the horses?”

“We were fighting for our lives,” Tim grumbled. “Couldn’t exactly keep a hold of them.”

The elf snorted quietly. Sasha tensed when she hefted the crossbow, only to relax when she simply leaned it up against a tree. “I’ll be back. Keep an eye on them, Basira.” Without another word, she set off into the trees at an easy lope.

The other woman, Basira, was kneeling beside the gorgon, inspecting its plating, pulling open its mouth to check its teeth, and otherwise scrutinizing the body. “Sorry about the confusion,” she said with a shrug. “Every now and then we have trouble with poachers. If they don’t die outright, they wind up stirring up the beasts, sending the lot of them charging for the nearest village. Or Vasselheim itself, if they’re big enough.”

Sasha relaxed a little, grateful that the hostility was gone, but Martin looked unmoved. “Still pretty rude, yelling at us after we just got done fighting for our lives,” he pointed out. “Gerry almost got petrified.”

Basira shrugged. “Wouldn’t have been a problem. Greater Restoration clears that right up.”

“Guess it’s fine then.” She didn’t even twitch at the testiness in Martin’s tone. “Where’s your friend gone?”

“Went to find your horses.” Basira drew a pair of pliers out of her bag and set about pulling out teeth.

“We didn’t exactly see which way they went,” said Sasha, a little belatedly considering the elf was already gone.

“She’ll find them.”

Sasha had her doubts, but by the time Basira had moved on to separating the gorgon’s horns from its head, the elf was back. And sure enough, she had their three missing horses by the reins, pulling them along behind her. Sasha wasn’t the most well-versed in animal behavior, but they seemed to be shying from her even as they followed. Without a word, she shoved the reins into Martin’s hands, and knelt down to help Basira harvest the dead gorgon.

As her friend took over, Basira finally looked up at them. Her hands were encrusted with dried blood as she got back to her feet. “So. What’s your business in Vasselheim, then? I take it you’re not on a pilgrimage.”

“Well…” said Tim, before Sasha elbowed him.

“I’m visiting friends,” said Martin. “The others are relocating.”

Basira’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting choice,” she remarked.

“We heard there’s a hunting guild in Vasselheim,” Tim spoke up. “Sasha and I are interested in joining.” He glanced at the dead gorgon. “I take it you two might know something about that?”

“The Slayer’s Take doesn’t let just anyone in,” Basira replied. “There’s an initiation process. But…” She folded her arms with a sigh. “If you’re willing to wait for us, we can show you where the guild hall is. It’ll be late when we get there, but you can talk to the guild leader in the morning.”

Sasha looked to Martin hopefully, and found him already looking at her. After a similar silent check-in with Tim, Martin nodded. “Fine then. Thanks.”

“Good.” Basira looked to Gerry. “What about you, then?”

Gerry looked startled and a bit uncomfortable to be addressed. “I go where he goes,” he said, jerking his head at Martin.

“Hm. Give us a minute, then.” With that, she returned to dealing with the gorgon’s corpse. Sasha couldn’t help but watch, fascinated, as they butchered the thing. Teeth, horns, hide, hooves, blood, even cutting out some organ that she couldn’t begin to identify. They worked with businesslike efficiency, as if cutting open dead monsters was something they did every day.

Eventually they finished, loading everything into a rucksack that seemed too small to fit everything that went into it. A quick spell from Basira cleaned their hands and clothes of gore, and the elf shouldered the pack.

“Right then,” said Basira. “Follow us—we’re only a few hours away from Vasselheim’s gates, if you’re willing to travel through the night. My name’s Basira. This is Daisy.”

“Daisy?” Martin sounded skeptical.

“That’s what people call me,” said Daisy, barely glancing at him as she retrieved her crossbow. “You lot coming or not?”

The pace was slower, the mood a little more dour. But there were fewer wild animals to worry about. It could very well have been the openness of the road that kept them to the shadows, but Sasha had her doubts. Something about the way the horses gave Daisy a wide berth had her hackles up. Weren’t elves supposed to be good with animals?

Basira was marginally friendlier than her companion, a bar that was low enough to step over. She at least seemed interested in talking, though with the dry tone in her voice, Sasha couldn’t in good conscience call it “chatting.”

“You said you’re visiting friends,” she said to Martin. “Anyone interesting?”

“I didn’t want to assume you know everyone in Vasselheim.” For his part, Martin seemed determined to match her aloofness.

The corner of Basira’s mouth twitched. “Try me.”

“Well, there’s Georgie,” Martin began. “She’s a paladin—Bahamut, if that makes a difference. There’s Melanie, she’s with the Cobalt Soul. And—”

“Wait,” Basira paused mid-step. “Georgie Barker? And Melanie King?”

Martin sat up straighter in the saddle. “That’s them. Do you know them?”

“They’re members of the Take,” Basira replied. “They aren’t career members like Daisy and I—they’ve got other things going on—but they’re around a lot. They take on contracts whenever they have time. I’ve worked with them a few times. They’re good hunters.”

“Contracts?” Sasha spoke up.

Basira nodded. “It’s how the Slayer’s Take operates. We’re authorized to hunt the magical beasts in these woods, and in the Vesper Timberland. We hunt only under contract—a bounty’s set for a specific beast, and a hunter or hunting party takes on each contract. Money comes from selling its parts, sticking to contracts keeps us from hunting anything to extinction by accident.”

“And Melanie and Georgie are part of this?” Martin asked.

“You didn’t know?”

“I haven’t heard from them in a while.”

“Well, they are,” Basira said with a shrug. “They’re some of our best hunters. Prolific, too—they’ve eased off recently, but I heard they took more contracts than anyone over the past year.”

“Maybe they’ll put in a good word for us?” Sasha shot a hopeful glance at Martin.

“Not likely,” said Basira. “You don’t join the Take on recommendation.”

“Either you pass or you don’t,” Daisy spoke up. The nearest horse—Tim’s—danced to the side nervously.

“Do you happen to know where I can find them?” Martin asked. “Georgie and Melanie, I mean?”

“Check with the guild hall in the morning,” Basira replied. “If they’re not there, well. Like you said, one’s a paladin of Bahamut, the other’s Cobalt Soul. They’ve got their own places to be.”

Martin nodded, and said no more on the subject.

Gerry wasn’t sure what to make of their guides.

He didn’t like them, that was for sure. He almost empathized with the horses, the way they shied away from Daisy. Something about these two set him on edge, in ways that the crossbow and the hefty spells and the casual way they cut up a gorgon didn’t account for.

The Eye was certainly interested, which didn’t help with his misgivings. Its gaze had come on strong and sudden when he was fighting off the gorgon’s petrification, and even after the thing was dead, it had remained.

It wasn’t as forthcoming as it often was. The fact that Basira was a wizard had slipped into his mind at some point, but whether he’d worked that out on his own or the Eye had put the thought in his head was unclear. And as for Daisy…

He couldn’t get a read on Daisy. When he was curious enough to probe the Eye for it, the word that came to him was hunter.

Martin was just as wary of her; Gerry wasn’t sure if that was a comfort or not.

Gradually, the forest opened. The trees grew farther apart as the hours passed, slowly revealing the evening sky overhead, the towering mountain before them, and the city that stood in its shadow. It was distant at first, only vague shapes and pinpricks of light. But by the time night had fallen, Gerry could sit back in the saddle and take in a proper look in the moonlight.

So his jaw dropped a bit. What of it?

The city was made of stone, gray and aged and crumbling at the edges, but as solid at its core as the mountain it was built around. A massive wall surrounded it, and from a distance Gerry could see many more walls standing within, visible thanks to the city’s upward slope. As they approached the outer wall, his eyes were drawn upward to the very top, where a series of shapes protruded from the battlements. They glinted silver in the torchlight, steel beaten into the shapes of massive dragon heads.

Statues, was his first thought.

Ballistae, the Eye corrected. Every wall was equipped with them, in fact.

No wonder the place had never been conquered before.

Briefly he wondered if the city’s reputation meant getting in would be difficult. But Daisy and Basira passed through without any trouble, with Basira pausing to say something to one of the guards that Gerry couldn’t make out. In the end, when Martin went forward as their spokesperson, they were waved through. One of the guards leveled a hard, unfriendly stare at Gerry as he passed, but it didn’t bother him as much as it could have when the others got similar treatment.

As promised, their guides showed them the way to the guild hall. Gerry took the time to watch their surroundings and take it all in.

Past the wall, the city was wildly different from the ones in Tal’Dorei. It lacked the homely rural simplicity of Kymal, and the mismatched visual noise of the Emerald Outpost, and the urban bustle of Emon. There were splashes of color here and there, bits and bobs of culture brought in from beyond the walls, but everywhere Gerry looked was the same uniform gray stone. The streets were quiet—not empty, just austere. The people within moved quickly and with purpose. No aimless wandering, very little chatting that he could see—though that might have been the late hour. Hardly anyone gave them a second glance.

He was safe, he realized a bit belatedly. He was in Vasselheim, the very city he’d been wanting to reach. As far as he knew, Mum couldn’t touch him here.

Eventually they reached the crossroads where the guild hall stood, and parted ways with their temporary traveling companions. “So,” said Tim, breaking the contemplative silence. “Inn?”

“Right,” said Martin. “Figure things out in the morning, then.”

“One last night,” Sasha said brightly, but it sounded forced.

Gerry didn’t blame her. For all they knew, this was where they parted ways. It was an odd thought. He’d never stuck around anyone outside his family this long before. No one had ever wanted to stick around him. Leaving them felt almost unthinkable now.

The inn they found rooms at was a bit of a return to form. Gerry supposed that not even a severe reputation like Vasselheim’s could stop people from being lively when they drank. But it was quiet still, in a pleasant way, and Gerry found himself sinking down in his seat as if he’d never get up again.

The same feeling struck him later, when he lay in bed. He was here. He’d reached his destination. He felt at once like nothing at all was different, and everything was.

His talisman against scrying rested on his collarbone, cool against his skin. He wondered what would happen if he took it off. Would she see him here? Would it even matter?

The smell of incense reminded him of Martin’s presence. “Anything yet?” he asked quietly.

“No.” A drop of anger sharpened an edge into Martin’s voice. “Just have to keep trying.”

“Try again in the morning.” Gerry yawned. “Get your friends to help, maybe.”

“Right, good idea.” Martin set about rustling things on his bed, neatening up, packing away whatever components he’d pulled out for the spell. After a few moments, the rustling paused. “Hey Gerry?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you mean what you said, a while ago?” Martin asked. “About… sticking around for this? For whatever I’m meant to do from here?”

Gerry opened his eyes, a difficult task after the long day they’d had. Turning his head, he peered over at Martin’s carefully blank, neutral face. “Don’t really have a choice, do I?” he asked. “Considering I’ve got one evil god standing between me and my mum, and your end goal is to tear it down from its dark throne.” Martin winced. “Relax, that was a joke.”

“Not a very good one,” Martin muttered under his breath.

“I get that a lot,” said Gerry. “Point is, I’ve thrown in with you. I did that back in those mines, and we’ve saved each other enough times that I’d say we’re past owing anything over it. I’m your problem now.”

That joke also failed to land, unfortunately. But it did get the point across, which was his goal. Martin nodded, seemingly mollified, and they both settled in for the night.

Gerry’s dreams were strange. He ran through dark woodlands, the trees overhead too thick to see the sky, breath coming in short gasps. And then the forest was gone, and the ground beneath his feet was wood planks instead of moss and loam. He stood in a cluttered little room, lit only by the moonlight streaming in through the window. It fell across the floor, freshly swept but battered and stained like the floor of a huntsman’s cabin.

A memory of the waking world drifted into his dreaming mind, of the night on the deck of the Dorian when he’d brought the wrath of his god down upon a kraken. He wasn’t sure why—perhaps the memory, perhaps the greenish tinge in the moonlight, perhaps the feeling of being watched that never quite left his dreams these days—but he was sure that if he went to the window and looked up, he would not see a moon at all.

He kept away from the window, and sat in the dark with his fears and the light and the lingering smell of iron in the air.

When Tim found Martin waiting in the inn’s dining room early in the morning, he registered his own surprise with just a little bit of guilt. Martin was great, a fantastic traveling companion, and in spite of all the ups and downs he hadn’t steered them wrong, precisely. But Tim had to admit that part of him expected Martin to be gone already.

He tried to hide it, but he must not have done a very good job; upon seeing him, Martin said, “I figured we might as well head out together. Visit the guild hall they mentioned. If you’re still interested in joining?”

“Sasha and I talked it over, and yeah,” Tim replied. “Can’t hurt to see what the initiation process is, at least. I take it you’re looking for your friends?”

Martin nodded. “If they’re there. If they aren’t, I’ll try the Silver Talon’s Reach and the Cobalt Vault.”

“And your other friend? Jon?”

Martin grimaced slightly. “Wouldn’t even begin to know where to look for him,” he admitted. “Partly why I need Georgie and Melanie first.”

“Alright then, good you’ve got a plan.” Tim settled down in the seat beside him. “Any idea what Gerry’s got planned?”

Martin blinked in surprise, which wasn’t quite fair; Tim thought it was a reasonable question. Gerry never seemed to have much of a plan beyond reaching Vasselheim.

“Gerry’s sticking with me,” he replied after a moment. “For whatever comes next, for me.”

“Really.”

“That’s what he said.” Martin shrugged.

“Huh.” Tim filed that away to consider later. “Do you know what comes next?”

“I meet up with everyone,” Martin replied. “We catch up, try to brainstorm what comes next. Hopefully they’ll have some ideas.”

“Got it.” Tim nodded. “And—Martin?”

“Yes?”

“If you really do insist on us parting ways here… don’t be a stranger,” said Tim. “If you need a hand, or even if you just want to get drinks, wind down for an evening… we’ll be here.”

Martin smiled. It didn’t make him look any less tired. “Thanks, Tim.”

Gerry and Sasha didn’t keep them waiting for long. After a quick breakfast, they headed out into the city to find the Slayer’s Take guild hall again. It occurred to Tim then that, for all that Daisy and Basira had shown the way, they hadn’t actually told them anything about the route or where it was in the city. Not that they’d been great to talk to anyway; Daisy was big and battle-scarred and sullen, and he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that Basira was angling for something.

Still, through a combination of following signs in the streets and and recalling the night before, they found their way back to the district close to the center of the city, where two main roads ran perpendicular to one another. Clustered around the intersection was a sprawling bazaar, now lively in the daylight, filled with merchants and traders barking at passersby. Sasha was already eyeing some of the stalls eagerly, and Tim couldn’t help but take note of a few, either.

Once they knew which way they were going, the place was hard to miss. The horns and teeth that decorated the lodge were a bit of a dead giveaway, even without The Slayer’s Take Guild Hall carved into the sign above the door.

Martin tried the door, apparently found it locked, and knocked. Moments later, a spyhole slid open.

“What’s your business with the Take?”

“Um, prospective members,” Martin replied, with a quick glance at Tim and Sasha.

The spyhole slid shut, and moments later the door opened. A scar-faced woman in leather armor stood in the doorway, gave them all a quick once-over, and stood back with a jerk of her head.

They stepped into an entrance hall that smelled like wood smoke and leather. Candlelight sent shadows flickering across the walls and rafters, all centering around a wide desk toward the back of the room. Behind it sat an elderly halfling woman, peering down at the papers in front of her through a pair of crystal spectacles. She looked up at their approach.

“May I help you?” she asked politely.

“I hope so,” Martin replied. “Well, actually, my friends are interested in joining.”

“Just us,” Tim added, indicating himself and Sasha.

“I see,” she replied, scribbling something down. “Were you just here to escort them, or were you interested in joining as well?”

“Oh!” Martin blinked, surprised, as if this was the first time the question had occurred to him. “Well, actually, I just got into town, and I was looking for a couple of friends of mine. I was told I might find them here. Georgie Barker and Melanie King?”

The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, I know them. I believe they’re still out on a contract, unfortunately.”

Martin shrank a little at the news; Tim’s heart went out to him. “Oh. You… wouldn’t happen to know when they’ll be back, would you?”

She frowned thoughtfully. “In a day or two, if their usual patterns hold. But—hm.” She looked to Tim and Sasha. “The two of you will need to speak to our guild master about joining. I can take you to him.” To Martin, she added, “He might know better—Miss Barker especially works closely with him. If you’ll follow me?”

“Thank you,” Martin said with feeling.

She got up from her desk. “Of course. Julia?”

The woman from before was lounging by the door, looking bored. “What?”

“I’ll be back presently.”

“Fine.”

The halfling led them through the guild hall, at a surprisingly quick pace given her age. Tim let his eyes wander. It was a nice place, not exactly crowded and roaring, but members of the guild were lounging together, eating and drinking and chatting. A few of them glanced up to give them appraising looks as they passed, but aside from that, no one seemed to mind them.

They made their way to the back of the guild hall, where their guide stopped at a door and rapped at it politely.

“Yes, Fiona?”

“New recruits,” the halfing replied. “And visitors, I suppose. I believe it’s that party Basira mentioned.”

“Ah, let them in.”

With another polite nod to them, Fiona opened the door to admit them, then returned to her desk in the entrance hall.

The office inside was clean but cluttered, looking less like a hunter’s personal room and more like the office where they’d seen Martin’s friend Rosie. A much smaller desk was squashed in between a cabinet and a bookshelf, where a human man with dark skin and gray hair stood up to receive them.

“Good morning,” he said, with a warm smile that fit his face perfectly. “One of you must be Martin Blackwood?”

Martin startled. “That’s me. You’ve—how—?”

“Basira told me of your encounter yesterday, but Georgie and Melanie have also spoken of you. It’s good to finally put a face to the name.” He held out a hand to shake. “Adelard Dekker. I understand you’re an old friend of theirs?”

“Yes,” Martin said, shaking his hand. “Fiona said they weren’t here…?”

“Out on a hunt together, I’m afraid,” Adelard replied. “Not to worry, though—they sent word this morning, and the job is nearly done. They should be back tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Right. Thank you.” Martin looked back at Tim and Sasha. “In the meantime…”

“I’m Sasha James, this is Tim Stoker,” Sasha said, beating Tim to the punch. “We’d like to join your guild.”

“Excellent.” He gave them both an appraising look. “Did Basira and Daisy tell you of the initiation process?”

“Only that there is one,” Tim replied.

“That tracks,” Dekker said with a grin. “The Trial of the Take is simple, but not easy. You will be assigned a contract, and a member of the guild to accompany you and assess your skills. Fulfill it—slay the creature and bring back the items requested—and you will be granted membership.”

Sasha’s tail whipped in anticipation. “I think we can manage that.”

“Excellent. I have a couple of contracts in mind already.” Dekker turned back to Martin, shooting a quick glance at Gerry as well. “And you? Are you interested in trying for membership as well?”

Martin hesitated, looking thoughtful.

“A friend of Georgie Barker’s is certainly welcome here.” Dekker looked him over with sharp, considering eyes. “If you think you’re up to the challenge.”

Instead of answering, Martin looked to Gerry. A silent exchange passed between them that Tim couldn’t quite parse. But it did make a bit of sense in the abstract; Gerry didn’t have any prospects, beyond his decision to stick with Martin. It made sense for them to confer with each other.

“I’d like to try,” Gerry said at last.

Martin nodded. “Right then. Sign me up too.”

“Very good,” Dekker said with a smile. “If you like, I can give the four of you time to prepare?”

“We’re ready when you are,” Sasha told him.

“Got nothing better to do,” said Martin, which probably pushed over the edge of flippant and into rude. Luckily, Dekker looked more amused than offended.

He produced a bit of copper wire, winding it between his fingers in a familiar spell. “Would the two of you see me in my office?” he said. “New recruits are ready to take the trial.”

Within minutes, there was a knock at the door. It opened, and Basira stepped into the room with Daisy at her back.

“Oh,” said Basira. “You four.” She looked to Dekker. “You’re sure?”

“I was sure before they’d even arrived,” Dekker replied, whatever the hell that meant. “Would you two be amenable to testing them?”

“You need both of us?” Daisy asked.

“I have two contracts.” Dekker produced a pair of scrolls from the clutter on his desk.

“Already?” Martin eyed them with a wary frown. “We just showed up this morning.”

Dekker smiled back. “The Slayer’s Take has the luxury of certain… channels, of information. It’s how we guide our hunts. You’ll learn more if you pass your trials. And—speaking of which, for your initiation, the four of you will be separating. I hope that isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

“No problems there,” Sasha said eagerly, stepping closer to Tim’s side. “We’ll take on any monster you throw at us.”

“Think it’s more like he’s throwing us at the monster,” Tim reminded her.

And then he caught sight of Dekker’s shrewd gaze, now turned upon them. “Actually,” he said with a polite smile. “I had an alternate idea. Daisy?”

The elf stepped forward, hands locked behind her back—with a stance like that, she looked more like a guard than a monster hunter.

“You will be leading Mr. Blackwood and Miss James.” Dekker handed her one of the contracts. She gave it a once-over and nodded.

“I’ll make sure they pull their weight.”

“Very good. Basira?” He handed the other contract to the wizard. “If you would be so kind as to assess Mr. Stoker and Mr. Keay?”

In an instant, all warmth drained from the room. Basira and Daisy were looking at Gerry with matching sharp expressions. Gerry was frozen where he stood, and Martin looked perfectly prepared to make trouble if he found it necessary. If it came to that, Tim would back him up.

“No need to be nervous,” Dekker assured them all, apparently unaffected. “I meant what I said. I’m prepared to give every one of you a chance. This guild takes all sorts, and you will be judged on no one’s merit but your own.”

He held Gerry’s gaze for a while, before Gerry looked away first.

“Are you all ready?” Dekker asked them.

Sasha leaned over to press her shoulder to Tim’s for a moment, a quick commiserating gesture, before she went to stand by Martin. After a last minute bit of hesitation, Gerry slunk over to take her previous place at Tim’s side.

“In that case,” said Dekker. “Good luck to you all, and good hunting.”

Chapter Text

“Right.” Basira faced the both of them with a flat expression. “Let’s get introductions out of the way. I’m Basira Hussain, my specialty’s divination. What can you two do?”

“Track things through mountains,” Tim replied. “Which—lucky us, right?”

Basira nodded, and turned her attention to Gerry. He avoided her eyes as he answered. “My patron’s a newly emerged god of fear and knowledge,” he said simply. “So, I guess I’ve got a bit of a divination slant, too.”

The wizard’s eyebrows rose. “Newly emerged—not the Ceaseless Watcher I’ve been hearing about?”

“Everyone’s heard about it, sounds like,” Tim remarked. “Let me guess—rumors?”

“People talk,” said Basira. “So you’re a warlock, then. Any useful perks?”

Gerry shrugged. “Gives my sword an extra bite sometimes. And, once in a while, I just sort of Know things. It’s not something I can control, and sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason to it. But it usually comes through when I’m about to die, so.”
“Not a sorcerer, then.”

“No.” Gerry bared his teeth in an expression that bore only a vague resemblance to a smile. “Why do you ask?”

“Okay!” Tim stepped, not between them but in that general direction. “Can we—not? Can we not do this? That’d be great. Hi! Hi. I’m Tim, I’m a ranger, I cut my teeth on mountains like the ones we’re currently in. This is Gerry, warlock of the Ceaseless Watcher. That’s us! Great to meet you. Can we get going now?”

He wasn’t sure what to make of the sharp look Basira sent Gerry, but at least she didn’t press the issue.

The other group had already left the guild hall the second the contracts were signed, with Daisy leading Martin and Sasha away at a quick pace. She certainly looked strong, which was the only reason Tim wasn’t more worried about them. The elf might not look friendly, but she did look capable of keeping his friends alive while he wasn’t around.

As for Basira…

Well. She was obviously competent, especially if her lightning bolt from the other day was any indication. But Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that she was sizing them up for something. The way she looked at him was sharp enough to make him itch, and Gerry was clearly feeling it too.

“Right,” she said, and he couldn’t tell whether she was agreeing or just tabling the discussion for later. “Come on, then. The sooner we find a corpse flower, the sooner we get the job done.”

“Great!” Tim followed her out into the crossroads bazaar beyond the lodge, glancing back to make sure Gerry was following. “So, does the contract say where we find this thing?”

Basira raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s on us to figure out,” she said. “It’s part of the test, too.”

“Wait,” Gerry caught up, frowning at this. “I thought these contracts were for specific creatures that people want killed.”

“They are, usually,” Basira replied. “That, or someone rich or powerful needs spell components. But just because people want something killed doesn’t mean they know where it is. That’s what we’re paid for—we’re hunters, not exterminators.” She paused, then offered, “Naturally, we find most of our quarry in the Vesper Timberland. No shortage of dangerous beasts there.”

Tim heaved a sigh. “Well, are there wetlands in there somewhere? Corpse flowers like the damp.”

Basira looked faintly surprised, almost impressed, and Tim reminded himself not to be insulted by that. “Thought you said you were all about mountains.”

“I grew up in Stilben,” Tim explained. “I might not like swamps, but some things you don’t forget.”

“Have you seen a corpse flower before?” Gerry asked.

Tim grimaced. “Once,” he said. “I saw the aftermath more than I saw the monster, if you catch my drift. You?”

It took a moment for Gerry to answer. “My mum made one, once,” he said at last.

At this, Basira stopped in her tracks. “Made one.”

Gerry shrugged. “Filled up a mass grave, planted some seeds, soaked the whole place in power. For someone who spits on the idea of wizards, she sure knows her way around the school of necromancy.”

Silence hovered over the three of them like a pall. “Dare I ask what happened to it?” Basira asked after a moment.

“Dunno,” Gerry admitted. “She lost interest in it after a while, moved on to other projects. I guess it wandered off. It’s probably still in the jungle somewhere.”

Tim gaped at him, appalled. “She made a whole monster and just forgot about it?”

He regretted it a bit as soon as he’d said it; Gerry was beginning to look ill. “Yeah. Can we focus on the one we’re meant to be looking for?” A frowning Basira looked like she was about to press the issue, but Gerry bulled ahead before she could get a word out. “So, swamps in the Vesper Timberland, yes or no?”

“Yes, but not like what you’d find in Stilben,” she replied, after a moment. “Not as warm, especially not this time of year. Could be a good place to start, though.” She frowned. “Do you two have supplies? On hunts like these, it’s best to be prepared to stay out a few nights, just in case.”

Tim nodded. “I brought my gear along, just in case.”

“Really.” Basira lifted her eyebrows with vague approval again.

“Sasha and I came to showed up ready to join the guild,” Tim pointed out. “Figured it’d be a good idea to look ready.”

“Well, you were right.” Basira’s attention turned to Gerry again. “You?”

Gerry shrugged. “I’m all set. I don’t go anywhere without a survival kit.”

Basira smiled faintly. “Well then. Let’s head out.”

Sasha wasn’t sure what to make of Daisy the elf.

She was broad-shouldered and hulking, taller than both Gerry and Martin. Her crossbow was an enormous contraption with bolts that looked thick enough to punch through solid rock, but she rested it on one shoulder as easily as a baton. In spite of her size and rough appearance, her footsteps made virtually no sound even on gravel. At this point, Sasha had yet to see her crack a smile. On the rare occasion that she met Sasha’s eyes, her expression suggested that she was considering the most strategic bone to break.

Not that any of that was troubling. Sasha had met her fair share of surly meatheads in the past, and if Daisy was another one of those, that was fine. She was clearly good in a fight, and if they were hunting down a monster with just the three of them, then they needed all the help they could get.

The problem was…

“So, we’re after a hydra,” said Martin, jolting Sasha out of her thoughts. He passed her the contract, letting her read it for herself. “Do we follow you to find one, or are we supposed to find it ourselves?”

His tone was clipped and cold, and the look in his eyes when he addressed their temporary leader was decidedly unfriendly. It made Sasha uneasy—was he seeing something that she wasn’t?

Daisy hadn’t missed it either. Her lip curled back, showing off teeth that were just a bit too sharp even for a wood elf. “It’s part of the test,” she retorted. “You’re not much use as a hunter if you can’t even find what you’re supposed to kill.”

Mercifully, Martin didn’t carry the conversation on in that vein. He offered a curt nod, and that was all.

“I’m… guessing you’re the expert at that?” Sasha spoke up, eager to deflate the tension before it could pop. “Since you—I remember you found the horses, when we first met. Didn’t miss a single one. I thought that was pretty impressive.”

Daisy seemed… not mollified by this, but less bitey at least. She shrugged, shifting her crossbow to keep it from sliding off her shoulder. “I’m good at tracking.”

Martin made a quiet, aborted noise under his breath, like he’d been about to say something and thought better of it at the last minute. Daisy didn’t miss that, either.

“Is there a problem, Blackwood?” she growled.

“No,” Martin replied, and Sasha didn’t need any special insight to see through it. “Let’s just find this thing.”

Daisy’s tracking skills didn’t come into play right away—(“What am I supposed to do, follow a hydra out the city gates? Doesn’t matter how good a tracker I am if there’s no trail.”)—but she did lead them to a few good places to find their starting point. The Abundant Terrace was a city district to the north, though it looked less like a city district and more like a sprawling arboretum. Different parts of Vasselheim were, apparently, devoted to different gods, and the Terrace belonged to the Wildmother.

For the problem of a beast and its whereabouts in the wilderness, there was hardly a better place to ask around.

The people there apparently knew Daisy well, and Sasha kept a close eye on their faces as they spoke with her. Reception ranged from awe tinged with fear to a cold politeness that nearly matched Martin’s. Most on either end of that spectrum gave her a healthy distance either way.

Within an hour, they had their answer. Several people, from a grizzled one-eyed ranger to a cleric of the Wildmother who spent as much time in the Timberland as in the city, told them with confidence that the best place to find a hydra was the Marrowglade Loch.

“Sounds like common knowledge,” Sasha remarked “I feel like we could’ve asked around at the guild hall and saved ourselves the walk.”

“Or asked our current leader,” Martin said acidly.

A few paces ahead of them, Daisy shrugged. “Good practice, gathering information. Not every contract’s as straightforward. Hydras and chimeras might be out in the woods, but try hunting down a rakshasa.” She grimaced. “Me and Basira had to interview half the city to pick up its trail.”

“Didn’t realize we were getting quizzed on everything,” Martin muttered. This time, Daisy ignored him. The tension didn’t rise, thankfully, but it did linger. It made Sasha itch, not just with nervousness but curiosity.

The last time he’d acted like this around someone—especially someone who was ostensibly an ally—was when they first brought Gerry on. And that whole affair had turned out to have a lot more to it than just a clash of personalities. When Martin was like this around someone, there was a reason, and just knowing that much was enough to make Sasha desperate to know more. What was Martin seeing in this woman that she wasn’t? They clearly didn’t know each other; Sasha was pretty sure Daisy didn’t know why he was like this either.

She missed Tim, not for the first time since they’d split up for their initiation. With Tim she could vent her thoughts in a private conversation in Infernal. With Martin, she could stew in her bubbling little cauldron of curiosity until she snapped and just asked him, Daisy’s presence be damned.

But not yet. They had a hydra to hunt, and pouting and whining over not getting to hunt with Tim wouldn’t do her any good.

She hoped he and Gerry were having a better time of things, at least.

Monster hunting, as it turned out, involved a lot of walking.

Not that Gerry was any great authority on hunting things down. Usually when he ran into things like corpse flowers, it came down to bad luck, unhappy accidents, or beasts with empty bellies that looked at him and saw a full meal. After years of being in the wrong place in the wrong time, chasing down a dangerous creature with the intent to fight it was almost surreal.

If nothing else, the Eye would probably be happy about it, especially now. Gerry knew far more about corpse flowers than he ever wanted, and that was enough to know that his patron—his god—would be eating well when they got to the end of the trail.

Gerry shuddered in spite of himself, and regretted it when the careless action drew the Watcher’s attention for a few moments.

He held himself steady, for all that the familiar Watched feeling made him want to fidget. The last thing he wanted was to give himself away and invite questions. Because, if he wasn’t mistaken, their current leader was absolutely bursting with them.

Basira Hussain was a stoic woman, but stoic wasn’t the same as subtle.

He could feel her watching him, from time to time. For all he knew it was another “perk” to his pact, but for whatever reason he found it impossible to simply tune her out. It was far from the ever-present weight of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze, but it was sharper, like a splinter caught under his skin.

There wasn’t much he could do about it, short of calling her on it, so Gerry resigned himself to being gawked at and kept close to Tim.

At least Tim didn’t seem to mind the hovering.

“I’m telling you,” Tim was saying, to no one in particular but presumably to Gerry. “There’s something weird about this place. Can’t quite place it, but something about these woods… I don’t know. It itches? That’s the best way I can think to describe it.”

Gerry wasn’t sure he knew what he meant—the Watcher tended to overshadow his subtler instincts. But he understood the unease. “It’s dark,” he replied after a moment.

“And? Forests are dark all the time. Trees don’t let in a lot of sunlight when they grow too close together, you know?”

“Have you looked up, lately?” Gerry asked. “Not at the trees. At the sky between them. Notice anything?”

In spite of the denseness of the Vesperwood, there was enough space among the treetops to show fragments of sky. Its color was dim and muted, the darkening blue-on-purple of evening. Appropriate, considering the forest’s name.

Less so, considering the time of day.

“Huh.” Tim’s frown deepened. “Can’t be that late, can it?”

“It’s not,” Basira called back, making Tim jump. “The Vesperwood’s saturated with magic. It’s always evening here, and it grows abnormally fast.” She glanced back, pausing as if just realizing how far ahead she was. “There’s history of people trying to clear it out to build more towns and cities. Most of them don’t last—the forest takes the land back before anyone can get a foothold.”

“Seemed like it tolerated the road to Vasselheim,” Tim replied.

“True.” Basira shrugged. “Dunno how long that road’s been there, though. It’s at least as old as Vasselheim itself.”

Tim gave a quiet whistle. “Is all that why this place attracts so many magical beasts?”

Basira smiled thinly. “Could be. Or it’s like this because of all the magical beasts in it. There’s plenty of debates about it.” Her eyes flickered toward Gerry. “You might know, with your patron.”

With the Watcher’s gaze trained on him, the reminder made him bristle. “It’s not feeling chatty at the moment.”

The corners of Basira’s eyes deepened slightly. “Hm. Pity.”

Tim shot him a glance, as if checking to see if he needed to say something. Gerry kept his face carefully blank as they ventured on.

“Doing alright?” Tim asked, after another long stretch of silence. Ahead of them, Basira turned her head slightly. Probably still listening.

“Alright, I guess,” Gerry replied.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Gerry glanced at him, but Tim merely looked thoughtful. “Why?”

“Dunno, I wasn’t sure how much you really wanted to do this,” said Tim, with a wary glance at Basira. She gave no outward sign that she had heard.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Tim shrugged. “Well, first it was just Sasha and me, then Martin couldn’t find his friends and decided to give it a go, and… honestly, it seemed like you got dragged along.”

“And what if I did? No one held a knife to my throat.” Gerry let out a deep breath. “Might as well do something, as long as I’m here.”

“Try and restrain your enthusiasm,” Tim said dryly.

“Look, it’s fine,” Gerry insisted. “I’m just… you know where I came from. Bits of it, at least. I’ve never really—gods. Right, so, first part of my life, I’m under my mother’s thumb, yeah? I do what I’m told. I keep my head down. I stay alive. And then, first chance I get, I get out, and I pledge myself to a dark god to stay out. And ever since then it’s just—stay alive, stay hidden. Don’t stay in one place, don’t draw attention, don’t get killed, don’t get found.” He paused for breath again. “You try living like that, see how good you are at long-term planning.”

Tim hissed quietly through his teeth. “No offense,” he said. “But that sounds like a shit way to live.”

“Yeah, well, it is. I don’t recommend it.” Gerry paused to pick his way through a tangled root system. “It’s better, ever since I got this.” He touched his talisman. “Since I found you three. Since I won Martin over.”

“Oh, I see.” Tim’s tone was odd, but Gerry couldn’t be bothered to parse it.

“I’ve never held a job before,” he went on. “But, like it or not, between Mum and the Eye, I’ve got plenty of awful knowledge in my head. May as well make use of it somehow.”

“Hm. You only went for it when Martin did, though.”

“I suppose.” Gerry frowned at him. “Didn’t occur to me until someone suggested it to my face.”

“Until Martin suggested it.”

“Yes?”

“You’re, uh. Really sticking with him from now on?” Tim shot him a sidelong glance.

“Y-yeah.” Gerry was glad they were already walking; if he’d been sitting still, he would have had to get up and pace. There was just something about having a proper plan for once—not just a strategy, not just steps to take in order to survive until morning, but a real plan that stretched out beyond tomorrow and the day after. There was nothing else quite like it.

He warmed at the thought, only to startle when Tim clapped him on the back. “I’m happy for you,” Tim said cheerfully.

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome! And I really hope it works out. He’s a good man, and so are you.”

“Right.” The words sank in. “Wait—Tim.”

Tim held his hands up, beaming. “Say no more. It’s none of my business.”

“Tim, it’s not like that—”

“Isn’t it?” Tim raised an eyebrow at him. “He spent the first part of the voyage fretting over you.”

“I was sick—”

“You were seasick, and he was mooning. Ask Sasha, she saw it too.”

Gerry rolled his eyes. “Sasha could barely stand to be around me without running off at the first hint of gagging.”

“True. But she did tell me she heard him singing to you.”

Gerry stumbled. He’d frozen in the middle of stepping through undergrowth, and his balance had taken the hit. Tim steadied him with a hand on his elbow until he was firm on his feet again.

His first instinct was denial. Obviously Tim was wrong, because—“Martin didn’t—he doesn’t sing for anyone.”

“I know. Weird, isn’t it?”

“He wouldn’t—when was this? Did she tell you that exactly?”

“She woke up in the middle of the night and heard him singing.” Tim grinned like he was enjoying himself, and Gerry might have swatted the look off his face if he weren’t just a little desperate for answers. “Said it was lovely and sad and full of bard magic.”

Memories came in fragments, in half-remembered sounds and sensations. Darkness mixed with exhaustion and misery, with a soft melody slipping through like an offered hand, open and waiting to lead him out.

Gerry shook his head, but the memories remained.

“It doesn’t—” He stopped. Tried again. “I was sick.”

“I know you’re not asking for my opinion,” Tim sighed, patting him again. “But here it is anyway. You say it’s not like that. You might want to ask Martin, just to be sure.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Martin being at least a little in love with you.” Amusement danced in Tim’s eyes. “I’m a little envious, to be honest with you.”

Something flared up behind Gerry’s breastbone, unwanted and vehement. “Wait, you mean you—are you…?”

“Nah. No more than usual, anyway. He’s lovely. Like I said, I’m happy for you. Hope it works out.”

“There’s nothing to—” Gerry stopped. “Look, even if there was…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes?” Tim prompted.

“It’s just not a good idea. I’m not…” Gerry ground his teeth. “I’m not really meant for that sort of thing.”

“You weren’t meant for long-term plans, either,” Tim pointed out. “And look at you now.”

For once Gerry was glad for the uneven terrain; it gave him an excuse to look anywhere but at Tim’s face.

“I’m just saying,” Tim said quietly. “Let yourself have nice things once in a while. You’ll go mad, otherwise.”

“Maybe,” Gerry conceded after a moment. “I just—not too long ago, he didn’t trust me. I’d rather not press my luck.”

“Fair.”

Up ahead, Basira had come to a halt. “We’re here,” she called back.

The forest around them had changed. The ground had gone from dry to damp to soggy, leaving mud clinging to everything it touched. Unnatural evening still kept most of the light from touching the Vesperwood, even though the trees had thinned out just a little, growing on ground dry and firm enough to keep roots in place. The smell of damp hung in the air all around, not warm enough to be humid but thick enough to have weight.

“Right,” Tim said, with audible distaste. “That’s certainly wet enough. What now?”

“Now, we narrow our search and hope we haven’t just wasted half a day of walking,” Basira replied.

“Water’s not enough for a corpse flower,” Gerry said, prodding gingerly at his base of knowledge. He didn’t like dipping into what he’d learned from Mum; most of it came attached to unpleasant memories. “A place like this might be good for it to come back to, but what it really needs is food. Bodies.”

“Well, listen to that,” Tim said grimly.

Gerry listened, and heard nothing but the wind through the trees. “I don’t—oh.”

Basira reached the same conclusion at nearly the same time. “No birds.”

“It’ll be starving, if that’s all it’s eating,” Gerry pointed out. “Corpse flowers prefer human meat.”

“Lovely,” Tim said acidly.

“Any more insights?” Basira asked. Her eyes were on Gerry.

Gerry shrugged, uncomfortable at the pointed attention. “Find corpses and you’ll find a corpse flower, if there is one. What else do you want?”

“You’re the one with the god of knowledge.”

“Yeah, well I’m not like Martin, I don’t cast a spell and get an answer,” he said testily. “Either it’ll tell me something or it won’t.”

Basira raised her eyebrows at that, but again she didn’t press. “Fine then.” She checked her map again. “There’s a small settlement west of here.”

“You think it’ll be there?” Tim asked.

“People living somewhere means people dying there, too,” Basira pointed out. “Bodies have to go somewhere.”

They walked on, trudging through the mud and damp.

The journey to the Marrowglade Loch took the better part of a day. Daisy led the way by several paces, only slowing down when she got too far ahead. Sasha did her best, but Daisy’s longer stride made keeping up a constant challenge.

Attempts at conversation with their guide were rebuffed with flat, one-word answers, and Sasha quickly gave that up as a hopeless cause. Daisy wasn’t interested in small talk, much less prodding for information.

Martin was only a little better. At the very least he made a show of listening and answering her valiant attempts to make the walk more interesting, but she could tell his heart was barely in it. Sasha hadn’t seen him this taciturn since they first brought Gerry into their little group.

It was frustrating, more than anything. Sasha had hoped that reaching Vasselheim would throw off what remained of any awkward stiffness between them. They’d reached their goal, gotten Martin to his destination in one piece and everything. They weren’t his employees anymore, for all that the status had felt more and more meaningless the longer they traveled together. Now it was official, and they could be proper friends without the payment and services rendered hanging over their heads, but…

Well, Martin had been on his way out for a while, if Sasha were honest with herself. Since the kraken attack at least, but probably even before then. And now here she was, stuck in the middle of a magic-drenched forest, with him and an even more laconic elf for company.

Gods, she missed Tim.

“Do you even want to do this?” she asked Martin, the fourth time Daisy let them stop for a rest. The elf had vanished to scout ahead, and Sasha was reasonably certain she hadn’t doubled back to spy on them or anything.

“What?” Martin asked after a moment, and Sasha resisted the urge to shake him.

“I said do you even want to do this?” Sasha sat back to take her weight off her feet. “Seems like you decided to do this on a whim, and you aren’t even happy to be here.”

“We’ve been walking for hours, and there’s a hydra waiting at the end,” he pointed out.

“Still!” She spread her hands wide. “I’ve been trying. Daisy’s a lost cause, but come on. We’ve been traveling together weeks—months, even. Surely we can hold one decent conversation without the others, can’t we?”

Martin at least had the grace to look shamefaced. “Sorry,” he sighed. “I guess I haven’t been the best company, have I.”

“I just don’t know where your head is,” Sasha told him. “You’ve been… weird, lately. I had hopes, you know, when you decided to do this with us. Me and Tim, I mean. And Gerry too. But… I don’t know. I’d hoped we’d be friends by this point.”

“We…” Martin hesitated. “We are, I think.”

“Well, good. But I’ll ask again, do you even want to do this?” Sasha watched his face carefully. “Something tells me it’s more than just not getting along with our guide.”

“I do want to do this. I think it’s a good idea.” Martin hesitated, his face scrunching slightly. “I still don’t… quite know what to do, going forward. And besides the friends that I already have, I need allies. I need connections, resources. I think the Slayer’s Take is a good connection to have.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“Plus, it’s not like I have a job lined up or anything,” Martin added.

“Heh, true.”

Eventually Daisy returned, and they moved on.

Their journey had started in the morning, and it was late afternoon when they approached the Marrowglade Loch.

The oppressive woods seemed to draw back as they got closer to the loch, though trees still surrounded the lake. It wasn’t much to look at, as lakes went. The surrounding area was dull and muddy, and the first distant view of the lake Sasha got was less than impressive.

“Not much of a lake,” she remarked. “More like a pond, really.”

“It’s deep,” Daisy said suddenly, almost scaring the life out of her. “They say there’s sunken ruins somewhere in there.”

“What sort of ruins?” Sasha asked eagerly.

Daisy shrugged. “Temples. Tombs. Nothing we need to worry about. Unless you feel like taking a swim. Right time of year, the ice might even be melted.”

Sasha eyed the mud around them, and the lake beyond. “Pass.”

Daisy made a quiet noise that was almost, maybe a laugh, then came to a halt. “We’ll stop here.”

“What for?”

“Dunno where the hydra is,” Daisy replied. She rolled her shoulders, popping them with a satisfied noise. “But it’s probably living in the loch, so we can’t get close without risking an ambush.” Her eyes gleamed. “Stay here. I’ll scout ahead.”

In moments, her energy had shifted. She’d been stonefaced and unreadable for the entire day, but now she hummed with a sudden, vibrating excitement. From what Sasha could tell, she wasn’t trying very hard to hide it.

Daisy was about to set off again when Martin stepped directly into her path. “Absolutely not,” he said flatly. “We should stay together.”

The elf bared the tips of her teeth, irritated. “Who’s the more experienced one here?” she snapped. “I don’t need the two of you stomping behind me while I look for this thing.”

“Hey—” Sasha began, indignant.

“I don’t care how experienced you think you are,” Martin retorted. “We’re not splitting up in the middle of hydra territory."

“Excuse me?” A warning growl built behind Daisy’s words. “What do you mean think?”

“I mean how long have you been at this, really?” Martin shot back. “Hunting beasts instead of people? A couple years? No more than three, that’s for sure.”

Daisy’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Who told you that?”

“Seriously?”

“Alright!” Sasha stepped between them, only because Daisy looked ready to lunge and Martin wasn’t far behind. “Enough. Both of you. Martin, you especially.” He looked ready to argue until she elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Come on. We’re in the middle of hydra territory, remember? We don’t need to be the ones ripping each other apart.”

Martin didn’t back down at that, exactly. He went very still, which didn’t mean much because lots of creatures went still right before they lunged.

“Thank you,” Sasha said, with a wary look at Daisy to make sure she was doing the same. “Now. Anyone care to tell me what this is about?”

She didn’t get an answer right away. Martin was too busy glaring, and Daisy was staring back with a face like stone. As Sasha watched, the last dregs of angry confusion drained away, and she averted her eyes first.

“You’re from Westruun, I take it,” she muttered. Martin’s glare deepened.

“What of it?” Sasha asked, since Martin clearly wasn’t going to.

“Used to live there,” Daisy replied. “I was in the guard. The, uh. Shields of the Plains.” She grimaced slightly. “I was good at it. Really good. Enough to make people scared, and for good reason. I liked that, making people scared. Still do. I miss it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Sasha. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Dunno. Ask him.” Daisy nodded to Martin. “I’m guessing I mauled someone he likes. Or maybe I didn’t. Not like people needed a reason to hate me. I made it easy.”

“If you don’t remember then it’s not worth telling you,” Martin growled.

Daisy shrugged, resigned but not quite uncaring. If Sasha didn’t know better, she’d say the elf looked almost apologetic. “Fair enough. I wore out my welcome with the rest of the guard. They decided I was too dangerous to keep around—I might bite someone. It’s funny, they didn’t mind it so much when I was turning it on the ones they wanted mauled. So we left. Got our heads on straight. I still miss it sometimes, but I’m here now. Happy?”

“No,” Martin said flatly.

“Yeah. Didn’t think you would be.”

“Wait,” Sasha cut them both off. “You—you’re not the Shieldhound. You can’t be.”

The tips of Daisy’s teeth flashed. “Well I’m not anymore, that’s for sure.”

“Shit,” Sasha breathed out. The Shieldhound. So this was where she’d disappeared to. Sasha had always wondered, fascinated by the rumors, but this just made her curiosity burn hotter. Not to mention—“I… think we might’ve squatted in your cabin for a night.”

“Huh.” Daisy’s eyebrows twitched upward. “Well. Sorry about the stains.” She turned back to Martin. “Can we get back to it now?”

“We’re staying together,” Martin insisted.

Daisy grimaced again, but she jerked her head at them as she turned back toward the loch. “Come on, then. And at least try not to make a sound.”

And, to their credit, they didn’t. At least, Sasha didn’t think they did, and she was pretty comfortable calling herself an authority on stealth. She was good at it. Martin was good at it—which surprised her, because a man his size had no business walking so quietly. And Daisy, as it turned out, was also good at it.

But it didn’t matter in the end. Daisy halted not far from the edge of the lake, behind the shelter of a wide tree trunk. Sasha stopped as well, with Martin only a beat behind.

“Damn,” Daisy muttered.

“What?” Martin asked warily.

Daisy growled softly. “Saw us coming,” she said, and the surface of the lake shattered.

Sasha had never seen a hydra before. She’d seen a skull once, displayed in a marketplace as if anyone was looking to buy it with their groceries for the week. A hydra skull, as it turned out, looked quite a bit different with the skin and muscles on.

Also, there were five of them.

Sasha narrowly missed dying when one of the heads snapped at her. Another tore a chunk out of the tree they were hiding behind. A third tried to tear a chunk out of Martin.

He responded by switching his ax to the arm that wasn’t bleeding, and swinging it deep between its eyes. The head reared back, shrieking, as a massive crossbow bolt took it through the shoulder.

The two wounds barely slowed it down.

“Don’t cut off any heads!” Daisy yelled.

“Obviously!” Martin shouted back.

They were in trouble, Sasha realized. They’d started the fight surprised, off-balance, and unprepared. The hydra, by comparison, had been lying in wait to ambush them. It also had five heads, so technically, they were outnumbered. She only had so many spells, Daisy didn’t seem to have any, and by the way the fight was going, they were going to need Martin’s healing.

She got a lucky shot in, stabbing one of the heads in the eye when it snapped at her, only to be knocked off her feet when its muscular neck smashed into her. Martin was already bleeding, and a split second’s slowness could cost him.

Even Daisy was struggling, Shieldhound or not. It wasn’t easy to pick up on, when most of Sasha’s attention was focused on staying alive. But something about the way Daisy moved seemed off. Stiff, mistimed, unbalanced. And Daisy must have realized it too, because it was pissing her off even more than the hydra.

At least her aim was good; one shot made it straight down the hydra’s throat, and the head gagged and vomited blood as the whole creature whipped around to retaliate. Sasha was knocked over again, this time by the beast’s sweeping tail as it turned to face Daisy. An errant head, separate from the rest, noticed Sasha’s vulnerability. Without warning, or waiting for agreement with its other heads, the hydra’s toothy jaws whipped out at her, heedless of the holy fire that descended on it at Martin’s command.

Before it reached her, Daisy roared.

It was the roar of a beast, not a warrior. Sasha was halfway to her feet when she looked to Daisy and saw her change. Her face shifted, bones and muscles morphing beneath her skin, elongating into a narrow muzzle and wide jaws that opened to reveal two rows of carnivore teeth.

Without a word, Daisy ducked beneath the other heads and lunged for the one on its own. Her jaws closed around the back of the hydra’s neck, fangs sinking in deep until dark blood ran down either side of her face. The head whipped from side to side, shrieking frantically, before a deafening crack cut off its cries. The head went limp, and Daisy bore it to the ground and all but tore it clean off.

The remaining heads roared in fury as the dead neck began to shift. Daisy rose up from her partial kill, her blood-smeared face hungry for more. Swearing loudly, Martin charged forward with green fire at his fingertips, and a snapping head nearly took his arm from his shoulder. He sprang back, shouting for Daisy, but she either ignored him outright or couldn’t hear him at all.

Martin’s hand closed around Sasha’s wrist, tight as a vice. “We need to go.”

Sasha whpped around to stare at him. “But—!”

“Regroup,” he said. “Come on.”

“What about Daisy?”

For a moment she almost thought he was about to leave her behind. But then he scowled, irritated, and his holy symbol glowed beneath his scarf again.

Sasha was frightened. She knew she was, because if you weren’t scared after being ambushed by a hydra, then you weren’t paying attention. Fear was what kept her on her toes, kept her quick enough to dodge those snapping jaws.

So she was a little alarmed when she felt her own fear being sucked out of her like drawn blood. And then she wasn’t alarmed, because in the moments that followed, Sasha felt nothing at all. It ought to have been terrifying. And it would be, once she had it in her to feel again.

Daisy stumbled back out of the hydra’s immediate reach, even more off balance than she had been before. She shook her head as if to clear it, and the angle was just right for Sasha to see her face shift again and return to normal.

When she turned and briefly met Sasha’s eyes, the animal rage was gone, replaced by dazed confusion.

“Come on!” Martin shouted at the top of his lungs. Blinking the dizziness away, Daisy turned and followed.

The hydra pursued them back to the treeline, where it paused some distance away and paced back and forth. The neck that Daisy had savaged finished shifting, and when the hydra spotted them in the shelter of the trees, it was with six pairs of eyes, not five.

“Nice going,” Martin said dryly.

Daisy was leaning against a tree trunk, one hand over the lower part of her face. It swept up and down, up and down, as if she was making sure that her nose and mouth were back where they belonged. It took her a moment to answer.

“What’d you do to me?” Daisy grunted. “Was that a bard thing or a cleric thing?”

“It can be both,” Martin replied. “In that case, it was a cleric thing.” At Daisy’s grimace, he shrugged. “You were berserk. All I did was dampen it.”

“What was that?” Sasha demanded, unable to contain herself. “It wasn’t druid magic, druids don’t shift like that. The change all the way, not just in bits.”

“’M not a druid,” Daisy muttered, still feeling around her face where a bestial muzzle was. “Long story. I’ve got… something, living in me. Dekker says it might be some spirit from another plane. I don’t know. All I know is, it’s hungry, and the only thing it wants is blood.”

“Oh,” Sasha said faintly.

“I usually get a choice about what I feed it,” Daisy went on, eyes tracking the hydra as it paced the lake shore. “But things get muddled sometimes. Too easy to fall into bad habits. It’s not picky. It doesn’t care what it kills. Easier for me not to care, either.” Her gaze flickered briefly to Sasha. “That’s why I left Westruun, and the Shields. Living like that, working with people like that… I got stuck. Pushed into bad habits.”

“I’m sure you were very reluctant,” Martin said sourly. The tips of Daisy’s teeth flashed briefly, but she said nothing.

Sasha took a deep breath. “Well. We’ve got to be careful, then—we’ve got an extra head to worry about. Let’s try not to rip off any more, shall we?”

“Should we split up?” Martin asked. “Come at it from different angles, so we aren’t as outnumbered?”

“That’s still two heads for each of us,” Daisy said grimly. “Either of you like your odds there?”

The hydra charged before they could reply. The thick treeline protected them, for the most part, but the newest-sprouted head got far too close for Sasha’s liking. Martin was closest to its snapping jaws, at least before Daisy lunged at it. Her form was changing again, teeth growing long, before she seemed to snap herself out of it and retreat again. The head snapped again, and Sasha risked a volley of magic missiles.

They struck home in its face. The head thrashed briefly in pain, then whipped backward and nearly collided with the others. As Sasha watched, tense, the injured head swayed from side to side, jostling the rest until a couple of them snapped at it. It continued making guttural noises of distress, dripping dark blood into the mud at its feet.

Daisy was watching, bright-eyed and straight-backed.

“Is it…?” Martin began.

“Yep.” Daisy turned to Sasha with a toothy smile. “New plan, then.” She got to her feet with a grunt of pain. “D’you mind, Blackwood?”

Martin scowled at her, but his hand went to his hidden holy symbol, and the green fire of his magic washed over their wounds. His own bleeding stopped.

In the distance, the wounded hydra roared out a challenge.

“So what’s the plan?” Sasha asked.

Daisy hefted her crossbow and aimed carefully. “Go for the eyes.”

They had been trekking through the wetlands for an hour when the Ceaseless Watcher offered help the way it always did: sparsely and without warning.

“Oh,” Gerry said faintly. “It’s this way.”

“What?” Basira asked.

“Like I said.” Gerry heaved a sigh. “The Watcher helps when it decides to. This way.”

“To what?” Tim asked as he fell in step with him.

“Don’t know. Something nasty, and hopefully relevant.”

He paused, remembering at the last moment that Basira was supposed to be the one leading this mission. But she was already shouldering her pack and following, apparently unbothered. “At least it’s something to go on.”

“Is this the way to that town you’ve been talking about?” Tim asked her.

“Could be.”

“What do you mean, could be?”

Basira stowed her map again with a frustrated huff. “I mean this is the Vesper Timberland,” she said with forced patience. This whole forest is saturated with magic. It’s fast-growing, and that makes it fast-changing as well. I haven’t been through this way in a while, and it’s been long enough to lose any of the landmarks I might have used.” She ground her teeth, clearly irritated. “Trees fall, new ones grow in. Even the waterways change. All I have to go off of are vague directions, and the few landmarks that are harder to wipe away or shift over than others.”

“Does that mean we’re lost?” Tim asked warily.

At this, Basira snorted. “No. The forest might change, but the Heaven’s Stair doesn’t. Even this much magic can’t level a mountain on its own.” She jerked her head toward Gerry. “What it does mean is that we have to use other methods to find our way. Your knowledge god likes to take his time, doesn’t he.”

Gerry sighed deeply. “I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again, the Watcher tells me what it wants to tell me, when it feels like it.” He paused. “Even if there was something I could do to speed it along, I’m not sure I’d risk it. I only have so much magic in me, and if we’re facing a corpse flower with just the three of us, then I need all the magic I can spare.”

Basira paused mid-step to raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re a warlock. You have plenty.”

Gerry almost barked out a laugh before he managed to muffle himself. “Sadly I really don’t. I have to be sparing.”

“Can’t you just cast spells without expending your own reserves?” Basira pressed. “That’s the whole point of being a warlock, I thought. Your power comes from your patron.”

“Yeah, well, Beholding isn’t exactly generous.”

“Hm.” Basira was frowning, but it was more thoughtful now than frustrated.

“What?” Gerry glared back. “Are you going to tell me I’m wrong about my own pact?”

“No,” Basira replied, after far too long a moment. “But it’s inconvenient. How did you become a warlock?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Tim broke in, with a hard look at Basira. If she noticed, she gave no sign of it.

Gerry shrugged, pushing down his instinctive stab of discomfort. If this went well, he’d be in a guild with this woman. Might as well get this out of the way. “The Watcher came to me when I was at my lowest. I was alone and on the run, and it offered me the power to protect myself and stay hidden. I said yes, on the condition that no one else had to suffer for it. I’ve been trying to hold to that ever since.”

“But why make you a warlock?” Basira pressed. “Your friend’s a cleric, so why aren’t you?”

“You know, I’ve thought about that,” Gerry admitted. “My first thought was that I’m not exactly the pious type. But Martin isn’t either—he’s even less devoted than I am. So, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m meant to know. Considering the nature of the Watcher, maybe I’m better off never finding out.”

He could tell from the look on Basira’s face that she disagreed. Salesa had once called himself curious enough for the Watcher to like him. Now, seeing the steely glint of determination in Basira’s eyes, Gerry had a feeling she might get along with the Eye as well.

It was the smell that alerted him, in the end. His last encounter with a corpse flower had been years before, but when Gerry caught the scent lingering on the breeze, the memories came pouring back in, bloodstained petals and all.

“Damn it,” Basira muttered, as the trees and undergrowth parted around what was left of the settlement.

Already the forest was beginning to creep back in, root systems snaking beneath abandoned foundations, moss growing thick and green over the empty shells of buildings. The stench of death lingered in the air, mingling sickly-sweet with the smell of spring.

Tim was the first to break the silence, though he kept his voice low. “Not that many bodies around,” he murmured. “Even for the size of the village.”

Gerry tried to take comfort in that. “Could mean most of them fled.”

“That, or flower’s been around long enough to eat the entire town,” Basira pointed out.

Carefully skirting a corpse, Gerry noted the state of it. “Probably not,” he said. “They’ve been dead for a while, but not that long. Corpse flowers don’t need to eat that often unless they’re fighting.”

Left to their own devices, they only need to consume one body per week, the Eye supplied.

Gerry drew his wand from his belt, pointed it at the nearest corpse, and set it on fire.

Both of the others started. “Gerry what the hell?” Tim gritted out.

“Less bodies means a weaker flower when we fight it,” he said simply. Basira was already setting another two corpses alight.

From there, they found the thing by following their noses. The monstrous plant sat in the center of the remains of the village, squatting over a small pile of bodies like a spider in the middle of its web. Thorny vines spread out like tentacles, curling as it rose up to meet them. Its petals bloomed wide, peeling back to reveal its bloodstained mouth.

“Not that I’m an expert on plant emotions,” Tim remarked. “But it doesn’t look very surprised to see us.”

“We haven’t really been subtle,” Basira pointed out, and loosed a spell that erupted in fiery sparks.

The flower screamed. Its petals trembled, and it spat out a slimy, half-rotted body from within itself. As the three of them watched, the corpse got to its feet and began shambling toward them. The dizzying stench struck Gerry like a physical blow, and it took all his self control not to vomit.

With a sigh, he drew his sword and reluctantly reached for what power the Ceaseless Watcher could give him. “Why couldn’t we have taken the hydra?”

A dry chuckle from Basira reached his ears. “My fault,” she said. “I lost a bet. This was how Daisy chose to cash it in.”

“Great!” Tim said brightly. “I hate everything about that.” He shot the flower in the closest approximation to a face it had. The flower screamed again. “Can we hurry up and kill this thing now?”

“Gladly.” Another spell lit up the ruins of the settlement. “Hey Keay—how many more charges does that wand of yours have in it?”

“Enough,” Gerry said grimly. “Tim, could you—?”

“I’ll take out any corpses it pukes up,” Tim sighed as he nocked another arrow. “Let’s get this over with.”

Watching Daisy field-dress a dead hydra was an exercise in constitution. In this, at least, Sasha and Martin let her brush off their help, though she did set them to work extracting teeth from each head. She did the hide herself, and Sasha was happy to let her.

The work took another hour. The sky was beginning to darken by the time they left the carcass to the forest’s various scavengers, and found a safer spot to bed down for the night.

They woke early the next morning to begin the long trek back to Vasselheim, and it was nearly noon when they reached the Heaven’s Stair. Sasha couldn’t help sighing with relief at the sight of it.

“Gods, I need a bath,” she muttered. “And a long nap. And an enormous breakfast when I wake up from it.”

She’d only meant it for Martin’s ears, but Daisy spoke up from several paces ahead of them. “Guild hall first,” she said. “You do still want to join up, don’t you?”

“You mean we’re not members yet?” Sasha groaned. “I thought that was the whole point of this.”

“Paperwork,” was all Daisy said to explain, and Sasha could hear the smirk in her voice.

At the edge of the Vesper Timberland, Daisy paused and looked back. Martin also stopped, abruptly enough for Sasha to run into his back.

“What’s the hold-up?” she asked.

“The others are coming,” Daisy replied.

“Wait really?” Sasha turned to follow Daisy’s gaze, craning her neck in an attempt to see around the trees. It was impossible; the forest grew too thick, even this close to the city. “How can you tell?”

Daisy smirked again. “They’re upwind.”

Sure enough, after a few minutes Sasha spotted them. Basira was in the lead, waving to Daisy when she spotted them. Gerry and Tim were close behind, and by the looks on their faces they were just as eager to get out of the woods as Sasha was.

“How’d it go?” Daisy’s voice was tinged with smugness.

“Don’t you start,” Basira grumbled. “You know exactly how it went.”

Sasha tried to sniff as surreptitiously as she could. No, she couldn’t smell anything. What was Daisy talking about?”

Before she could ask, Tim leveled a flat look at her. “Don’t,” he sighed. “Just… just don’t, on this one.”

“How was the hydra?” Gerry asked wearily.

“Very bitey,” Sasha told him. “We’ve got the teeth to prove it.”

“Six heads’ worth of teeth,” Martin added. For the first time since the previous day, there was a touch of humor in his voice. “What do you even harvest from a corpse flower?”

With a brittle smile, Gerry patted him none too gently on the shoulder. “You don’t want to know.”

They made their way back into the city as a group. Vasselheim people weren’t much for gawking; Sasha had gathered that much from the first day they’d spent in the city. But their group drew stares all the same, and more than a few of them were directed at Daisy specifically. With what Sasha now knew about her, it was hardly a surprising. It was unlikely that anyone here knew about her celebrity status in Westruun, but if word had got around that she was playing host to some kind of animalistic spirit that killed things to sustain itself…

Well. It was hardly any wonder she did so well in the Slayer’s Take.

They reached the bazaar, and more than a few among the crowd hastened to get out of Daisy’s way. She didn’t bully her way through them; she didn’t need to. Sasha wondered if that was a Slayer’s Take thing, or just a Daisy thing.

They had nearly reached the guild hall when Martin came to a halt without warning. Sasha, having learned her lesson, wasn’t walking directly behind him this time.

“Martin?” she asked, confused, but he was staring straight ahead, spine straightening, eyes fixed on a spot at the front of the building.

Two women stood in that spot, dressed for travel in well-worn gear. One was a half-elf barely taller than Sasha, broad-shouldered and strong-looking with dark skin and braided hair. The other as a dark-haired halfling whose traveling clothes didn’t completely cover the blue robes that Sasha now recognized as the uniform of the Cobalt Soul.

The half-elf spotted them first, eyes flying open wide. She patted the halfling’s shoulder to get her attention, then came running. The halfling did a double-take at the sight of them, and quickly followed.

“Martin!” The half-elf collided with Martin in a hug, squeezing tight before drawing back with her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were wide with surprise, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “What are you doing here?”

“Hi, Georgie.” Martin’s smile was slightly brittle. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“I don’t believe you!” The halfling, who must have been Melanie, jabbed him at the highest spot on his hip that she could comfortably reach. “You hardly ever write, but you’ll tramp across two continents to visit?”

Martin shrugged. “I was getting lonely.”

Georgie’s face did a complicated little maneuver that Sasha couldn’t quite interpret. “Well, you’re here now,” she said. “And…” Her eyes flickered past him to Daisy and Basira. “Did you really—Adelard said you wanted to join the Slayer’s Take.”

“Technically he has joined,” Basira told her. “We just got back from their trials—just have to dot a few I’s and they’ll all be full members.”

“Congratulations.” Georgie grinned ruefully. “I’m sorry I missed you yesterday. You’ll have to tell me about it.” She looked to Daisy and Basira again. “Thanks for looking after him for me.”

Martin tensed at the comment, but Daisy simply shrugged while Basira’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

“I’m actually glad you’re back,” Basira replied. “Because I’ve been dying to ask—”

“Basira,” Martin said sharply.

“How does a paladin of Bahamut wind up friends with a cleric of the Ceaseless Watcher?” Basira asked, ignoring him.

Georgie froze.

The half-smile on Basira’s face began to fade, replaced by sharp curiosity. “Just curious. There’s got to be a story there.”

“Wait,” said Melanie, staring sharply at Basira, and then at Martin. “What’s she talking about?”

“It’s a long story,” Martin said tersely.

Georgie let go of him and stepped away, the smile dropping from her face. “You’re not denying it,” she said. “Why aren’t you—?”

“I wasn’t going to keep it from you,” Martin said, almost pleading. “It’s why I’m here. There’s so much I need to tell you—”

“Martin.” Georgie stared at him with quiet growing horror. “What did you do.”

Chapter Text

Gerry took in the tension rising in everyone present, and suppressed a sigh. After everything they’d been through so far, a happy reunion between friends turning into this was par for the course. He just wished he knew what was going on before the people around him decided to make a scene about it.

“You didn’t.” Melanie was staring at Martin, shock warring with anger on her face. “You can’t have! That doesn’t make any sense!”

“I know,” Martin said tersely. The tentative happiness from seeing his friends was gone, and every part of him screamed alarm. “Look, it’s a long story, but I promise it’ll make sense—”

“How?” Georgie demanded. “After everything that’s happened, everything Bouchard did to bring it here, you’re serving it now? What could have possibly possessed you—”

“I’m not serving it.” Martin’s eyes flickered around, as if checking to see if anyone else was staring. Luckily, the nearest passersby were now giving their group the widest berth possible, speeding up to spend as little time within earshot as possible.

“Um,” Sasha spoke up, a little nervously. “He really isn’t. He told us he’s planning on killing it, actually.”

Instead of being mollified, Georgie covered her face with her hands as if suppressing a scream. “Oh, you’re trying to kill the Ceaseless Watcher, so you sold your soul to it, that’s perfectly reasonable.”

Melanie grimaced. “Gods, Martin, we leave for one year and you come back with—with delusions of grandeur.”

“There’s more to it than that!” Martin burst out.

“Wait, really?” Tim asked. “It sounded pretty simple, the way you put it.”

“Oh, this I’ve got to hear,” Melanie said dryly.

“The Ceaseless Watcher’s a god of knowledge as much as fear, right?” Tim explained. “Martin wants to use his connection to it to figure out a way to get rid of it.”

“That’s not how it works, Martin!” Georgie’s hands dropped back to her sides. “Not with gods like that! Nothing good comes from dealing with them! No matter how much you think you can get from them, they always take more than you can afford to give!”

“It’s complicated, alright?” Martin gritted out through clenched teeth. “And now that we’re all together, I’d be happy to explain it in detail, but not here—”

“You know what we wanted to do,” Georgie went on, heedless. “You know why we left—why we came here. Why would you risk that by tying yourself to the one thing we’re trying to destroy?”

“Because you were wrong!” Martin shot back. “We were all wrong! And I came here to tell you that, and I will if you just stop yelling at me—”

“What do you mean, wrong?” Georgie demanded. “I know what I saw—what we both saw!”

“No you don’t—”

“You should know better than me! Did you just forget what we both lost because of that thing?”

“Georgie,” Martin gritted out.

“I saw you right before we left, remember? I almost couldn’t bring myself to leave back then, did you know that? Because I saw what you looked like, and you were scaring me.” Tears glittered at the corners of Georgie’s eyes. “So really, it couldn’t be simpler. After everything that happened—to you, and to Melanie—”

“Georgie, hey.” Melanie, beginning to look worried, put her hand to Georgie’s arm, but it was too late to calm her.

“And to Jon!” Georgie went on. “What would he say if he could see you now, taking magic handouts, doing its bidding—”

Gerry was standing close enough to see Martin’s eyes flash with more than just anger. “I don’t know!” he retorted. “I don’t know what he’d say, because he isn’t here, and neither were you!”

Without warning Georgie recoiled as if she’d been physically struck. At her side, a massive shape materialized out of thin air like a wraith, its form settling into a sabertooth the size of a small horse. It lunged with a snarl, forcing Martin to stumble back out of its reach.

Gerry’s hand was halfway to his sword when Basira and Daisy stepped into the middle of things. The sabertooth recoiled from them, placing itself protectively in front of Georgie as she recovered. Its tawny fur glittered like starlight.

“Right, that’s enough,” Basira said firmly. “Barker, dismiss your steed.”

One of Georgie’s eyes was squinted shut; she gingerly opened it again, revealing the bright red stains of a burst vein in the sclera. “But—”

“If you have grievances with each other,” Basira went on, “then you can bring them to Dekker’s attention. This isn’t the place for it, and you know it. Dismiss your steed.”

The cat growled as it vanished, and Georgie didn’t look any more ready to back down. “You don’t know what he’s serving, where his magic comes from—”

“The guild’s taken in all kinds before,” Basira pointed out. “Warlocks, clerics—”

“Me,” Daisy broke in.

“We’ll take this before Dekker, see what he says,” Basira repeated. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? He likes you enough to listen.”

Georgie scowled. Without another word, or another glance in Martin’s direction, she whipped around and stormed into the guild hall. Melanie shot a vicious glare at Martin as she hurried after her.

Daisy broke the heavy silence that followed. “Well. That was interesting. Never seen Barker snap like that.”

“Martin,” said Tim, with forced calm. “Anything you’d like to explain before we head in?”

Martin’s hands were white-knuckled fists. His face was pale, his eyes shining and unblinking, as if he was holding back tears. After a moment, he drew in a shaky breath, shook his head, and started inside.

On instinct, Gerry glanced around. Even this close to the market crowd, that little altercation hadn’t drawn an audience. The people around them were still keeping their distance, carefully minding their own business.

Small mercies, he thought, and hurried after Martin.

All the while, his thoughts raced. Sasha had predicted this, hadn’t she—that not everything was easy between Martin and his friends. And on reflection, now that he’d seen it before his eyes, it seemed obvious. Of course things weren’t easy between Martin and his estranged friends—they were estranged, weren’t they?

The emphasis on Jon wasn’t lost on him. Nor was the fact that Martin’s third friend was nowhere to be found, and Martin hadn’t put much effort into looking for him when they first arrived, and both Georgie and Martin talked about him like—

Like—

But that couldn’t be it. Why wouldn’t Martin have told them?

What we both lost to that thing, Georgie had said, and suddenly the obvious answer came crashing down on him. Not a handout from the Eye at his back, just a simple realization that sent his heart plummeting like a stone.

“Hey,” Sasha murmured, coming up on one side of him. “Does Basira know about your pact?”

Fuck, he hadn’t thought of that. “It came up when we were hunting.”

“Hopefully she won’t blab again,” Tim murmured. “If she doesn’t… might be a good idea to keep that quiet from now on.”

“Dekker might already know,” Gerry pointed out. “He already knew who my mother was. I wouldn’t put it past him to work that out about me, too.”

Daisy and Basira quickly overtook them, leading the way through the guild hall to Adelard Dekker’s office. There they found the guild master standing outside with Georgie and Melanie, speaking with them too quietly to be overheard. At their approach, Dekker glanced up.

“How did the trials go?” he asked, placing a gentle hand on Georgie’s shoulder. Gerry eyed her warily, and was hesitantly relieved to find her looking slightly less furious. Now she just looked close to tears.

“Went well,” Daisy replied.

“Until Barker got in a screaming row with one of them outside,” Basira added. Georgie glared at her, and was ignored. “I’m not quite sure what’s going on, but from the sound of it, she and Martin were having a disagreement about… religion, I guess.” Georgie’s glare sharpened.

“I’ve never known you to be one for debate,” Dekker said to her, gently dividing her attention. “Mr. Blackwood? Care to corroborate?”

“We were arguing,” Martin replied. “But it was personal, so I don’t see why you have to weigh in on it.”

“Martin, he can help,” Georgie told him, just barely on the edge of patient. “We’ve been working with him since we got here. He has—” She glanced at him quickly. “He has resources that no one else has, not even the Cobalt Soul.” She looked pained. “Look, whatever—whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, he can help get you out.”

“I don’t want his help, I just want you to listen to me.”

Dekker sighed, cutting off their argument before it could resume. “I assume this concerns the newly emerged god known as the Ceaseless Watcher?” he said grimly. His eyes were on Martin, utterly unreadable. “Am I to understand that you have a connection to this god?”

“No,” Martin said sullenly.

Dekker’s eyebrows rose. “Hm. For someone who serves a god of painful truths, among other things, you’re not a bad liar.”

“I don’t serve anything or anyone,” said Martin.

Dekker studied him for a moment more, as if measuring him with his eyes. “Be that as it may. If the Ceaseless Watcher is involved, then it would be best to take this discussion downstairs.”

Georgie’s eyes widened at that. Briefly Gerry pictured a subterranean torture chamber, only to remind himself that not everyone thought the way Mum did.

Still, he touched the hilt of his sword. It never hurt to prepare for the worst.

“Basira, Daisy, thank you very much,” Dekker went on, nodding to the pair. “I’ll speak with you later. For now, go see Fiona about the completed contracts.”

“What about us?” Tim asked.

“All of you are to follow me,” Dekker replied. “Regardless of how this discussion ends, the four of you did pass your trials. The last bit of your initiation takes place down below. If you’ll follow me?”

Georgie and Melanie fell in step with Dekker. Their mood was tense, and it didn’t give Gerry any good feelings about following them into the guild hall’s basement, regardless of the intent.

Martin wouldn’t look at anyone. Never a good sign.

Past a set of heavy iron doors, an enclosed flight of dimly-lit stairs led them down below the hall’s ground floor. Behind him, Gerry could hear Tim and Sasha whispering.

“Any idea what the last part of the initiation’s supposed to be?” Tim muttered.

“No idea,” Sasha whispered back. “Salesa didn’t say. I’m more worried about…” Her voice trailed off, but Gerry could imagine her gesturing at everyone in front of her.

“Me too,” he muttered back, and Tim reached forward to squeeze his shoulder.

He hadn’t known what to expect, but the subterranean cavern that opened at the foot of the steps wasn’t as surprising as it ought to have been. The light brightened here, illuminating the chamber and what lay within it.

Gerry felt the Eye open at his back, slow and curious like a cat uncurling from a nap. As he took in their new surroundings, so too did his patron.

It wasn’t like a basement at all, or even a cave, really. A stone sanctuary stood at the very center of it, consisting of a wide stone platform framed with sandstone columns, each topped with the symbol of an eye within a sickle—the insignia of the Knowing Mistress. A set of stairs were cut into the front of it, leading all the way to the top, where a smaller circular stone table sat at the center with what looked like a large sphere of clear glass embedded in it. Beyond the huge structure, Gerry could only see shadows. As they approached the foot of the platform, the shadows moved.

What emerged from them, stepping up to the top of the platform, was not a lion. In Gerry’s experience, not many lions reached a size like that, and even fewer had wings sprouting from their shoulders.

Or human faces, for that matter.

The face in question was elderly, and for a creature like her, that meant something. Her features was deeply lined, with a hardness to them that could have been chiseled from solid granite. Her hair was steel-gray and wound behind her head in a loose bun. Her eyes were pinpoints of solid silver.

Head tipped back, Dekker smiled at her. “Afternoon, Gertrude. Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

The sphinx’s chuckle rattled dryly in her chest. “I always have time for you, Adelard,” she replied. “Brought the new blood, have you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Though Georgie has a few concerns.”

“Yes, I imagine she would.” Gertrude lay couchant on the platform, looking down with mild interest at the group gathered before her. “I assume you’re here for my counsel, then. What seems to be the problem?”

“Well,” Dekker said mildly, “it seems as if the rumored cleric of the Ceaseless Watcher has joined our ranks. Tentatively,” he added. “Considering our recent work, I thought you might find it concerning, if you didn’t already know.”

“How would she know?” Sasha whispered, barely reaching Gerry’s ears.

“She’s a sphinx sitting on a temple of Ioun, gee, I wonder,” Tim muttered back.

“Well you don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“He is correct,” Gertrude said dryly, making Sasha jump. “I have never been a particularly devout creature—that’s more Adelard’s area than mine. Be that as it may, Ioun and I have something of an… understanding. Our goals, while separate, run parallel, and the Knowing Mistress has seen fit to give me her blessing, and more importantly her aid on occasion.” The sphinx’s tail curled around the stone table and its glass sphere. “This artifact is called a heart-glass, and the Mistress was kind enough to entrust this one to me. Through it, I can observe the goings-on of the world, and the planes beyond it. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Sasha nodded vigorously.

“And on that note, I can see why Miss Barker would have concerns,” said Gertrude, turning to the woman in question. “I understand that the Ceaseless Watcher is something of a personal matter for you.”

Georgie’s hands curled into fists, and she nodded without a word. Beside her, Melanie scowled. “It keeps getting more and more personal every day,” she said flatly.

“My sympathies,” Gertrude said gravely. “So, are you asking me to deny him entry?”

“I—no,” Georgie replied, shooting a glance at Martin. “But we need help. He’s tied to a god of fear—isn’t there something you can do?”

“I don’t need that kind of help,” Martin broke in. “I’m not trapped or enslaved or anything like that—”

“Martin,” Melanie hissed in warning.

Gerry eyed the sphinx nervously. “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t—”

“I don’t need freeing!” Martin went on, ignoring them. “I’m here because of a choice I made, and maybe it was the wrong one, but I still made it, and honestly? I don’t think it was. And if you really can watch the entire world, then you probably know that already, and you know why.”

To Gerry’s relief, the sphinx didn’t seem offended by his tone. She looked more exasperated than anything else, sighing quietly while, possibly, rolling her eyes. “I only have two eyes and one glass, Mr. Blackwood,” she said. “I can’t see everything at once. You are correct, however—there isn’t much I can do to break the bond between a cleric and their god. If you were in some way corrupted against your will, then that would be different. There are spells to undo curses, and to break the bonds of arcane influence.” She turned back to Georgie. “But if he’s made up his mind and pledged his devotion to the Ceaseless Watcher of his own accord, then nothing I say or do will change that.”

“Martin, please,” said Georgie. “You can’t do this. Not after what happened to Jon.”

“Don’t.” Martin’s voice was quiet, but it was impossible to mistake his quiet for calm. In that moment, it was hanging by threads. “Don’t throw Jon in my face again. That’s low, Georgie.”

“Lay off her,” Melanie growled. “Stop acting like you’re the only one who lost him.”

“What happened to Jon?” Sasha asked. “You all keep throwing his name around, but none of you will actually say what happened.”

Georgie opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again.

“What do you think summons a god like the Ceaseless Watcher?” Melanie shot back with weary anger. “A ritual like that takes human sacrifice. Jon was that sacrifice. If it weren’t for that thing and the bastard that brought it here, he’d still be alive.”

“Melanie, stop.” Martin’s voice trembled.

“So maybe,” she went on ruthlessly. “You can understand why we’re a little fucking furious that you pledged yourself to it less than a year later.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Gertrude said dryly from her perch. “But that’s a personal matter, and none of my business. On the other hand—” She rose to her full height again. “I can bar entry to you, should you prove to be a threat.” Her eyes gleamed. “It’s not every day that a god born from spilled blood and terror finds a foothold here.”

“Okay, wait a minute,” Sasha spoke up. She started forward, though her confidence only lasted her about three steps before she seemed to remember what was sitting at the top of the platform. “W-wait. You’ve already had your eye on this whole—Ceaseless Watcher situation, right?”

“That is correct,” Gertrude replied.

“Then even if you can’t watch everything at once, you have to have been watching its only cleric!” Sasha went on. “You’ve been watching us, haven’t you.”

“I’ve… looked in, from time to time.” A faint smile played about Gertrude’s lips.

“Then you know that Martin hasn’t done anything wrong!” Sasha spread her hands wide. “Considering all the planar rifts we’ve been dealing with, I’d say he’s been pretty helpful!”

“Also correct,” Gertrude agreed.

“Wait, you knew?” Melanie started forward with a scowl. “You knew all along that the cleric wasn’t just a rumor, and you knew who it was? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’ve been monitoring the situation,” Gertrude replied, unruffled by Melanie’s sharp tone. “That said, I’m not the only one who has been, which is why I haven’t spoken of it before now. You never know who else might be watching.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Ms. King, that a little caution never hurt anyone, and you would do well to remember that.” Gertrude turned back to Martin. “Luckily for you, I haven’t seen anything that calls for my intervention. Yet.”

Martin met her eyes squarely. “If you really care about what’s happening,” he said, “and you understand what I’m trying to do, then you won’t.”

“I certainly hope not,” Gertrude said, eyes glinting with something close to humor. “If I’m being perfectly honest, turning you away now would hardly be helpful, would it?”

“What are you talking about?” Georgie asked, voice shaking.

“It means that we still don’t know what either the Ceaseless Watcheror the man who brought it here wants with this world,” Gertrude explained. She smiled pleasantly at Martin. “Better to keep you close, until you make the Eye’s intentions clear.”

Gerry couldn’t be sure, when the sphinx’s eyes lacked pupils, but he swore her gaze flickered toward him as well, just for a moment.

It wasn’t that much of a surprise anymore—she’d already admitted to watching them.

Georgie drew in a long, slow breath, and let it out again. It trembled both ways. After a moment, she lifted her chin again with a brittle smile.

“Thank you for your time,” she said coldly. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the chamber. Melanie threw a lazy salute and followed her.

“Well,” Gertrude went on once their steps had faded away. “That’s done, then.”

“You could have been a bit more tactful,” Dekker chided her gently. “She came to you asking for help, and as far as she’s concerned, you’ve flatly refused.”

“She’ll bounce back. Talk to her, will you? She likes you far more than me. In the meantime—” She turned back to the four of them, lips parting in a smile. “Welcome to the Slayer’s Take. Hold still, if you don’t mind.”

Gerry braced himself on instinct, not sure what he was bracing for, before the sphinx’s eyes flashed. Quite literally—silver blazed into blinding white, filling Gerry’s vision with colored spots. Beside him, Martin’s yelp of pain was the only warning he got before his shoulder burned white-hot. The sensation lasted for a few seconds, enough to be alarming, before it faded again as abruptly as it had begun. His vision cleared, and he gingerly prodded the spot with his fingers. It didn’t even smart. Shrugging his coat off the one arm, he rolled up his sleeve to inspect it. There on the skin of his upper arm, in the color of a long-healed brand, was the same mark that was stamped on the front of the guild hall, as well as the guild members he’d happened to notice it on.

“Congratulations,” Dekker told them. “Your initiation is complete, and you are now full members of the Slayer’s Take.”

“Unless you give me a reason to eject you,” Gertrude added, lips curling in amusement. Her eyes had gone back to normal.

“Great,” Tim said hesitantly. “So what happens now?”

“As full members of the guild, this hall is now open to you,” Dekker told them. “If you need a place to stay, a hot meal, or somewhere to gather with other members, then you can find them here. We have a library as well—nothing as extensive as the Cobalt Vault, but it contains the guild’s knowledge of the surrounding wilds, and the creatures it contains. And on that note, you’re free to take on contracts if you need the coin, or if you simply wish to train your hunting skills.” He eyed them all meaningfully. “I have a feeling you’ll be interested in that.”

Tim muttered something that Gerry didn’t quite catch.

“And what about Martin?” Sasha pressed.

Dekker exchanged a glance with the sphinx. “I’ll be speaking with Georgie,” he said after a moment. “And in the interest of getting the full picture, I’ll also want to speak with all of you—later, but soon. Unless you’d like to handle that, Gertrude?”

The sphinx offered a toothy smile. “You’ve always been the people person, Adelard. Besides—I have a feeling they’ll want to talk amongst themselves first. Mr. Blackwood has a few things to get off his chest, if I’m not mistaken.”

Martin tensed, but said nothing.

“Right,” Gerry said, making a snap decision. He placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “We’ll just… go do that, then. Thanks.”

The sphinx’s strange eyes settled on him, and in an instant he felt uncomfortably cramped. The Beholding’s gaze continued to press on him from behind, and now Gertrude’s attention joined it from the front, leaving no part of him hidden from at least one powerful creature’s sight.

He drew back instinctively, and found himself setting his weight against the more familiar Eye. Whether that was better than the alternative was growing increasingly unclear.

The silent exchange didn’t go unnoticed; hardly anything did, when Sasha was around. “She’s not going to give you trouble too, is she?” she asked him under her breath.

“I don’t have any current plans to, no,” Gertrude replied, drawing a quiet eep from Sasha. “As with Mr. Blackwood, your presence has yet to cause any trouble, Miss Barker notwithstanding.” Her eyes glinted. “At least for now.”

“I don’t cause trouble,” Gerry said flatly. “It follows me.”

To his surprise, the sphinx laughed. “Well. At least you come by that honestly.”

Gerry blinked, caught off guard by the odd comment. “Wait, what?”

“I do hope this continues,” Gertrude went on. “Keays make irritating enemies, in my experience.” Before Gerry could reply, she turned and vanished into the shadows beyond the platform.

“Wait! Hey—!” A flash of fear silenced him even before Dekker’s gently restraining hand landed on his shoulder. He recognized it as the Watcher’s doing, nowhere near the blind panic that had alerted him to the kraken’s first attack but still sharp enough to be noticeable. Sometimes he wondered if it was the equivalent of his patron slapping the back of his head.

“Sorry about her,” Dekker said with faint exasperation. “She does that a lot.”

“What, raise a dozen questions and vanish?”

The man grimaced slightly. “She can’t travel as much as she used to, and watching the world only provides her with so much diversion,” he said. “So she looks for it elsewhere. Give her time, and she’ll answer them once she’s decided that she’s frustrated you enough.”

“Sounds like a responsible leader,” Tim said dryly.

“There’s a reason she leaves the day-to-day to me,” Dekker replied. He stepped away from the platform, beckoning them all. “Come on. You’ve all had a long day, and it’s hardly half over. If I’m not mistaken, we still owe you payment.”

Perhaps it was irresponsible of him, but Gerry hadn’t thought about money once since meeting Georgie. Thank the gods Dekker was honest.

The weight of the Eye’s scrutiny receded as they ascended the stairs. The fun part was over, then. Georgie and Melanie were long gone. Not even Basira and Daisy had stuck around; the only person left at the entrance to the guild hall was Fiona behind her desk, calmly counting out two piles of coins.

“Your portions of the contract earnings,” she explained when they approached. “This one for the hydra, this one for the corpse flower. Feel free to divide it amongst yourselves however you see fit.”

“Thanks,” Gerry murmured, taking one. Sasha took the other.

“Well then,” said Dekker. “That’s all our business for the day. Thank you for your time—I’ll be in touch.” And with that, he was gone.

Martin’s hands were shaking. Gerry wasn’t sure why he noticed that so quickly; it wasn’t like Martin had taken his share of the money yet. But there they were, shaking noticeably while the rest of him was utterly still. One of them was buried in the scarf around his neck, bunching up the fabric so that the edges of the scar showed.

Gerry tried not to stare at it—Martin didn’t like it when they looked at it. But it meant something, didn’t it? Something they hadn’t learned yet, something Martin and Georgie and Melanie hadn’t brought up. Even when they were shouting at each other, even when they were throwing words at each other that landed like blows, no one mentioned it once.

Sasha, as usual, was the first to break the silence. “Martin—”

“Not here,” he said. His knuckles were white as he gripped his scarf.

“Look, I don’t want to press, but—” Tim began.

“Please.” Martin’s voice broke. He must not have been expecting it, because in the next moment he went so still that he barely breathed. When he spoke again, his voice was forcefully steady. “I’ll tell you the rest. All of it. But I’m tired of talking about this where anyone can listen.”

“Let’s go back to the inn,” Gerry broke in, eager to prevent another disagreement. “The walls were thick and we paid for our own rooms. We can talk there.”

Martin didn’t wait for the others to agree before heading for the door.

The walk back to the inn was quiet. Gerry felt frozen even as his steps carried him through the weathered streets. Sasha, by contrast, was so twisted up with curiosity and held-back energy that she practically vibrated with it. Tim was tense. Martin…

He couldn’t tell with Martin. But whatever was going on in his head, it was nothing good.

Back at the inn, Martin stopped to pay the landlady before leading the way back to the room he and Gerry had shared. Tim was the last one inside, and carefully checked the hallway before closing the door and decisively locking it.

Gerry wasn’t expecting Martin to launch into an explanation immediately, and he didn’t. Instead, he crossed to his bed, unburdening himself of his pouch and outer gear. The last to come off was the scarf, exposing the scar to open air.

The silence had barely settled when Sasha spokeagain. “You could have told us, you know.” She paused, and when there was no immediate reply, she continued. “I… think I’ve worked it all out. After today, a lot of things started coming together. Making sense.”

“How about this,” Martin said. “Tell me what you worked out, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

Sasha hesitated. “Your friend Jon was that assistant you mentioned, wasn’t he? The one who worked for Elias Bouchard? Told you he was researching Jonah Magnus?” Gradually the pitch of her voice settled and stopped rising at the end of each sentence. “Gerry said that Jonah Magnus had designs on summoning dark gods, and Bouchard was looking into that, for whatever reason—but it took a sacrifice. And Salesa said Bouchard was looking for assistants but never had any, so… failed rituals, probably. Sacrifices that didn’t take.” Sasha hesitated one last time, staring at the back of Martin’s head. “Until it did. With Jon. In fact, I bet it happened over a year ago, on Winter’s Crest. That was the ritual in the Bramblewood.”

Martin didn’t answer, but he also didn’t say that she was wrong. Tim swore quietly under his breath.

“Maybe you were there,” Sasha said softly. “Maybe that’s how you got that scar. But either way, Georgie and Melanie came here, maybe to train, maybe to get help from the sphinx that watches the world. But without them, you came up with your own plan. Become the Ceaseless Watcher’s cleric, use its power against it. Avenge your friend. And now here we are.”

Martin’s hands were fists at his sides, pale and bloodless.

“Gods, Martin,” Tim breathed out. “Did you really think we wouldn’t understand—”

“Except that’s not what happened, is it,” Gerry broke in, and in an instant there were eyes on him—not the Eye itself, but Sasha’s eyes. Tim’s eyes.

Not Martin’s, yet.

“That’s what Georgie thinks happened,” Gerry went on. “It’s in line with what she was saying. And you told her she was wrong.”

The sob took him by surprise. It seemed to take Martin by surprise, too; his hand went to his mouth, covering it, but another sob followed it, and another, as Martin slowly broke down in front of them. His hand went from his mouth to his eyes, for what little good it did. The tears kept coming.

“We were both wrong,” Martin said softly. “It all got so confusing, and Jon—Jon was so scared, and I didn’t know what was happening, I-I couldn’t focus on anything, there was just—Jon, and me, and… and Georgie wasn’t even there, she had to piece it all together after because I… I couldn’t…”

“What were you wrong about, Martin?” Gerry asked.

“The ritual.” A ragged noise wrenched itself from Martin’s throat, another sob or a bitter imitation of a laugh. He was crying in earnest, tears coursing down his face until they reached the ragged scar that smiled across his throat. “We thought we knew what it was for. What he wanted. But we got it all wrong. And maybe I should’ve—when it was happening—but I couldn’t make sense of it, I was just—I was just scared. And that was the whole point. He needed me scared. He needed both of us scared, or it wouldn’t have worked.”

Realization struck, as pieces fell into place. “Jon wasn’t the sacrifice, was he,” Gerry said in a hushed voice. “You were.”

Martin nodded.

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Tim broke in. “If you were the sacrifice and you’re not dead, then the ritual shouldn’t have worked.”

“I was,” said Martin. “Just for a little while. Less than a minute. But it was enough. All I had to do was die—the ritual didn’t need me to stay dead.” He swiped his sleeve over his eyes, but it did little to stem the flow. “It was over as soon as the knife went in. Georgie got there in time to bring me back, with a Revivify scroll, but they were already gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” Sasha pressed. “Where did they go?”

“I don’t know!” Martin burst out. “I don’t know where Elias is, I don’t know where Jon is—that’s why I’m here! That’s why I’m doing this! And I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I didn’t know how to say it! I still don’t know how! How am I supposed to make you understand?”

“Martin,” Gerry tried to break in.

“It’s the second thing you have wrong,” Martin went on, heedless. “And I can’t even blame you, because we got it wrong, too! All along we never understood a single thing about that fucking ritual. Jon wasn’t the sacrifice. The ritual didn’t summon a god.” His voice broke as tears streamed down his face. “It made one.”

For the space of a breath, the room was utterly silent.

“What,” Tim choked out.

Martin stood before them, head hanging low, shoulders hitching with each shaking breath.

Instinctively, Gerry felt his way along his connection to the Eye, searching—for what, he wasn’t sure. The Eye had never given him a proper straight answer before, so why would it start now, with everything he knew flipped on its head?

There was no response, not even the weight of attention. The Eye was looking elsewhere.

Cautiously, he stepped closer. “Martin,” he began, before he realized he had no idea what he wanted to say. What could he possibly say to that?

“Fuck,” Sasha whispered.

“You’re saying—Jon.” Tim stared at him intently. “Your nosy half-elf wizard friend Jon who you’ve been talking about this entire time—he’s the Ceaseless Watcher.”

The noise Martin made sounded less like a sob and more like a quiet choking laugh. “That’s the last thing you got wrong,” he said. “Calling him my friend.”

He lifted his hand to the back of his neck, to the chain from which his holy symbol hung. With a flick, he undid the clasp and drew it out, then let the amulet slide down the chain and into his waiting palm.

It wasn’t an amulet at all; it was a silver ring, set with a tiny purple gem.

“It wasn’t hard,” he said softly. “Pledging myself to him like that. I’d already done it once. He gave me this three days before Bouchard tracked us down.”

His eyes were red-rimmed, weary, and backlit with simmering rage, even as the tears continued to run.

“I want him back.”

Chapter Text

His mother’s parting words still smarted like a slap to the head, but Martin brushed the feeling aside with the ease of practice. It wasn’t her fault, anyway, and it was… mostly not his fault, either.

Sometimes his mother just had bad days or bad weeks, and sometimes work took Martin back and forth across Westruun from dawn to dusk, and once in a great while the two fell on the same unlucky day.

At least he’d managed to salvage things, barely. He’d squeezed in a trip to the apothecary for her usual medicine, at the cost of being late answering the summons to the observatory. The scholar who’d received him had clearly been cross, but a grouchy astronomer paled in comparison to Liliana Blackwood on a bad day.

Luckily the trip was a fairly short one: a message delivered to Graystone Tower, either requesting permission to borrow some bit of equipment from the Archmage, or asking none too politely for the Archmage to return something of theirs. Martin had yet to meet the man, only speaking with a rotating collection of assistants while the Archmage himself kept to his research, but he’d gathered from irate academics all over the Scholar Ward that Elias Bouchard was a bit absent-minded.

Not that he was in any place to judge someone for being a bit scattered. Mum certainly never let him forget that.

Graystone Tower was, appropriately, a massive and dizzying piece of architecture, arguably the jewel of the city—the ones doing the arguing tended to be the observatory scholars. Martin still couldn’t decide whether or not he liked seeing either building. They brought to mind the lofty architecture of the Alabaster Lyceum in Emon, and thinking about anything to do with Emon inevitably reminded him of what he’d left behind there.

Fretting, he hurried to the entry door and knocked, drawing the message from his bag with his free hand. The sooner he got this over with, the better.

And then the door opened, and the person behind it snapped out an irate, “Yes? What do you want?” In that moment, Martin Blackwood’s day shifted, and his world along with it.

For a moment he could only stare, dumbfounded. When he finally found his voice, the first words out of his mouth were, “You’re not Rosie.”

“Martin? What are you doing here?” Jon gaped back at him—Jonathan Sims, of all people. He hadn’t grown a single inch, and a few new wisps of gray in his hair had joined the first. The rest of it was, as usual, long enough to make a nuisance of itself falling into his face.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Don’t you have—” Martin paused to do a bit of math in his head. “—another six months at the Lyceum?”

“Ah.” To Martin’s private relief, Jon was every bit as shocked to see him. “Right. Er… I sort of finished my studies early?”

“Really? Jon, that’s incredible!”

“It-it really isn’t,” Jon stammered out. “It wasn’t any genius on my part, I simply… well, I sort of let everything that wasn’t studying fall to the wayside. Productive but, ah, unpleasant, really wouldn’t recommend it…” His voice trailed off, and his hands fidgeted anxiously at his sides. “I’m sorry. It’s good to see you again, I should’ve led with that.”

“You too,” Martin said warmly. “I wish I’d known you’d be coming here, I’d have—wait.” He blinked, and abruptly remembered where he was and what he was there for. “What… are you doing here?”

“Oh, well, I actually—” Jon broke off with a start, head tilted as if listening. After a few second, he sighed and said, “Right. Sorry, Mr. Bouchard. I’m just talking to…” His voice trailed off as he shot Martin a questioning look.

“Oh, I’m a courier!” Martin said quickly. “I have a message from the observatory.”

“A messenger from the observatory,” Jon repeated. “I’m on my way up.” He paused, waiting for the Sending spell to end, then shook his head. “Sorry about that.”

“Bouchard,” Martin said faintly. “Jon, do you work for the Archmage now?”

“I-I do, actually,” Jon answered, a little bashfully. “And, it’s good to see you again, but…”

“Right, right!” Martin hastily pressed the message back into his hand. “The astronomers want one of their instruments back. I’m supposed to bring it to them, so if you could…”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.” Jon carefully shut the door and, presumably, went hurrying back up the tower. Martin tipped his head back to take in the full height of the thing, and didn’t envy him in the slightest. Jon never had the kind of trouble with long flights of stairs that Martin did.

His chest seized a little, and he leaned on the door frame to let it sink in. Jon was here. Here, in Westruun, Martin’s birthplace. When Mum’s illness first pulled him out of school, he’d been half-convinced that Jon would forget about him entirely.

By the time the door opened again, Martin had mostly calmed down and convinced himself this wasn’t some kind of fever dream born of loneliness and recent bad nights of sleep. Jon was there, a little winded from all the stair-climbing, but he had an expensive-looking box in his hands. “Here you are,” he said, holding it out. “One borrowed astrolabe. I think he forgot he still had it.”

“That’s what Rosie usually says,” Martin said, taking it. “Thanks, Jon.”

“You’re welcome.” Instead of stepping back and shutting the door again, Jon lingered. “It, ah. It really is good to see you again.”

There was something about seeing him again, something about the hesitant-yet-hopeful look in Jon’s eyes, that pushed Martin forward into boldness. “When are you free?” he asked.

Jon blinked. “What?”

“I mean, I hope he doesn’t have you working day and night,” Martin went on. “Archmages have to sleep sometime, so, when are you free?”

“I… he’s usually finished with me by early evening,” Jon replied. “N-not that I never have anything to do, I’ve—there are a lot of projects running. But, um.”

“Where are you staying?” Martin asked.

“Well… here, technically,” Jon replied. “I have a room in the tower, close by Elias’s office. He was kind enough to offer me a place to stay when he took me on.”

“Well, in that case, there’s the Sunkissed Tavern in the Residential Ward,” Martin told him. “Right up against the east wall. We could catch up?”

“Well—” Jon broke off again, wincing as if receiving a scolding that Martin couldn’t hear. “Yes, Mr. Bouchard, I’ll be right up,” he answered. To Martin, he said, “I have to go. But that sounds lovely. I’ll meet you there?”

“Great.” The sensation of fluttering reached all the way from his chest to his throat, much to Martin’s chagrin. After all this time, it hadn’t gone away. “I won’t keep you then. See you later?”

“I look forward to it.”

Jon shut the door, and Martin turned away at last, tucked the box under his arm, and set off for the observatory with a spring in his step.

It was strange, how public spaces could start to feel like home.

Martin had been in Emon long enough to find spots like that. The Owl’s Head with Hannah’s hospitality, the market square on early mornings, even certain libraries in the Erudite Quarter—he’d been more comfortable in places like that than he ever had been anywhere else.

He’d almost forgotten what that was like, after coming home to Westruun. His mother’s house hadn’t felt like his in years, and places that had once been familiar childhood haunts felt suddenly distant, as if Mum’s presence in the city threw a shadow over it all.

But then Jon came. And it was like he’d scooped up the comfort that Martin found in Emon and brought it back with him.

Between caring for his mother, sleeping lightly in case she called for him in the night, and spending most of his days running messages and keeping books, Martin found himself drawn to the little pockets of space where he could breathe: the main dining area of the Sunkissed Tavern, the public libraries in the Scholar Ward—

(—the open doorway at the foot of Graystone Tower—)

He could try to pretend otherwise, but what was the point in denying that they were all spaces he found himself sharing with Jon?

Sunkissed was where Jon found him today on this particular day. It was nearly sundown, and Martin had been waiting for a half hour or so. It wasn’t Jon’s fault; the Archmage kept him on something of an eclectic schedule. Jon’s work could run long, or it could abruptly end before noon, and as a result Martin didn’t see him quite as often as he would have liked.

But it was worth it. On evenings like these, when Jon breezed in with the wind at his heels and sparks in his eyes, it was especially so.

“Martin,” said Jon, which wasn’t quite a greeting, but forgiving him was easy when he looked so energized. “I’m not late, am I?”

Martin considered the question. He’d hardly seen hide or hair of Jon all week, and Jon had been frustratingly cagey about why. Apparently Elias was cooking up something new and special, but with the way Jon went on sometimes, Martin was pretty sure he’d consider Elias’s evening toilette on the same level of importance, if only because Elias was the one doing it.

“I haven’t been here that long,” Martin replied. “And I showed up early anyway. So how’d it go?” he added, before Jon could give him his usual shamefaced look. “Last week I couldn’t tell if you were nervous or excited.”

“A bit of both,” Jon admitted. “Would you like to hear about it?”

Martin grinned. “Jon, you know you’ve got a standing invitation to talk my ear off whenever the mood strikes you. You should probably eat first.”

Jon blinked at him, almost blankly, as if he’d forgotten that food was something he might need. “Right, of course,” he said, somewhat off balance. “Good idea, I don’t think I’ve… right.”

By the time a bowl of thick, spicy stew and bread were set before him, Jon had managed to calm down somewhat. At least some of the shaking in his hands was apparently from hunger, not his usual fluttering energy.

“Do you remember what I was studying, back in Emon?” Jon asked, once he was more settled.

“Abjuration, wasn’t it?” Martin replied, thinking back to the late nights and studying.

“No. Well—yes, technically.” Jon tore off a piece of bread to dip into his stew. “That was—that is my principal school of magic. But to be honest with you, I’m more interested in research and theory than in practical magic. And my main subject was planar theory.”

“Right, right!” Martin nodded as the memories settled back into place. “You wrote that paper on the Astral Plane, I remember now.”

Jon leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “Exactly! Not my best work, in hindsight, it was mostly a synthesis of others’ research, but it was decent practice for a student. And my instructor at the time liked it well enough—not the point. The point is, my focus on planar theory was what brought Elias’s attention to me. A-among other things. Apparently he shares my interest in the subject, which…” He gestured vaguely, less an expression of anything and more a release of nervous energy.

“Must be intense,” Martin offered.

“It can be, at times,” Jon sighed. “But it’s… gods. It’s so much more than I ever thought I’d have.”

Martin shrugged. “You’ve always been really dedicated,” he said. “Someone was bound to notice. Plenty of your teachers did.”

“Yes, but the Archmage.”

“Well, you deserve it,” Martin said stubbornly. “I take it whatever he had you doing went well?”

Jon’s eyes lit up, and he sat up straight. “It did. Have you heard of the Etherealness spell?”

“That’s… yeah, you’ve brought it up before,” Martin replied. “High-level transmutation, lets you travel to the Ethereal P lane, right?”

“Specifically, the Border Ethereal,” Jon explained. “According to some models, the Ethereal P lane is right against the Prime Material P lane, and the Border Ethereal is where the two meet. It’s actually what makes the Ethereal Plane unique! It’s the only plane that allows you to exist in two planes at once— the Border Ethereal, and the Prime Material. Well, that or one of the Elemental planes, because theoretically the Ethereal Plane connects the Prime Material Plane to the Elemental planes—not the point.” He took a deep breath. “There are a number of spells that allow access to the Ethereal Plane, but there’s also a potion known as Oil of Etherealness. That’s what Elias and I have been working on.”

“Is the oil rare?” Martin asked, fascinated.

“No. Well, yes, technically. It’s rare, but it’s hardly unheard of. Most high-level alchemists can manage it. Elias and I were experimenting with the formula. You see, both the spell and the oil take the user to the Border Ethereal. Elias was modifying the potion to take the user directly to the Deep Ethereal.”

Martin felt a thrill of excitement run through him; Jon’s energy was contagious when he got like this. “Is that dangerous?”

“It could be, if you don’t know what you’re doing,” Jon admitted, with a slight shudder. “Luckily Elias is always there. But—we did it. He did it, really, I’m merely assisting. But it worked! The potion worked, and—Martin.” Jon’s eyes shone with excitement. “I went to the Deep Ethereal .”

“What was it like?” Martin asked.

“It was… strange.” Jon’s eyes went dark and thoughtful. “Everything was muted. I felt solid, and there was a sense of up and down, but only in that I knew which way was up and down. There was no real sense of falling , if that makes sense. I could move from place to place, but with willpower rather than physical strength. And all around, in the distance, I could see curtains of vaporous colors hanging in the air. Elias said they led to the Border Ethereal of other planes.”

“Was there… was anything living there?”

“Yes,” Jon replied, smiling. “I saw—if you’ll believe it, I saw fish.”

“ Fish? ”

“Swimming about in the air, as if it were water. Some where beautiful, others were… a bit alarming. Imagine an angler fish with a more serpentine body.” He paused. “We saw a phase spider. That was… unpleasant. But luckily it didn’t seem to notice us.”

“Do I want to know what a phase spider is?”

“Probably not,” Jon replied with a wry smile. “I know you like spiders, and that’s your business.”

“They catch pests, Jon!”

Jon laughed softly. “Anyway, I could have sworn we were there for at least an hour,” he went on. “But when we returned, only a few minutes had passed. That was to be expected, though; it’s the nature of the Deep Ethereal.”

“That’s…” Martin trailed off, nearly at a loss for words. “This is incredible, Jon.”

“Isn’t it?” Jon had to put his bread down because his hands were shaking again. “It is incredible. What Elias does is incredible . And I get to be part of it.”

Martin reached across the table to clasp one of his hands, and was rewarded when Jon squeezed back. “I’m really happy for you.”

“It’s more than I ever dreamed of,” Jon went on. “I was—gods, I was nervous. I thought he must have mistaken me for someone else when he took me on, but it’s paying off! I’ve been studying planes in theory, and now I get to do it for real, I get to reach out and touch them.” His voice trailed off. “It’s almost too good to be true, if I’m being honest.”

“Hey, don’t think like that,” Martin assured him. “You deserve it.”

“What does deserving even mean? Plenty of people can deserve things without getting them.”

“You worked hard to get here,” Martin urged. “I say good on Bouchard for noticing.” Jon tugged on their hands, and Martin let go and withdrew his. “So what’s next?”

“Oh, well, Elias has been talking about getting me up to speed on what he’s working on,” Jon replied, perking up. “It’s more of the research side of things, but that’s what I’m good at, and it’ll probably lead to more practical applications. I have a, um. Friend of a friend, I suppose? Melanie King, a member of the Cobalt Soul. She’s agreed to help me, so I’ll have access to the Cobalt Reserve. Elias was over the moon—he hates having to jump through hoops to get into their archives.” There was a touch of pride in his voice that had Martin smiling. “Anyway, Elias says we’ll be looking into the Elemental planes next. He has contacts among the Ashari. They’re druids,” he added, apparently noticing Martin’s blank look. “They guard the rifts that lead to each Elemental plane. Two of such rifts exist on Tal’Dorei, in fact. We might be doing some traveling at some point.”

“Oh,” Martin said faintly. He hoped he didn’t sound too disappointed; the last thing he wanted was to take away from this. “Well, don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“Of course not,” Jon replied, looking shocked at the idea. “And besides, I’m hardly going to vanish tomorrow. This will take time. Like I said, I have some catching up to do.”

“I’m really happy for you,” Martin said earnestly.

“Thank you.” Jon averted his eyes for a moment, then turned back to him. “But anyway, that’s enough about me. How’s business for you? Any good gossip from the Hall of Reason?”

That startled a laugh out of Martin. “Would you believe me if I said there is? I’ve been running messages between one of the judges there and one of the upper librarians in the Reserve.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t the Cobalt Soul monks use their own as couriers?”

Martin sipped primly at his cooled tea. “For official business, yes. For letters regarding clandestine romantic affairs, not so much.”

“ No ,” Jon said, fighting back a smile .

“I should specify, it isn’t between them,” Martin added. “Apparently the librarian’s daughter is sweet on the judge’s, and the judge isn’t happy about this. Just today he’s resorted to not-very-subtly suggesting bribery, but we’ll see where that goes.”

“Oh, that’s awful .”

“I can’t tell whether or not they realize I know.” He paused. “Well, I can’t tell if the judge knows. The librarian definitely does. She tips like a gambler, so you won’t hear me complaining.”

Jon laughed, warming Martin all the way to his toes.

Winter’s Crest was in full swing.

The holiday had descended upon Westruun over the course of a few days. It had crept up slowly at first, with a few decorations scattered here and there, before it seemed to Martin that he woke up one morning to brightly-colored garlands strung up along the streets, ribbons and lights in windows, and a general feeling of revelry pervading the air. With the festival underway, the streets of the city center were alive with celebration. Hot food filled the air with delicious smells, drink flowed freely, and people lined up to try their luck at festival games. Somewhere nearby, musicians were playing up a storm.

In the midst of it all, Martin sat on an empty bench and watched the festivities, bundled up against the chill. His breath came out in pale clouds as he sat quietly and enjoyed the atmosphere.

Mum was staying in today, as she always did. He’d made a few obligatory attempts to entice her out to enjoy the holiday, but she had rebuffed him as he knew she would. Perhaps it was selfish of him to leave her so easily to enjoy it himself; she always had plenty to say whenever he shirked his duty to her. But it wasn’t as if she’d be any happier with him loitering around at home. If anything, that would make her temper worse.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. So he might as well have fun while it lasted, if she wasn’t going to be happy either way.

Presently, a familiar slight figure broke free from the rest of the bustle, a steaming mug held in either hand. Martin waved, and after a moment of searching, Jon caught sight of him and hurried over.

Jon’s face was pleasantly rosy as he drew near, either from the chilly air, or—as Martin’s nose detected—the hot spiced wine he was carrying. He was wrapped in layers just as Martin was, along with the chunky knitted scarf wound around his neck. His hair, which he always let grow out in the winter, was loosely tied back and flecked with snow.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Jon slid into the seat beside Martin and passed him one of the mugs.

“Oh—Jon, you didn’t have to,” Martin blurted out as he took it. “You know I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

“I do,” said Jon. “The wine’s for me. What’s your opinion on cider?”

“I—oh.” The smell of cinnamon reached him, as the warmth of the mug seeped through his gloves. He drank deeply, and the warmth spread all the way through the rest of him. “Gods, I can’t remember the last time I had hot apple cider.” He’d missed out on the last two Winter’s Crests, bearing his mother’s temper without a more pressing reason to leave the house.

He was distracted from that thought when Jon quirked a brow at him, and smiled over the rim of his own mug. “Well, from now on you’ll just have to remember today.”

There was a bit more to his flush than just the chill, Martin realized. “Jon—are you drunk?”

“I—what? No.” Jon nursed his wine, suddenly looking self-conscious. “Not… not quite. It’d take at least another one of these to get me the rest of the way. In a few minutes I might be pleasantly buzzed, and that’s about as far as I’m willing to go.”

“Not much of a drinker either?” Martin asked.

“This is the first break I’ve had in a while,” Jon informed him. “I think I’ll enjoy it a great deal more with all my faculties intact.”

“That’s fair.” Martin smiled as he took another drink. “You’ve been working hard lately. I feel like I hardly see you.”

He didn’t mean it as an accusation, and a pang of guilt hit him when he saw genuine regret on Jon’s face. “I… do get a bit lost in work, sometimes,” he said. “It’s just—it’s so fascinating, what I’ve been researching—did you know there are stable portals to the Feywild scattered all over Exandria? There’s at least one on every continent, existing and self-sustaining with no adverse effect to the environment around it, and no other plane has that relationship to this one. Even portals to the Astral and Ethereal Planes can’t exist indefinitely, and there are theories about the relationship between the planar energies and why the Feywild seems more naturally symbiotic with the Material Plane…”

He went on in that vein, losing himself down another rabbit hole of knowledge. Martin sipped at his cider and contented himself with watching, admiring the healthy flush that spread over Jon’s face as he spoke. Jon’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm, and the hand that wasn’t busy holding a mug of spiced wine was doing just as much talking as his mouth was. In minutes, Martin found himself with a new and unexpected understanding of the Feywild and its place in the planar system.

Martin loved it when Jon talked like this. He wondered if there was a way to tell him that without accidentally letting slip that he loved the rest of him, too.

“You’d make a good teacher,” Martin remarked at the first lull in Jon’s impromptu lecture.

“You—I—what?” Jon blinked, suddenly thrown off his rhythm. In an instant he seemed to become aware of himself and what he was doing—what he had been doing for the past few minutes. “Oh. Gods, I—listen, Martin, you don’t have to make fun—”

“I’m not!” Martin said hurriedly, biting down on a smile. “I promise I’m not. I mean it. You’re good at explaining things.”

Jon looked uncertain. “Do you really think so?”

“Jon, I spent a few years learning about history and literature, I don’t know the first thing about—about planes, or arcane energy, or anything like that.” It was hard to string words together when Jon was looking at him that way. “But, all of that, what you were saying… it made sense. It was really interesting.”

Jon snorted. “Oh, now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

“You really love it,” Martin said softly, eyes fixed on his half-finished cider. “I can tell. It comes through when you talk about it. It makes me sort of love it too.” The last part slipped out before he realized what he was saying, and he pressed his lips shut to keep in any other loose words.

Jon didn’t seem to know how to follow that up either, so he fidgeted for a moment, took another drink, and said, “Anyway, Elias shooed me out for Winter’s Crest, so I have the rest of the festival to enjoy before I go back to research.”

“That was nice of him,” Martin said, relieved to change the subject. “I suppose even archmages need time off for festivals.”

“Not quite,” Jon replied. “He’s actually conducting some rather complicated ritual experiments over Winter’s Crest. The veil between planes is thinnest during the solstice, so it’s the best time for it. They’re a bit outside of my knowledge, though, so there’s no point in me getting underfoot.”

The cider had far less alcohol than the wine, but Martin mentally blamed it for the sudden rush of boldness that made him blurt out, “Well, then I’m glad I get you all to myself.”

Jon didn’t reply, unless draining his wine could be considered an answer.

At that moment, the music shifted to a more upbeat melody, and the mood of the crowd shifted in answer. Martin glanced up, grinning when he saw people milling around, clearing out of the square to make room for dancing.

Beside him, Jon fidgeted. “Have you finished your cider?”

“Oh, uh, just about. Why?”

“Well…” Jon fidgeted again. “We’re hardly going to enjoy the festival by sitting on a bench watching it all day.”

Martin laughed and finished the rest of his drink before setting it aside. “Can’t argue with that.”

He almost choked on nothing when Jon responded by taking his hand. “Right,” Jon said, with an oddly determined look in his eyes. “Shall we?”

Tongue-tied, Martin let him pull him to his feet and followed him into the bustle of festivities. It was only when he followed Jon’s line of vision and saw where he was leading them that he dug his heels in. “Wait, Jon—”

People in the square were either shuffling out of the way to watch or grabbing hands and pairing off to join the dancing. The music had taken up a lively beat, and the square was nearly full.

Jon had stopped, hand still outstretched and clasping Martin’s. The determined look faded with uncertainty. “Something wrong?”

“I’m, uh.” Self-consciousness drew Martin’s eyes toward the ground. “I don’t really—I’m not really built for dancing, you know?”

“You’ve got two legs and you can carry a decent rhythm,” Jon replied. “Frankly, you’re overqualified compared to some.”

“I’ll make a fool of myself.” Gods, he could already see it. Dumpy Martin Blackwood, next to Jonathan Sims and all his slender half-elven grace. “I-I don’t even know how to dance.”

Jon shot a look of faint amusement at the crowd of dancers. “Well, you’ll hardly be alone in that respect, from what I can tell.”

“Jon.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. “Just for a little while, then? One song. If you really hate it we can stop immediately.”

Martin hesitated, wrestling with the monster of self-consciousness that wanted nothing more than to herd him right back to the bench so he could watch everyone else have fun from afar. He would have been content with that. He had been for years before. But now he was with Jon, and Jon wanted to have fun, and the last thing he wanted was to keep Jon from having fun, especially when he’d been working so hard lately—

Wait a minute.

Wait a gods-damned minute.

In a split second, Martin realized that he was at least ten different kinds of idiot. Because Jonathan Sims wanted to dance with him, and Martin was trying to turn him down.

Martin swallowed down the urge to hide. What did he want to hide for? There was a huge crowd. Everyone was focused on having their own fun. No one was going to be looking at him.

“Promise you won’t get angry if I step on your feet?” he said.

Relief softened on Jon’s face. “I’ll do my best.”

“I still don’t know how to dance.”

“You like poetry, don’t you?” Jon reminded him. “That’s all about rhythm. Just listen, and follow me. I’ll show you.” He pulled Martin into the dancing, and Martin braced himself and followed.

It was awkward, and a bit chaotic, and more than a little bit embarrassing—that last bit he expected. He had no idea where to put his feet, and so his eyes stayed fixed on them, for fear that he’d step on Jon’s by accident. But watching his own feet meant watching Jon’s feet, which meant seeing where and how Jon stepped, and that was—something. He could follow along with that, just as he could follow the beat and rhythm of the music.

“See?” Oh. Jon was close. Had he always been that close? “You’re doing fine. Just—loosen up a bit?”

“W-what?” Martin looked up, and his jaw clacked shut when he saw how close their faces were.

“You don’t have to hold on so tight,” Jon told him.

“Oh—sorry!” Martin loosened his grip on Jon’s hand.

“It’s all right.” Jon didn’t technically spin him around, not when Martin had over a head of height on him. But his steps carried them both around, and with Martin cautiously following, they managed a turn together that didn’t end in Martin tripping. “How’s this? All right?”

“Y-yeah.” They were close enough that Martin didn’t have to shout over the music and laughter and whirl of bodies around them. “Yeah. It’s good.”

“Good.” Jon surprised him then, lifting their joined hands and twirling under Martin’s arm. “You’re not half bad, Blackwood.”

That shocked a laugh out of Martin, and he found himself loosening even further. “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t believe you’ve got everyone convinced you’re stuffy.”

“Like I said, pleasantly buzzed,” Jon replied. “Once the wine’s through my system, I’ll be mortified.”

Martin laughed again, and in a brief flash of dizzy playfulness, he managed to whirl Jon around again, almost lifting him off his feet. It was worth it just to hear him laugh.

The music heaved and swelled around them, and Martin chased the excitement it brought, leaving his lingering shyness lagging far behind. Jon was right. Martin might not know how to dance, but he did know meter and beat and rhythm. He could feel it in his bones and let it guide his steps. It wasn’t graceful, and it probably wasn’t beautiful, but…

It was fun.

It was fun.

Of course it was fun. Why had he ever thought it wouldn’t be? He was doing it with Jon. Jon was here, in his space, breathless and smiling and so warm that Martin forgot that midwinter was supposed to be cold.

And then, with a swell of racing notes, the song ended, and Martin was left face to face with Jon, heart pounding. He couldn’t see his breath anymore, with the air warmed by the body heat of dozens of dancers, and that meant his view of Jon’s eyes was clear and unobscured. The flush had reached the pointed tips of Jon’s ears, and Martin was sure he was in a similar state.

“Martin.” Jon’s voice was slightly strangled. One hand still gripped Martin’s; the other was pressed to Martin’s chest, fingers curling into the lapel of his coat. “Martin—can I…?”

They met in the middle. Dimly, Martin could hear nearby cheering and clapping, but it was easy to tell himself they were cheering for the dance, egging on the musicians for another song. This wasn’t the time for shyness, it was the time to enjoy the softness of Jon’s hair between his fingers and the lingering taste of spices on Jon’s lips.

They parted, but not by much. Already Martin could hear the flutes and fiddles and drums starting up another tune. The next song was one he recognized.

“I know the words to this one,” said Jon, so close that all Martin could see was the soft shine in his eyes. “Want to go for another?”

They w ere n’t the least bit drunk. But when Jon sang along, warm and flushed and relaxed against Martin’s side, it was far too easy to join in.

Chapter Text

Martin dried his damp, wrinkled hands on a dish towel, limped out of the kitchen on sore feet, and let himself collapse into the nearest chair with a sigh. The events of the day ran together in his mind like wet paint, and he could swear that he’d gotten out of bed that morning and hadn’t sat down since. For a few minutes he simply stared out the window at the dying light from the sunset, awaiting (dreading) a call from his mother’s room. He’d left her with fresh tea and her book, but she might still need something from him.

Eventually a call did come—but not from his mother’s room. The voice simply manifested in his ear, as if its owner were leaning over his shoulder to whisper to him.

“Martin? ” Jon said over the Message spell, sending Martin sitting bolt upright. “Are you there? Is it safe to knock? ”

Mum wasn’t asleep yet, so a knock at the door would definitely make her cross. “Just a moment,” he replied. “I’ll be right there.”

Sore feet forgotten, Martin hurried to the door and opened it. Jon stood outside, still in a traveling cloak with his hair loosely bound and a bag slung over his shoulder. His face lit up, shadowed with weariness but smiling nonetheless.

Martin matched the smile, and was halfway through throwing himself into an embrace when he noticed the bandages swaddling Jon’s right hand. He stopped himself. “You’re hurt.”

“Ah. Yes.” Jon tucked his hand under his cloak and out of sight. “Well, as it turns out, visiting the Elemental Plane of Fire comes with certain hazards.” He hesitated. “Is this a bad time? I can come back later.”

“No, no, come in.” Martin beckoned him in. “Mum’s settled down with a book, and I just finished washing up. I put a pot of tea on, if you want any.”

“I’d love some.” Jon sounded genuinely wistful.

Martin seated him at the table, then went to pour him a cup. There was no food left over from supper, unfortunately, but he did have some biscuits saved. Jon looked like he could use something sweet.

“What happened?” Martin asked, as Jon carefully maneuvered everything one-handed.

“I met a fire elemental,” Jon said with a slight grimace. “She didn’t appreciate my line of questions. What’s more, I have a feeling I’m lucky she didn’t take more than just my hand.”

Martin went still as the words sank in. “That’s… ominous.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Hesitantly, he held out his hands. “May I see? Why haven’t you gotten it healed yet?”

“I was traveling with Elias,” Jon explained. “It’s funny. He’s such a powerful wizard, but he never bothered learning healing spells. I suppose even when you’re that clever, you only have so much room in one mind.” He shook his head. “Anyway, I have had it looked at, and I’ve been assured that it’s on the mend.”

Gingerly, Martin unwrapped the bandages. He couldn’t help but hiss at what he saw; Jon’s hands were a mess of ruined skin and popped blisters. It wasn’t infected, and it looked like a rudimentary healing spell or two had been cast on it. But it wasn’t nearly enough; if left alone, Jon’s hand might not recover all its motion.

Martin gently cradled it between his palms. “Right. Any requests?”

“What?” Jon blinked at him, nonplussed.

“This needs another healing, or your hand will be ruined,” Martin told him. “So, any requests?”

“Martin Blackwood, are you volunteering to sing?” Jon asked, fighting back a smile. “I thought that was impossible without alcohol and the right atmosphere of whimsy.”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Martin warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jon replied fondly. “Whatever you’re comfortable singing.”

Martin tried to keep quiet, but the magic just didn’t catch when he whispered the lyrics. Only when he sang them properly did the familiar light appear, racing eagerly to Jon’s hand to repair the damage. Jon sighed with relief as he flexed his stiff fingers, and only when the light began to die did Martin stop singing.

It wasn’t good as new—far from it. The awful injury was going to scar no matter what anyone did, and probably still needed binding. Martin fetched his healing kit for fresh bandages, and set about carefully re-wrapping Jon’s hand.

“So, a fire elemental, then,” he said. “What on earth were you asking her that led to this?”

“Previous visitors, I suppose,” Jon replied. “People she might have talked to in the past. Anything out of the ordinary she might have seen. It wasn’t anything terribly personal, just… I think she found it irritating. Not everyone has patience for a lot of questions from a stranger.”

“But why?” Martin asked. “What were you hoping to find out from her?”

Jon was quiet for a moment, sipping tea while Martin worked. When he finally spoke, his voice was nearly a whisper. “Do you remember how I said I was doing research for Elias?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Well, I uncovered something,” he said. “Sort of. It’s all very fragmentary and vague, just hints here and there. I haven’t told Elias yet, because I haven’t found anything really solid, just disparate pieces that I’m trying to put together. Hopefully I’ll find enough pieces to form a proper picture.”

“Of what?” Martin asked.

“Something dangerous, I think,” Jon replied. “Have you ever heard of Jonah Magnus?”

Martin shook his head.

“He was the Archmage centuries ago. He’s in the history books, but a lot of his work has since been lost, which is a shame because he’s said to have created dozens of spells.” He swallowed hard. “I think I’ve found one of them.”

“What… sort of spell?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Jon admitted. “It’s incomplete—I’ve only found pieces of it, and I don’t think Jonah Magnus finished creating it before he died. But I think it’s some kind of ritual meant to summon extraplanar creatures of vast power.”

“Aren’t there already spells for that?” Martin pointed out, fastening the bandage firmly in place. “For summoning elementals and fiends and such?”

“Yes, and I know of those spells. I’ve studied the workings for them. This isn’t anything like them, as far as I can tell.” Jon flexed his hand carefully. “I managed to glean some things from my conversation with the elemental, so at least this wasn’t for nothing.”

“Be careful, Jon,” Martin urged. “For gods’ sake, you’re working with the Archmage. There’s no reason for you to run off on your own.”

“I know.” Jon sighed. “I’m sorry, I just… you know how I get, when I latch on to a question.”

“I do, and it worries me.” Martin reached out to grip his uninjured hand. “It’s one thing to lose a night of sleep. It’s another to lose your hand.”

Jon squeezed him back. “Martin—”

“Or worse,” Martin went on. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Jon smiled ruefully. “I promise,” he said, and brought Martin’s hand to his lips.

Martin’s breath caught in his chest. Sometimes he forgot how painfully sweet Jon could be. It didn’t make him worry any less.

“Anyway, I’m sorry this started on such a low note,” Jon went on. He let go of Martin’s hand and reached for his bag, unclasped it with one hand, and reached in. “I brought some things from Issylra.”

“Jon, you didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did.” Jon looked baffled. “I went all the way to another continent. You think I wasn’t going to bring something back for you?”

Martin started to laugh, catching himself when his voice got too loud. Jon frowned at this but didn’t comment on it. “Oh, but before I bring out the gifts—here.” From an inner pocket he produced a small pebble-sized stone covered in runes. “Thank you for letting me borrow this.”

“Oh! Gods, I forgot you had that.” Martin took it back. He still had a few of his old Message stones from back when he was in school. They’d been useful for recording lectures, or personal reminders about tests and assignments. He hadn’t had as much use for them now. “Record any good notes?”

Jon hesitated, and a bit of color darkened his cheeks. “Er. Well, the thing is, I actually—Martin, wait—”

Martin was already swiping his thumb over the runes, activating the spell. To his surprise, it was not Jon’s voice that played back, but his own. “Good luck on your trip, Jon. Have fun! I can’t wait to see you again and hear all about it. Don’t miss me too much.”

He’d recorded that as a joke, when Jon asked to borrow it. Just a nice little surprise that Jon might find, before he recorded something new over it.

He must have found it after all.

Martin hadn’t known it was possible to feel any fonder of him, but Jon was always one for surprising him. “Oh, Jon.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jon ordered, flushing furiously. “I missed you. I was far from home. It was nice to listen to your voice every now and again.”

“I’ll have to do it every time you take a trip,” Martin replied, unable to hold back his smile.

Jon grumbled under his breath, then reached into the bag again and cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, Pyrah didn’t have much in the way of souvenir shopping,” he said. “The Ashari are fairly insular, and don’t deal with outsiders very often. But there were some nice shops in Shorecomb. Here.” He placed a stack of three books on the table. “You said your mother enjoys romances, didn’t you?”

“Oh. Y-yeah, she does.” Martin’s eyes widened. “Jon, you didn’t have to—”

“She hardly does anything but sit and read and occasionally knit.” Jon kept his voice extra quiet. “At the rate she’s going, she’ll read every book in Westruun. So here are a few more.”

“Thank you,” Martin said helplessly.

“And here,” Jon went on, reaching into his bag again. “This is for you.”

It was another book, but quite a bit different from the others. It was bound in tough leather, and when Martin opened it, he found blank pages made of sturdy, high-quality paper.

“It’s made in Vasselheim,” Jon told him. “Which unfortunately wasn’t on our itinerary, but Shorecomb does a lot of trade with Vasselheim, so I found that. I think it’s got a few enchantments on it. Water rolls right off the pages.”

“It’s lovely,” Martin told him, feeling the grain of the paper between his fingers.

“Back in Emon, I hardly ever saw you without notebook,” said Jon. “I don’t know if you still write poetry, but if you need an excuse…”

Martin’s throat felt thick with emotion. “I hope you know,” he said, suddenly worried he might start crying. “I’m going to fill it with soppy poetry about you.”

To his delight, Jon flushed deeply and became absorbed with the layers of bandaging on his hand. “If you must,” he said, fighting back a smile. “Maybe the next time I need healing, you can read me some of it.”

“Please don’t get injured just so you can hear my poetry.”

“I won’t. I mean—” Jon pursed his lips. “I can’t promise never to get hurt. Whatever this is… there are risks. And I have a feeling I’ll only find more, the more I pursue this line of research.” He held Martin’s gaze for a moment. “But I have to. I know it’s important, I can… I can feel it.”

Martin’s eyes were drawn to his bandaged hand. “Okay. Just… try to take care of yourself, alright? Be as safe as you possibly can be. That’s all I ask.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jon told him. “Thank you, Martin.”

They couldn’t stay together long; by the time Jon finished his tea, Martin could hear stirring from his mother’s room. If he dragged his feet showing Jon to the door, that was his business.

“There’s one more thing,” Jon told him, pausing on the doorstep. Reaching into a side pocket of his bag, he drew something out and pressed it into Martin’s hand. “Here. It’s a Sending Stone. You know how they work, right?”

“It sends a message once a day, right?”

“One message, one reply,” Jon said with a nod. “This isn’t the last outing that Elias and I will be going on, and… well, it’ll make me feel better, knowing we can contact each other if necessary.”

“Don’t think this will get you out of carrying around a Message stone with my voice on it,” Martin warned.

Jon smiled back. “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind for a moment.”

Martin looked back at him, searching for… something. He wasn’t sure what. “Please be careful,” he said softly.

“I will,” Jon replied. “I’ll see you later?”

Martin pressed a close-mouthed kiss to his lips. “You’re always welcome here,” he said. “If you need company, or healing, or… gods, if you just need a place to stay for whatever reason. You can always come to me.”

Jon looked uncertain. “I don’t want to make things difficult with your mother.”

“Let me worry about my mother,” Martin assured him. “Just take care of yourself, Jon.”

“I will,” Jon replied, and stepped away reluctantly.

Martin watched him go, walking briskly down the street in the direction of the Scholar Ward. Once he was out of sight, he shut the door and went to check on his mother.

She had a book open in her lap, as usual. She was nearly done with it—thank the gods for Jon and his timing.

“Were you singing again?”

Martin startled as he retrieved her half-finished cup of cold tea. “I—yes?”

“You know how I feel about you singing.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was helping a friend.”

“You can just as easily help a friend outside, where you aren’t disturbing anyone.”

“Right,” he said. “Sorry, Mum.”

“Never mind if you’re sorry. Don’t do it again.”

“Yes, Mum.”

She barely glanced at him when he brought her a fresh cup, and he left her to her book and solitude. Silence settled over the house again as Martin retreated to his room, opened his new notebook, and smiled at the possibility in a blank page.

When Martin arrived at the Cobalt Reserve to request access, Melanie was not available.

This was nothing new. As far as he knew, Melanie hadn’t been available as a guide in the Reserve since she’d started working with Jon. From what Martin could tell of the situation, she seemed to view her situation as something of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, assisting the Archmage in any capacity was prestigious. On the other, she and Jon had some kind of running quarrel that Martin had never quite managed to parse.

He tried not to fidget as the desk monk strode off to find some other monk to assign to him. It wasn’t easy, not with the elf so close.

Martin had never seen her here before, or anywhere else for that matter. She was tall and broad, with a hardened sinewy strength that made him nervous just standing next to her. She wore the uniform and insignia of the local guard, and—come to think of it, for the life of him Martin couldn’t remember whether she’d come in while he was speaking with the monk or she’d already been there when he arrived. She hadn’t made any noise. She’d just been there.

What was truly disconcerting was that she seemed to be looking at him. He couldn’t prove it; every time he looked back, she was glaring off in some other direction. But when his attention was elsewhere…

The desk monk returned presently with a younger monk in tow. “Andrew will assist you while you’re in the Reserve,” the desk monk said briskly. “I apologize for the wait.”

“Hello.” Andrew gave a little wave. “You’re looking for Melanie, right? She’s been busy lately, but I can take you to her if you like. Can’t promise she’ll talk.”

“That’s fine, thanks.” Gratefully, Martin followed him, and the Shield elf slipped from his mind.

His guide led him to one of the rooms set aside for quiet study. The Reserve had plenty of research space: comfortable chairs, long tables, and desks to accommodate those who patronized the vast library and archives within. The study rooms were available by appointment, for those who needed particular privacy when conducting research.

When they found Melanie, the halfling was standing on her chair to loom over the book she was poring over. At Martin’s approach she did a double take and scowled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked warily.

“Sorry to bother you,” Martin replied, and mostly meant it. Melanie wasn’t the most jovial on the best of days, but he’d never seen her look so intensely harried before. “I’m looking for Jon.”

Melanie’s lip curled, before she wiped the expression away and sighed. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that.”

“I’m just worried,” Martin admitted. “It’s been weeks since he got back from his last research trip with Elias, and I don’t know what’s happened. The last time I saw him, he said he was coming here to look something up in the Archives, and then he just—vanished.” He ground his teeth nervously. “Do you know where he is?”

“Technically, no,” Melanie replied. “I’ve seen him around, once in a while he’ll track me down and we’ll compare notes, but I don’t know where he sleeps. Is he not in Graystone Tower?”

“I don’t know! The last time I went to visit, there were extra Shield patrols and they were giving me funny looks.”

“Damn it,” Melanie muttered, massaging her forehead with her palm. “Well, he’s knee-deep in something. Lately he’s been having me pull magical histories for any mention of the Infernal planes. Dunno what he thinks he’s looking for, and honestly I’m a little afraid to ask at this point.”

“You’re helping him research the Infernal planes?” Andrew asked with a low whistle. “That sounds intense.”

“It is!” Melanie burst out, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s fascinating! If it wasn’t, I’d have told him to piss off by now.”

Martin bit down on a stab of anger at her tone. “But why?” he demanded.

“He didn’t say,” Melanie said with a shrug. “Worth mentioning, though—it’s been months since he and Elias finished touring the Elemental planes. From what I’ve seen, Jon throws himself into research when he has a field trip coming up.”

“What—” Melanie’s meaning sank in, and Martin felt his heart drop out of his chest. “No. That’s insane.”

“If it makes you feel better, he also had me looking up the Shadowfell. Which—still dangerous, but at least it’s not the gods-damned Abyss.” Melanie grimaced slightly. “You’d think he’d have learned something after what happened to his hand, but if he wants to get it ripped apart by a demon next—”

“I’m glad you’re so concerned for him,” Martin bit out.

Melanie bristled. “I am concerned,” she shot back. “You think I’d be doing all this if I didn’t give a damn about him?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You and I both know he won’t stop once he’s made up his mind about something. All I can do his fill his head with as much knowledge as I can and hope it’s enough to keep him alive. So that’s what I’m doing. What are you doing?”

“I can’t do anything if—” Beside him, Andrew made an uncomfortable noise, and Martin realized that he was raising his voice. “He won’t ask me for help. I don’t even know where he is.”

“Well that’s on him, not me.” Melanie glared at him. “Find him and yell at him if you like, but don’t take out your relationship problems on me just because he asked me for help with his homework instead of you.”

Martin left the Reserve burning with shame and frustration. It was easier to be angry with her than not, but she was right. Fighting with her might scratch an itch, but it wouldn’t fix anything.

The Scholar Ward wasn’t the largest district in Westruun, but there was still a considerable walk between Cobalt Reserve and the Archmage’s looming tower. Along the way Martin swallowed his nervousness and tried to conjure up the image of what he looked like when he was running messages as a courier. Brisk, calm, maybe a little bored. He knew the way by heart; he could sleepwalk there if need be. Maybe, if he pretended well enough, he could look like this was just another one of those repetitive jogs through the city.

He hardly needed to worry, in the end. The Shield patrols had lessened visibly; aside from an extra guard on this or that street corner around the base of the tower, things seemed to have gone back to normal. That was good; if Jon really was in some sort of trouble, then the fewer people who noticed him, the better.

Martin knocked on the entrance door to Graystone Tower and sat back on his heels, ready to wait around for another twenty to thirty fruitless minutes. Today, however, his persistence paid off. Less than a minute after he knocked, the door opened, and Elias Bouchard peered out at him with bland curiosity.

The Archmage was not a bad-looking man. He was a little thin, a little pale, as was to be expected from a man who spent the majority of his time studying and experimenting inside. But he was well-dressed and well-kept. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed, and his clothes were free of creases and rumpled folds. There was chalk on his coat, and writer’s calluses on his fingers.

“Martin.” Elias looked equal parts worried and confused to see him, though the confusion was quick to fade. “This is about Jon, I presume.”

Martin fidgeted uneasily under Elias’s gaze. He’d met the man a handful of times since reconnecting with Jon, and by all accounts Elias was polite, dignified, and concerned with those in his circle, in his own stuffy way. But his eyes were always just a little too sharp, as if he were seconds away from peeling back the layers of Martin’s deepest secrets like the skin of an orange.

“I was hoping you could help,” he said at length, once he could trust his voice not to shake. “If there’s anything you could tell me about what he’s doing, or where he’s been.”

A troubled look passed over Elias’s face, slowly enough for him to catch it in the first place. He pursed his lips with a sigh. “I was a little afraid of this,” he admitted. “Jon has been increasingly… elusive, of late. I’d hoped he wasn’t isolating himself, but if you haven’t seen him…”

“Wait, but—doesn’t he live here, technically?” Martin asked.

“Technically,” Elias said with a slight nod. “He has a place to sleep here if he needs, but you know how he is about getting enough sleep.”

“Right,” Martin murmured. “Um, sorry, I know it’s not really my business, but what exactly has he been researching for you recently?”

“Hmm…” Elias frowned thoughtfully. “The last thing I recall asking him to do was look into records on visits to the Shadowfell. That’s one of the planes of existence,” he added.

“Yes, I know what the Shadowfell is,” said Martin. “Anything else? Any other planes?”

Elias looked perplexed. “Like what, for example?”

“Like…” He hesitated. “Like the Abyss, or—”

“The Abyss?” Elias’s eyes widened in faint alarm. “The Infernal planes are a dangerous field of study. Has he been researching that?”

“I…”

“Oh dear.” Elias’s face was the picture of concern. “That is very worrying.”

And it was the oddest thing. Martin was already worried. He was primed to worry. Elias was merely echoing the thoughts in his own head, mirroring Martin’s own expectations perfectly, and yet—

That was the problem, wasn’t it. It was perfect. Nobody was that perfect.

“I was concerned about how intense he was becoming,” Elias went on. “Nearly obsessive. I worried, but I didn’t want to discourage him from pursuing knowledge.” His hand passed over his face. “I suppose it’s my own fault for putting him on this path, but…”

“So, you don’t know where he is,” Martin said dully. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought, Or you just won’t tell me.

“I don’t,” Elias said gravely. “I wish I could be more helpful to you.”

“Right.” Martin stepped back. His mind was racing. Elias hadn’t told him anything useful. But he couldn’t help feeling like he’d learned something all the same. “Right, thanks anyway.”

Elias stepped fully through the door, as if to see him off. “Thank you as well, Martin,” he called after him. “For looking after him, keeping him safe. I greatly appreciate it.”

“I… you’re welcome?” Martin looked away. “Just doing the best I can.”

“It’s more than enough,” Elias said with a warm smile. “Do give Jon my regards, when you see him.”

“I will.” Martin inclined his head and hurried away, eager to leave the tower behind.

He had barely been home for half a minute, not even long enough to put the kettle on for his mother’s medicinal tea, when a knock at the door nearly rattled the whole house.

His heart leapt to his throat, and he dropped what he was doing and sprinted for the door. Noise like that would wake up Mum, and when all was said and done he’d be the one catching hell for disturbing her.

Hastily Martin opened the door, harsh words ready on his tongue for whoever thought knocking that loudly was appropriate. When he saw what waited for him on the doorstep, they promptly died.

It wasn’t that the elf was glaring at him. She didn’t need to, with a face like hers. She was tall and broad, as she had been when he first saw her at the Cobalt Reserve, but now she was also armed. A large knife hung from her belt, alongside a quiver of bolts to go with the unloaded crossbow hanging over her shoulder. The Shield insignia gleaming on her chest didn’t make her presence any more reassuring.

“You’re Martin Blackwood?” Her voice was husky and rough.

“Yes…?”

“Good. I’m here to talk to Jonathan Sims.”

Martin hoped his trepidation didn’t show on his face. “He doesn’t live here,” he answered. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Really.” One of her eyebrows twitched upward. “Not what I heard. Who else is here?”

“I live here with my mother,” Martin replied. “It’s just the two of us, she wouldn’t—”

He got no further. The door was wrenched out of his hand when the Shield shoved it open, whacking him with it as she shoved her way in.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said flatly. She didn’t shout or even raise her voice. Somehow that made it worse.

“Wait—wait, stop!” He chased after her, seizing her by the elbow before she could storm out of reach.

She stopped, but not before dragging him effortlessly for a few steps, just enough to know that she was stopping because she wanted to, and not because he was hindering her in any way. A low rumble built in Martin’s ears, and it took a moment for him to recognize it as a growl. With a flash of teeth—too long and sharp for an elf’s mouth—the elf seized him by the wrist and squeezed. Martin let go with a bitten-off wheeze of pain, leaving the Shield free to search the house at her leisure.

Once her back was turned, Martin hurried toward his mother’s room. Heavy footsteps told him the elf had noticed and followed, but if she was searching the whole house then she would have ended up there anyway. He made it through the door before the Shield forced her way past him, barking out questions that his mother could barely answer. Her search of the room was mercifully short, and she shoved her way past Martin again to check the rest of the house.

Shaking, Martin remained in the doorway, as if he could possibly have stopped her from entering his mother’s bedroom again if she wanted to. But she didn’t.

Once she was satisfied that the house held nothing of interest, she stormed past again and pointed to him. “You. Outside. Now.”

“You can’t just—”

She collared him, uncaring of the hair caught in her fist, and dragged him out like an unruly child.

Martin’s back hit the side of the house when she shoved him into it. “Where’s Sims?” she asked.

“I don’t know! I told you I don’t—”

She moved suddenly, like she was lunging, and he flinched back so suddenly that he cracked his own head against the wall. The blow he expected never came.

Instead, a man stood alongside them, holding the elf back with a broad hand on her arm. The elf was tall but this man was taller, and wider, and dressed in clothes nice enough to make any guard think twice about enforcing any laws on him. His hair was gray and his face was lined, and his eyes were a muted, watery shade of blue.

"Afternoon," the man said politely. "Tonner, wasn't it? Your presence is requested in the Scholar Ward."

"I'm busy," the elf growled.

"No," the man said with an unblinking smile. "You really aren't."

With a scoff, the elf shrugged off his hand instead of tearing it off the way she clearly wanted to. Before Martin had the chance to relax, she rounded on him.

“I think you’re lying to me,” she gritted out. “I think you’re covering for him. The only thing protecting you is that I can’t prove it. As soon as that changes, I will come back, and I will rip the truth out of you. Along with a few teeth, if I have to. Don’t think leaving town will save you, either.”

She left him like that. The man followed her with a wink that Martin was too shaken to acknowledge.

Eventually he stumbled inside, tuned out the feeble tongue-lashing from his mother for allowing that to happen, and did his best to clean up what the Shield’s search had disturbed.

Then he went to his room, shut the door, drew the curtains, and found the Sending Stone.

“Jon,” he said hoarsely, without planning out the message beforehand. “Please be safe. They’re—a Shield’s looking for you, she was just here, she’s gone now and I’m okay. I’m okay. Don’t let her—”

Jon’s voice cut him off; he must have run out of words. “Martin?” He sounded distraught. “Martin, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I promise I’m somewhere safe. I’ll be with you again as soon as I can. I love you.”

The spell ended. The sound of Jon’s voice faded, echoing high and desperate in Martin’s ears.

But he was safe. Wherever he was, he was somewhere angry Shields couldn’t find him, somewhere Martin didn’t know and couldn’t reveal by accident.

“I love you too,” he whispered, uselessly. He wouldn’t be able to reply until the next day, and maybe he shouldn’t, not if there was another emergency.

Alone in his room, Martin clutched the stone close to his chest and cried until he ran out of tears.

It wasn’t the Shield’s assault that had done it. That was what Martin reminded himself repeatedly, what the various healers he spoke with had assured him. For all her threats, Martin hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the Shield since she first followed him home, a full month before his mother’s health took a turn for the worst.

It didn’t really matter what caused it. The result was the same in the end: an empty, silent house, and the faint smell of wilted flowers.

He cleaned. He swept and aired out her room. He gathered up all her clothes and bedsheets, washed them, mended them, and considered them for all of a few minutes before carting it all to the Temple Ward. The unhoused and needy would have more use for them than he would.

He cleaned again.

He picked up the Sending Stone, and his hand shook around it before he slowly lowered it back down.

The day wasn’t over yet. He couldn’t waste it. He might need it later.

Martin was about to step away when the Sending spell lit up. Jon’s voice spoke in his ear, as clear as if he were standing in the room with him.

“Martin, I’m on my way to you. I—it’s safe, don’t worry. I’m safe. Are you at home?”

“Yes,” he blurted out in answer. “Yes, Jon, yes, I’m—I’m here, I’m at home. I want to see you. How far away are you?” The words were already out when he remembered that the spell only allowed one reply. The spell ended and the stone went dark again, spent for the day.

Martin roamed from room to room, absently pacing and neatening anything remotely resembling a mess. There was nothing to clean, he’d already done it twice over with nothing else to do with his hands, nothing to occupy him, no one waiting in the empty bedroom for another cup of tea to ignore—

The knocking came, and Martin almost tripped over his own feet in his rush to answer it. For a split second before he opened the door, he was afraid that it wasn’t Jon at all, that the hulking Shield woman from before had somehow caught wind and arrived to head Jon off and snatch him away.

But no. There he was, standing on the doorstep with exhausted eyes and rumpled clothes. He was breathing hard, as if he’d sprinted across the entire city. There was more gray in his haphazard braid than there had been the last time Martin saw him.

That had been months ago.

“Martin.” Jon spoke his name as if it had been punched out of him, and they met in the middle.

His bones felt sharper, Martin realized absently. He hadn’t been eating enough. Unconsciously he tightened his arms, only to draw back at Jon’s muffled whimper of pain.

“What’s wrong?” Martin held him gingerly by the shoulders. “Are you hurt—oh, gods.”

“It’s alright,” Jon rasped. One hand had gone to his throat, the other to his ribs. “I’m alright. Don’t worry.”

His throat was bandaged. Why was his throat bandaged?

“Come inside,” Martin said, and didn’t wait for an answer before he pulled Jon in, checked the street outside, and shut the door.

Jon stood in the entryway, clutching and rubbing at his own arms as if he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. “Everything alright?”

“What?”

“You were—you looked like you were looking for something, just now?” Jon’s eyes flickered toward the door. “Or someone?”

“No. Just—you weren’t, um.” Martin hesitated. “Were you followed here?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Because, that Shield—”

“Tonner,” Jon murmured.

“What?”

“The Shield woman who—who questioned you.” Jon’s mouth tightened. “She was an elf, wasn’t she? Blonde hair, tall, lots of scars?”

“I-I think so.”

“And—and teeth,” Jon added. “Her teeth and nails would grow, and her face would… sort of shift?”

Martin’s blood ran cold. “Did she find you?”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “Can we sit down?” he asked.

“Jon—”

“You don’t have to worry about her.” There was a hard edge to Jon’s tone. “She won’t touch you again. She’s gone.”

“But—” Martin stopped himself. They were still standing by the door, when Jon was exhausted and injured and there was no reason why he couldn’t wait until they were sitting down. “Okay. Okay. I’ll, uh, put the kettle on.”

“Thank you,” Jon whispered.

While they waited for the water to boil, Martin retrieved his healing kit just in case. The wound on Jon’s throat was dressed and neatly bandaged, but one never knew. They sat together, Jon with his head tipped back as Martin inspected it. At Martin’s gentle urging, he also stripped off his outer layers and reluctantly lifted his shirt. The patchwork of purple bruises on his chest made Martin want to cry or break something.

He didn’t notice that his nails were biting into his palm until Jon took his hand and gently worked his fist open. “I’m alright.”

“You’re not.”

“I am now,” Jon insisted. “And like I said, Tonner’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“She’s left Westruun.” Jon grimaced. “The Shields valued their so-called ‘hound’, but not enough to protect her when she attacked the Archmage’s personal assistant, apparently. I don’t know if they ran her out or she left of her own accord, but either way, she’s gone.”

“But why?” Martin gritted out. “Why was she after you in the first place?”

“She… I don’t know how,” said Jon. “But she got a hold of some of my research notes, and—and to someone unfamiliar with what I was doing, I suppose the fragments that she saw looked… bad. Suspicious. Notes on the Infernal planes, the denizens there, how one would contact or summon from those planes. It was enough for her to decide that I was dangerous. I… suppose I panicked. I stopped staying at Graystone Tower, because she knew to find me there. Georgie had room, so she put me up.”

“Georgie?”

“Oh, a… mutual friend, mine and Melanie’s,” Jon explained. “We met at the Lyceum, after you left. We were, ah, together, for a little under a year.” He winced a little at the memory. “Didn’t work out. We’re better as friends. Anyway, she’s with the temple of Bahamut, lives in the Temple Ward, and had room to let me stay, so.”

Martin swept aside the instinctive flare of irrational jealousy—he couldn’t have put Jon up himself, not when Tonner knew where he lived and Mum hadn’t died until recently. “How did Tonner find you?” he asked after a moment. “She was the one who… right?” He gently touched the side of Jon’s jaw.

Jon shut his eyes and nodded. “There’s more to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I realized there was something strange about her the first time she confronted me, before I left the tower,” Jon explained. “Her abilities—they’re not just magic. There’s something alive in her. A… possession of sorts, I suppose. I thought it was fey at first, then maybe infernal. I spent some time in hiding researching it, and then when she finally caught me…”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Jon admitted. “She caught me outside the tower. It was all confusing, and I was—I was scared, and I was trying to fend her off, and I think I just… provoked it.” His throat bobbed. “It shifted to its home plane, and she dragged me through by the throat.”

Martin gaped at him.

“It was Pandemonium, by the way,” Jon added, almost as an afterthought. “The plane, I mean. Not a pleasant place to be.”

“How did you…?”

“Elias pulled us both out. I-I didn’t see Tonner again, after that. As soon as I could stand on my own feet, I came here.”

Martin pulled him into as tight a hug as he dared.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered into the side of his neck. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“For what?”

“For… I don’t know. A lot of things.” Martin swore he could feel dampness against Jon’s face, but when he pulled back, his eyes looked clear. Slender fingers traced down the sides of Martin’s face, pressing gently to cradle it between the palms of Jon’s hands. “I’m sorry I left you for so long. I’m sorry I came back to you like this. I’m sorry—” His voice caught. “I’m sorry about your mother. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin’s eyes stung, but he’d already cried himself dry.

“I wish I could promise you that it’s over,” Jon went on. “But I just don’t know. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, it just did, and I don’t want to make you promises that I can’t keep.”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” Martin clasped his thin wrists gently, savoring the warmth of Jon’s hands against his face. “You’re always welcome here. No matter the danger. It’s—this is my home now. And that means it’s yours, too. If you want it.”

Jon kissed him before he could say anything else. Martin pulled him close, comforting himself in surrounding Jon with as much of himself as he could.

He wished he could believe that he was enough to protect him.

The Sending spell roused Martin from a dead sleep. The stone at his bedside was alight, and Jon’s voice was choked with fear as he spoke through the enchantment.

“Martin—we’re in the Verdant Expanse. We found the amphitheatre, but the troupe—they found us. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Martin, I love—”

The spell ended, and Martin scrambled out of bed in a haze of exhausted panic.

Outside, the sun had yet to rise. But Martin lived alone on days when Jon was working at the tower or running off on Elias’s assignments, which was most of them. There was no one to disturb as he stumbled about, throwing on his clothes and shoes before hurrying out the door and into the cold morning.

He ran most of the way to Graystone Tower, his breath visible in the late winter air. There was hardly anyone up this early in the morning, and those that were did nothing to hinder him. Most of the guards in this city knew his face, and likely assumed he was merely running a message at an inconvenient hour.

Which, technically, he was.

When he finally reached the tower, Martin didn’t stop or slow until he was hurling himself bodily at the door, pounding on it until his fist went numb.

The door opened on its own, as soon as he pulled back for a breath and gave it room. Without pausing to question it, Martin hurried inside.

For all that Jon had been working here for as long as he’d been in Westruun, Martin had only set foot in the tower a handful of times. He didn’t like it very much; it was polished and opulent, and reminded him uncomfortably of the professors’ offices at the Lyceum, which in turn reminded him that the last time he’d been in those offices was when he’d been ending his education prematurely. Even before then, they’d always left him feeling underdressed and simple. Elias Bouchard’s tower was no different.

Only now, with far more urgent matters on his mind, could Martin brush those feelings off and hurry up the stairs.

By the time he found Elias’s office, he was winded and the Archmage was already waiting for him—Martin couldn’t even have the dignity of catching his breath with a closed door between them.

“Martin?” Elias’s face was a perfect mix of concern and impatience. “Finally. I thought I was going to have to levitate you up here.”

“It’s Jon—wait.” Martin frowned. “You knew I was coming?”

Without answering or waiting for him, Elias turned and swept back into his office. He left the door open, an obvious invitation—or command. The lines tended to blur, with Elias.

“What’s going on?” Martin demanded. “Did Jon contact you too?” He stopped short once he was inside. Elias wasn't alone; there was a man lounging in a comfortable armchair near Elias's oak desk, watching the proceedings with vague amusement.

Martin knew this man. He'd stepped in when Tonner was accosting him outside his home.

“Jon is in the Feywild, along with Ms. King,” Elias replied impatiently, beckoning Martin further into the office. Martin complied reluctantly, instantly uncomfortable the moment he stepped in. It was even more lavish in here than the rest of the tower, if that was possible. The desks and shelves were so neat that Martin wondered if Elias used this place for study at all, or simply to entertain. 

“It was that eladrin’s theatre troup,” Martin said uncertainly, eyeing the man he didn't know. "Elias, who...?"

"Peter will be... assisting us this evening," Elias replied, looking impatient. Peter smirked at him, which didn't help.

"Don't mind me," Peter said pleasantly. "Pretend I'm not even here."

Martin decided that he didn't care enough to press. “Right, okay. Just tell me you know where Jon is.”

Elias raised his eyebrows. “The separation of planes makes scrying complicated,” he said. “Where he is, physically, means a lot less than you’d think.”

“Elias,” Martin growled.

“It’s good that you’re here,” Elias said, ignoring him. “I have quite a lot on my plate at the moment. Hold still.”

Before Martin could react, Elias moved. Cold, dry fingertips pressed against Martin’s temples, shoving a sensation into his skull that made him thrash. It wasn’t pain, but still Martin rebelled on instinct, shoving it back until his head cleared and he opened his eyes—when had he closed them?

Before him, Elias gave a growl of irritation. “Don’t fight me,” he snapped. “Do you want to find him or not?”

“What are you—” The second attack came, and this time Martin’s defenses broke.

The tower was gone. He was—somewhere else. At first it felt as if he were nowhere at all; he couldn’t see anything through the mists that surrounded him. He tried to turn, to find his bearings, to make sense of where he was and how he’d gotten there and where he was supposed to go—but the mists were all around him. Through them he could barely see a semblance of sky, or separation between air and ground—

There was no ground. In every direction—such that there were directions—was an endless gray void. Shapes floated in the distance, too far off and indistinct to be identified.

Without warning, Martin felt his mind peel open. Knowledge rushed in, and within seconds he knew where he needed to go. It made no sense; how could he find his way without landmarks, without directions, without gravity?

The knowledge pressed him onward, and he could do nothing but follow it. He passed by floating shapes, fragments of things he could almost recognize as stone and wood and fire and ice, and massive sprawling shapes that drifted along an impossible distance away.

Finally, his destination shone before him: a small rift, just big enough for him to fit through. Desperate to escape the cold gray world, he reached out and touched it.

In an instant he was back in the tower, staring at Elias as tracks of tears dried on his face. The Archmage’s eyes bored into him for a moment, before he gave a nod.

“Got it?” he asked, and didn’t wait for an answer before stepping aside so that Peter could take his place. Without a word, Peter casually tore open a rift and shoved Martin through.

The gray expanse was back, endless mists swallowing Martin’s scream of dismay. But he didn’t panic for long; the unwanted knowledge still sat in his brain where Elias had left it. He knew the way.

A second, identical rift was waiting for him at the end, either seconds or uncountable hours after Elias had thrust him into the emptiness. Martin reached it as quickly as the weightless world allowed.

All at once there was ground beneath his feet—not the polished floors of Graystone Tower, but the uneven earth of a forest. Which forest, Martin couldn’t possibly tell. The trees were thick, and the sky overhead shone with morning. Hours must have passed since Jon first called him.

He took stock of his surroundings. In spite of the thick woodland around him, there were still signs of civilization. Remnants, at least. A crumbling wall stood nearby, ancient and weathered enough that it was little more than a patterned pile of old stonework. Carefully Martin made his way toward it, ears pricked for any sign of danger. Jon had said he was in the Feywild, and Elias had said—something about finding him? Was this the Feywild? It didn’t feel very different from the Bramblewood.

Beyond the wall, the land dipped downward, and the trees gave way to rows and rows of masonry. Benches, Martin realized. Levels of benches, lined up and surrounding an open space at the bottom. An amphitheater, now in ruins.

He barely had time to settle the thought in his head when, down on what remained of the ancient stage, the air lit up with an arcane glow. It split, parting like torn fabric, just long enough to let two thin, ragged figures through.

Martin was already sprinting down, stumbling over thick roots and stone fragments. He reached the stage, just in time to catch Jon before he dropped to the ground. He tried to steady Melanie as well, but she fought him with bared, bloodstained teeth. It took a few seconds for her to calm down and recognize him, and even then she still flinched away when he tried to reach out. Jon, on the other hand, collapsed limply into Martin’s chest with a sob of desperate relief. In his hand, a spell scroll was slowly disintegrating.

“I got your message,” Martin choked out, tucking his chin against Jon’s shoulder as he kept them from falling to the rotted wood and unforgiving stone. “Hours ago, I’m so sorry, Jon, I don’t know what happened—”

Jon stared at him, eyes glassy and uncomprehending. “Hours?”

“Yeah, it came in the middle of the night, and now it’s…” His voice trailed off. His arms were tight around Jon’s frame, holding him close. Jon had always been slender, but now Martin could swear he felt thinner. And Melanie—

Melanie had recovered her senses enough to reach up and grab Martin’s jacket hem for balance. She was blood-spattered from head to toe, and through the stains he could see scars on her hands. She hadn’t had them when he last saw her. She was silent, avoiding both their eyes.

“Martin,” Jon said in a hushed voice. “I cast that Sending weeks ago.”

Martin’s heart plummeted. “What?”

Melanie spoke up, startling him. “We’ve been in the Feywild,” she rasped, slowly as if talking to a small child, “for weeks.”

Martin clutched Jon close, cast his eyes up to the morning sky, and wondered how long he’d been drifting in that muted gray world.

Chapter Text

The third hour of uninterrupted sleep bled into the fourth, and Martin wrestled with the sudden, inescapable urge to cry.

He couldn’t afford to. Jon was lying on top of him, head pillowed in the softness of Martin’s chest. If he let himself sob, he might jostle Jon awake. Jon got so little sleep as it was.

At least, Martin suspected he did. Jon spent most of his time at Graystone Tower, in spite of Martin’s protests.

Barely two weeks had passed since Martin stumbled out into the Verdant Expanse just in time to see Jon and Melanie’s escape. Jon hadn’t been back for a fraction of the time he’d been gone, for all that Martin had missed it. Martin could count on one hand the nights Jon had spent here instead of the tower since then. But he was here now, fast asleep in Martin’s arms, and at half past noon Martin had no intentions of waking him.

The decision was soon taken out of his hands. Jon stirred, and Martin’s heart clenched until he saw that Jon wasn’t waking up. The stirring and twitching turned to fitful tossing and turning, and Martin realized with a resigned sort of dread that Jon was in the throes of another nightmare.

He considered leaving him to it, briefly. A nightmare was still sleep, wasn’t it? But then a soft, strangled cry wrenched itself from Jon’s throat, half pained and half pleading, and Martin had never been able to deny Jon anything when he asked like that.

Reluctantly, he gave Jon’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Jon,” he murmured. “Wake up. Wake up, love. It’s just a dream. You’re safe.”

He continued in that vein, chanting soft reassurances until Jon finally forced his eyes open.

“Martin?”

“I’m here.” Martin pressed his lips into Jon’s messy hair. “I’m right here. You’re alright.”

Above him, Jon slumped down into his chest with a heavy sigh, shutting his eyes again as Martin pulled him closer. “I find that harder to believe every day.”

The momentary peace lasted until Jon raised his head and saw the bright sunlight streaming through the window. “What time is it?” He scrambled up, almost kneeing Martin in the gut as he climbed off him. “How long was I asleep?”

“A little over four hours,” Martin admitted. “A new record for you, lately.”

Jon cursed, in both Common and Elvish. “Gods, Martin, you should have woken me after the first hour!”

“No,” Martin said flatly.

Jon turned to stare at him. The restless, almost manic energy was returning. “What do you mean, no?”

“I have a new rule,” Martin said, sitting up. “If you ever fall asleep around me, I’m not waking you up. For any reason. Not unless you’re having another nightmare.”

“Martin,” Jon gritted out.

“No,” Martin shot back. “You need to sleep. If you keep going at the pace you’re trying to keep, you’re going to run yourself into the ground.”

“You don’t understand ,” Jon snapped. “You don’t know the things I’ve been researching, the things I’ve found.”

“Obviously I don’t know!” Martin retorted, getting to his feet. “You don’t tell me anything anymore! I barely ever see you! You spend all your time up that damned tower—”

“I’m needed there!”

“Get over yourself! What about when I need you, you ass—”

A soft knock came at the door, at just the right moment to be heard between their raised voices. Martin looked to Jon, braced to continue the argument, but Jon wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

With a sigh, he went to answer the door. It might be Elias—not likely, since the Archmage had never deigned to visit their home from on high before, but it was always better to be prepared.

Instead, Georgie Barker stood on his doorstep, dressed in the simple uniform of an acolyte of Bahamut. “Is Jon here?” she asked the moment she saw him—not sounding very hopeful, to Martin’s ears. “He’s not at the tower.”

“He is,” Martin replied, trying not to sound too satisfied about it. Sometimes it felt like he and Elias had an unspoken competition over whose home Jon spent most of his time in.

Not much of a contest. Elias, damn him to all nine of the hells, was winning.

He let her in, because Georgie Barker was Jon’s friend, technically his friend as well, and her company was miles better than Elias’s any day. Maybe she could talk some sense into him.

“I’m glad to find you here instead of the tower,” was the first thing she said to him, once they were all settled inside.

“Not you too,” Jon sighed.

“What do you expect me to say?” she asked. “You spend all your time there, buried in research you barely talk about, and then the Archmage sends you across the continent to vanish for weeks on end. And as if that’s not enough, you bring Melanie into it, as well!”

“Melanie came of her own accord,” Jon pointed out, though Martin could hear the regret in his voice. “I didn’t force her along with me.”

“That doesn’t make it alright, and you know it,” Georgie said firmly. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon sank into a chair. “How much do you know?”

“Only what Melanie’s told me,” Georgie replied, crossing her arms. “It’s… not much. She doesn’t like to talk about it with me. Some of the older acolytes, though—they have more experience with this sort of thing. Talking people through pain, you know. And they’re bound to secrecy, so it’s not like they’re passing it along to me.”

“Right. Good—that’s… I’m glad she’s talking to someone.”

“You should too,” Georgie told him bluntly.

He shook his head. “I can’t. I just… I can’t.”

Georgie looked to Martin as if for help, but he could only shrug. “He hasn’t said much to me, either.”

“What am I supposed to say?” Jon asked. “We were dragged into the Feywild. An eladrin—she calls herself Nikola. She leads a troupe of other fey like her, and they drag the unwary into their performances. Pain amuses them and death bores them. It was—it was bad.”

His hands went to his face, pressing over his eyes as if the image were stamped across his eyelids.

“It was bad, ” he repeated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they’d find us. I wouldn’t have brought Melanie if I had any idea. I swear .”

“Jon ,” Martin said, pained. He sat down beside him, relieved when he reached out and Jon didn’t pull away. “It’s not any better if you’re the only one in danger.”

The noise Jon made was somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“I mean it.”

“I just don’t understand,” Georgie broke in, her voice forcibly gentle. “Why do you keep doing this? What do you think you’ll find if you keep throwing yourself into danger?”

Jon was quiet for a moment, leaning into Martin’s touch.

“I’ve visited more planes than I’d ever thought possible, before I started,” he said at last. “I’ve even talked to some of the denizens within them, when they’re willing. And I—I’ve been studying that ritual. The incomplete spell that Jonah Magnus was working on, to summon something from beyond the planes. And I think—it’s not just to summon an extraplanar creature. I think it’s to summon a god .”

Martin met Georgie’s shocked gaze over Jon’s head.

“And that’s not all,” Jon went on. “I think someone’s trying to put it together. Someone’s trying to complete it. And I don’t know why.”

The breath left Georgie quickly. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. That’s… it’s not confirmed, is it? It’s just something you suspect.”

“Strongly suspect.”

“Right. Okay.” Georgie’s arms tightened against her chest, and she took another deep breath. “Okay. There are people I can tell. The head of the temple. There are paladins, clerics—warriors. The kind of people trained to deal with this sort of thing.”

Jon didn’t reply.

“I’m just saying,” Georgie went on. “This is big—if you’re right, then this is definitely big—but this isn’t your responsibility. You know that, right? It’s better if you leave this to the proper authorities, instead of getting involved yourself.”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Jon?” Georgie urged.

“What?” Jon asked, blinking slowly. He was still a little bleary eyed—he really need to get more sleep.

“Did you hear what I just said?” Georgie asked with a note of impatience.

Jon frowned as if in confusion. He opened his mouth again, closed it again, and then his expression cleared. The confusion vanished, and he shook his head as if to clear it.

“Right,” he replied. “You’re right, of course. Sorry. Thank you, Georgie. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Don’t just keep it in mind,” Georgie told him. “You’ve done enough, Jon. You said it yourself—it’s bad. And maybe next time you won’t get lucky. I’m asking you now, please . You have to stop this before it’s too late.”

Jon nodded, but Martin’s heart sank again when he saw it. Jon’s mouth agreed, but his eyes were elsewhere. It was bad enough, seeing him that way when Elias was in the room. Seeing it here, in the safety of their home, felt like a violation.

Martin’s voice shook as he sang, but the magic still flowed through it. Jon was slumped against him, bandages stained where the blood still soaked through.

He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d made the decision that, one day, he was going to murder the Archmage of Tal’dorei. Maybe it was after one of Jon’s screaming nightmares. Or the last time Jon had come home exhausted and wounded and lost, flinching at every kind word and gentle touch.

Or it was forty minutes ago, when Elias thrust Jon at him and told him to kindly patch him up please, thank you Mr. Blackwood, it’s so hard to find a good assistant these days—

His voice shook again, cracking on a note as the simmering fury briefly boiled over. Elias’s days were numbered, and if Martin had to see to it personally, then so be it.

Gods, he’d thought Jon was dead when he first saw him. Even now his face was ashy and pale, and some of his deeper wounds still oozed blood. And the burns—were they even burns? There was no redness or inflammation; the flesh around the blisters was blackened like scorched wood. Jon had hardly opened his eyes through the arduous process of healing, but when he did, Martin could see burst blood vessels, suffusing the whites of his eyes with red.

But, as time passed and Martin’s frantic spellcasting took hold, Jon had improved. His breathing deepened and evened out, his face darkened with color, and his scattered moments of wakefulness were getting longer. Even the cracked, ugly burns were starting to fade, some of them scabbing over, others peeling away to reveal freshly healed skin.

It wasn’t pretty, any more than the singing was—Martin’s voice had always been more functional than beautiful—but it got the job done. Jon would be—

He’d recover. That was the important thing.

Georgie hovered nearby. Her own magic, new and meager as it was, had run out quickly. Now she waited, silent and unreadable as she paced the room. Melanie had long since given up trying to calm her, and simply watched the proceedings with a worried scowl.

At last, Jon had regained enough strength to stay awake and sit up on his own. Martin wanted to protest, to cajole him into sleeping, but the moment he’d seen Georgie standing there, Jon had braced himself and met her eyes.

Georgie looked away first, hands shaking.

“Where did you go this time, Jon?”

Jon almost flinched. “I think you know where I went.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Slowly, Jon shut his eyes. “I saw the Abyss.”

The breath left her in a long, wavering sigh. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You’re right. I did know that.”

“Georgie—”

“I wish I could ask you if this is where it finally stops,” she cut him off. “If this is finally enough for you, if you’re—if you’re done, if you’ve made your point yet, if you’ve gotten it all out of your system. But I already know the answer to that, too.”

Jon didn’t reply.

“So where to next?” she asked in a brittle voice. “Gonna try to walk with gods next?”

“Georgie, I swear I—”

“No.” She drew herself up to her tallest height. “I’m tired of being brushed off, Jon. Why do you keep doing this? What do you have to prove?”

Jon opened his mouth, desperation flashing across his face. “I-I can’t,” he choked out. “I can’t stop until it’s finished.”

“Until what’s finished?”

“My work— Elias’s work—”

“To hell with Elias!” she snapped. “Elias has done nothing but put you in danger again and again. He’s going to get you killed if you don’t leave!”

“I can’t— ” Jon repeated. “I can’t stop until it’s finished.”

“Well I can’t either with you, Jon!” Georgie said helplessly. “I—I can’t . I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just sit here and watch you throw yourself deeper.”

Martin wanted to protest, but Jon was silent.

“Everything about this—the Archmage, the tower, this research, all this danger—it reeks of corruption. You realize that, don’t you?” Georgie stared at him pleadingly. “I’m training to be a paladin, but I’m still new. Whatever this is, I’m not strong enough to resist it myself. I can’t keep doing this, because if I do then I might fall too.”

Anger flared up, forcing Martin out of his silence. “What do you mean, ‘too’?” he demanded.

Georgie looked away. “Even you have to admit how wrong this feels,” she said. “But that’s your business. Your choice. And mine is… I have to walk away. I’m sorry.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Jon said quietly.

Georgie’s shoulders slumped, as if for all her talk, part of her had hoped Jon would argue with her. “I just want you to try,” she said. “You don’t have to promise me anything, just… please think about it. You have to stop, Jon. You have to get out.”

“Thank you, Georgie,” Jon replied, and with one last pained look at him, Georgie turned and left the house.

It wasn’t until the door swung shut that Melanie finally spoke up as well. “I can’t stay either,” she said bluntly. “You know that, right?”

Without a word, Jon nodded.

“It’s not even the danger for me, you know?” she went on. “But this went far past an arcane research project months ago. Before the Feywild, even. I don’t know what Bouchard thinks he’s doing, but whatever is, it’s bad. It’s evil . And I can’t be part of it.”

She stood up. “You should get out, too, if you find a way,” she said. “You may be a pompous ass sometimes, but you’ve never wanted to hurt anyone. And I can tell you right now, if you don’t leave, then someone’s going to get hurt, and it might not even be you.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Jon replied.

“Oh, you won’t?” Melanie’s tone was biting. “You’ll stop it, will you? With what magic? You’re barely a wizard. You’re a scholar.”

“Melanie,” Martin warned.

“Fine. That’s all I wanted to say, anyway.” She heaved a gruff sigh. “Try not to get yourself killed. At least listen to Martin.”

“Thank you,” Jon told her. “For everything.”

“Take care of yourself.” With that, Melanie was gone as well.

The house was silent for a while, now that half of its previous occupants had gone. Martin found Jon’s hand, and was relieved when he didn’t pull away from his grasp.

“You should leave, too,” Jon said miserably, even as he clutched Martin’s hand. “It isn’t safe.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin told him simply. “I made my choice, too.”

With a sigh, Jon stood. “On your head be it,” he said. “Thanks for healing me.”

Martin caught his hand again as he turned to go. “Do you have to leave already?”

“I’m needed at the tower,” Jon replied. “I’m as healed as it’s possible for me to be. You’ve done enough, I promise.”

“You can afford to rest,” Martin urged—pleaded, even. “You just got back. You never come home anymore.”

Jon blinked at him, eyes clouded with confusion. “Home?”

“Yes, home,” Martin said impatiently. “Here. This is your home, Jon.”

“Oh.” Jon stared at him as if he’d suddenly started speaking a different language. Even confused, the look in his eyes was so soft that it made Martin’s heart ache. “To be honest, I… thought I was wearing out my welcome here.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked, dismayed. “You can always come here. You know that. I’ve told you that before.”

But even as he said the words, he could see from the blank resignation in Jon’s face that he didn’t believe him.

That didn’t make sense. Martin had told him before, more than once. How could he have forgotten?

She found him in the Cobalt Reserve.

It took Martin at least a full minute to acknowledge her presence. It might have been longer, because his focus was elsewhere and she could have arrived long before he noticed her.

When he finally glanced up from the old journal in his hands, Georgie was sitting unobtrusively nearby, hands folded in her lap. She was dressed neatly in dark blue and silver, with Bahamut’s crest shining over her heart. Martin knew he must look drab and scruffy in comparison, with too little sleep and neither the time nor the energy to drag a comb through his hair in the morning.

Impatience and irritation welled up within him, not wholly deserved if he were being honest. What was he angry for—that she was well-dressed? Well-groomed? Well-rested, by the lack of bags under her eyes? She wasn’t even trying to pretend she wasn’t waiting for him, but she wasn’t bothering him either. He even suspected that if he looked away again and ignored her, she’d let him.

But she wasn’t going to leave. Georgie might not have stuck around when it counted, but she could still be stubborn when she wanted to be.

Martin turned back to the open journal in front of him, glaring down at a spot where corner of the page had worn away, taking the text with it. “Need something?”

He saw her shift in her seat out of the corner of her eye. “What are you reading?”

“Journal of…” He carefully flipped back to the front to check the first page. “Albrecht von Closen. Wizard from a little over two hundred years ago. One of Jonah Magnus’s contemporaries. Peter suggested I look into them.”

She flinched at the names. He told himself not to feel guilty. She’d asked, and he was pretty sure she’d already known roughly what the answer would be.

“Peter Lukas? Didn’t realize you were on speaking terms.”

Martin ground his teeth. He didn’t need the reminder. Every moment he spent in Peter’s presence, with his lilting voice and mocking smiles, made him want to break something. Even Jon urged him to stay away from the man, like the hypocrite he was. But as long as Peter Lukas was useful, as long as he could be cajoled and flattered into giving up information that Elias withheld, Martin couldn’t afford to burn that bridge.

“So now Jon’s got you helping him?” Georgie pressed.

“He hasn’t ‘got’ me doing anything,” Martin retorted. “He needs help. I’m helping.”

“Martin,” Georgie pleaded.

“Say what you came to say.”

He could hear her bite back a growl of frustration. “This isn’t helping him. You realize that, don’t you? At best you’re enabling him, at worst you’re encouraging him—”

“He’ll keep going regardless, unless I lock him up,” Martin told her. “Probably not even then—Elias has enough pull to bully me into coughing up the key. So, best I can do is try and figure out what’s going on. Maybe it’ll help him. Maybe it’ll help me get him out.”

Georgie was silent for a while, mulling this over. “You don’t have to do this,” she said.

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“You’ve been wrapped up in this as long as I have,” Georgie went on, and Martin ground his teeth again to keep from reminding her that he’d been in it longer. “You know where this is going to lead him. You have to know it’ll lead you down the same road if you don’t stop.”

Martin turned around, chair scraping the polished floor. “What do you want me to say, Georgie?” he asked. “Hm? Do you think I’m going to argue? I’m not. There—you’re right. You’re absolutely right. It’s dangerous and foolish and everything about it is beyond suspicious and Elias Bouchard has no one’s best interests at heart but his own. I know that. Something’s wrong with Jon—he hasn’t been himself, he’s been losing sleep. Losing entire days sometimes. I know that, too. There’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know.”

“I’ve had a lot of time away from this,” Georgie shot back, voice rising. “D’you think it was easy to walk away? It wasn’t! It still isn’t. Every day I have to remind myself why we got out of this, just so I won’t convince myself to come back.”

“You say that like you think staying is easy.”

“Staying is worse, and it’ll get you killed,” Georgie told him bluntly.

“I’m not leaving without him.”

“Martin, please.” She almost reached out to him, but stopped herself halfway through the motion. “You don’t have to do this. It’s okay to save yourself.”

“Goodbye, Georgie,” he said, turning away. “Tell Melanie I said hello.”

She lingered for a full ten minutes, getting up a few times to pretend to examine the books on the shelves. But eventually she left.

Martin turned the page, and kept reading.

Martin sat by the bedside and watched Jon sleep.

It was hard not to look at Jon and weigh what he saw against what he’d seen after Jon’s return from the Abyss. That journey had left him with open wounds and blackened burns; it had taken Martin all the magic he could give, just to patch him up. Now, the only outward damage Martin could see was a little bruising at his throat, some superficial scratches on his arms and face. Hardly anything, compared to before.

The troubling part was that, this time, it was all self-inflicted.

“We’ve had to keep him under,” the temple attendant had told him. He’d spoken gently, as if he thought Martin might shatter at the news. “He was out of his senses when he was brought in—it was the only way we could keep him still without restraining him—”

“From doing what?” Martin had demanded.

The acolyte’s face and voice were steady in the face of Martin’s brittle tension. “He was lashing out at everyone who came too close,” he replied. “And when we gave him space, he tried to hurt himself instead. We were able to heal the damage he did to his eyes, tongue, and vocal cords, and the rest are only scratches. Physically, he should heal…”

Mentally was a different story, the acolyte didn’t say. Martin didn’t need him to.

It was troubling that Jon’s affliction was beyond their skill here; this was a temple of the Everlight, and healing was what they did. It was not, however, surprising.

Jon had gone to the Far Realms this time. He was lucky to be alive at all.

Eventually the acolytes had left them alone, with strict instructions to Martin to come fetch one of them if Jon showed any change, or any sign of waking up. He barely heard them leave.

Time passed strangely while he sat with Jon. The seconds seemed to drag, and yet, several times, Martin would glance to the windows and find the light outside had changed. From bright noon to sunset, then to gray dusk, and finally to night. At some point one of the acolytes brought food for him, but hunger felt so far away.

Martin spoke to him softly, unsure of whether Jon could hear him. Did his madness linger even in his sleeping mind? He hoped not.

“I was going to tell you,” he whispered. “I think we have it all. Magnus’s work. The ritual. Everything. He tried it once, before he disappeared. Must not have worked.”

He lifted Jon’s hand and pressed his mouth to it, whispering into Jon’s skin. “Elias has been perfecting it. Hasn’t he? All this time. He’s had you doing his work for him.”

For a split second he was seized with the violent urge to cry. It passed instantly, leaving him breathless and adrift again.

“Georgie and Melanie haven’t been by,” he murmured. “Georgie gave up on me a while ago. Melanie’s staying away, too. And now you’re gone. And it’s just me again.”

His breath shuddered in, then out again.

“I was so alone. Did you know that? And then I had you. And you loved me so much that—you taught me to do it, too. I didn’t before. I didn’t even realize until you showed me.”

He lowered Jon’s hand to the bed again, and brushed Jon’s hair back. “Then you met Elias, and… now I know how to hate, too.”

The tears came, so suddenly that Martin couldn’t put up defenses. His vision blurred, and his breath stuttered violently in his chest.

“I can’t do this by myself,” he whispered. “Please, Jon—I don’t know what to do. Please.”

It was only a few hours before dawn that he realized that he’d need some changes of clothes if he wanted to stay at the temple any longer. The acolytes would allow it, and if they didn’t like it, then he’d make himself useful to keep them from complaining.

Wearily, he tore himself from Jon’s side and left the temple. The Everlight’s house was thankfully closer to his own home, located outside of the Temple Ward. Martin wasn’t sure he was up for a walk across the city, especially after a sleepless night. In his addled state he took a few wrong turns, but eventually, by the time the first bit of pre-dawn light began to creep over the horizon, he made his way home.

As soon as he opened the door, he knew that something was wrong. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but before he could make the decision, a familiar, detested voice called to him from within.

“Good morning, Martin,” Elias greeted him with a smile from the kitchen table. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

Martin took in the warm smile, the deep, measured voice, and the odd warmth lingering in the air, and for a moment his defenses fled. This was Elias; he knew Elias, had known him for years by now. Elias would know what to do; he could help, because he had only ever wanted to help Jon—

Martin could feel the mental snap as the spell broke, and he bared his teeth in a snarl of defiance—that bastard had tried to Charm him—

With a long-suffering sigh, Elias snapped his fingers, and Martin’s body locked in place. “You’ve always been stubborn,” Elias said as he closed the distance between them at a leisurely pace. “An annoyance, to be sure, but not a fatal one. Not to worry,” he added with a faint smile. “You’ll still be enormously helpful.”

“Fuck you,” Martin forced out through stiff jaws.

“No need for that,” said Elias, closing the door behind Martin. “I thought you wanted to help Jon.”

Martin glared at him helplessly, well past the point of trusting a word out of his mouth.

“No? Well, no matter. You will, regardless.”

Martin’s back felt cold all of a sudden, which made no sense when Elias had already shut the door. It took him a moment to remember—he’d felt this chill before.

“If all goes well,” Elias told him, “you’ll be out before you know it.”

And then Martin was falling back, plunging into gray mists until he could no longer see Elias, or his home, or anything at all.

He could move again, but it was no use. The last time he had drifted here, a map had opened within his mind to show the way. This time, Elias left him with nothing.

Martin breathed in a shuddering sob, the noise lost in the choking fog. The cold filled his lungs, drowning him in silence and solitude.

Hands.

Warm, slender, rough with calluses, gentle. Two points of warmth against his face, plunging through the freezing cold like a weighted line thrown to a drowning man.

He knew these hands.

“—ou hear me? Martin, look at me, please look at me, can you see me—”

He drew in a gasp that nearly choked him. He couldn’t see—his eyes stung, long frozen shut with tears.

But he knew the hands pressed against his face, and he knew that voice.

“Jon?” he choked out.

“Martin.” He was drawn close, squeezed between too-thin arms. “Oh gods, I thought you—I thought I’d lost you.”

“I can’t see,” Martin told him. “My eyes—I can’t open them.”

“Alright, it’s alright,” Jon whispered. His hands drifted upward, gentle thumbs pressing against his eyelids to warm them. Eventually Martin peeled them apart, and found Jon’s face inches away.

He must not have been here long. He could still see scratches healing on Jon’s face, around his eyes, where he’d tried to—

“You’re back,” Martin whispered. “How—you were gone, they couldn’t wake you because you kept—”

“I know.” Jon pulled him close again, letting Martin press his face against his chest. “I’m sorry. The Far Realms—I was only there for a minute or so, but it was too much. I’m so sorry you had to see me like that.”

“I didn’t,” Martin admitted. “You were already asleep when they let me see you.”

“Good,” Jon said grimly. “It wasn’t worth seeing.”

“But how?” Martin pressed.

“Georgie,” Jon replied, and Martin tensed with instinctive anger. “Not—not precisely her. She didn’t… I don’t think she visited. But she sent someone from Bahamut’s Rest. One of their more powerful clerics returned from a pilgrimage, and she asked them to try to help. It—it worked, as you can see.”

For the first time in a while, Martin felt grudging gratitude for Georgie again. “They restored your mind?”

Jon was silent for a moment. “They did more than that,” he replied. “When I woke up, my mind was clear. Completely clear.” His voice shook with more than the cold.

Martin pulled back, just far enough to look at him. “Jon?”

“They lifted the geas,” Jon told him in a hushed voice. “And—and they restored my stolen memories.”

It shouldn’t have been possible for Martin to feel any colder, and yet he did. “Your memories.”

“I remember everything.” Jon pressed his forehead to Martin’s, eyes squeezed shut. “You, telling me I was welcome in your home. That it was my home too. Every time. Every time, he took it away. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Jon.”

“And there’s more than that,” Jon went on. “The ritual—Magnus’s ritual. Elias is the one trying to put it together. It’s been him, this whole time.”

“Yeah,” Martin said grimly. “Put that one together myself.” He took a deep breath, shivering at the cold air in his lungs. “So what do we do now?”

“We get out,” Jon told him. “We get away.” He clutched Martin’s arms, eyes bright with desperation. “The geas is gone. I can disobey him again.”

“How long—no.” Martin shut his eyes. “No, don’t tell me. Tell me later.”

“Right. Let’s get out of here, then. The Astral Plane is no place for us.”

“Is that where we are?” Martin asked.

Jon nodded. “The graveyard of the gods. I’ll spare you the lecture for now. Let’s go.”

“I don’t know the way,” Martin said uncertainly.

Jon took his hand. “I do. Follow me—it’s almost over.”

He didn’t know how long they drifted together, swimming through thick fog until the light of a rift shone before them. At the sight of it, Jon gripped his hand tighter.

“Brace yourself,” he said. “I don’t exactly know where that leads. Whatever happens, don’t let go.”

Martin squeezed his hand. They stepped into the light together—

And out, onto the smooth, polished floor Graystone Tower. Elias stood waiting for them, calm and patient as ever.

“Hello, Jon,” he greeted them warmly. His voice thrummed oddly on each word, and Jon flinched. “I do apologize for the—”

Jon lunged, lashing out with the hand that wasn’t gripping Martin’s. For a while moment Martin thought Jon was going to punch him. But instead of striking with a fist, Jon planted his hand firmly on Elias’s chest. Sparks crackled at his fingertips and exploded into Elias in a burst of lightning.

For a single glorious moment, the Archmage’s eyes went wide with shock, and his body went rigid.

Without a word, the two of them raced past the paralyzed Archmage and down the tower steps, hand in hand. At the bottom, Jon pulled Martin along before he could hesitate.

“This way,” Jon told him. “Hopefully it hasn’t been too long.”

They reached the closest stables. A boy in Bahamut’s colors stood waiting with two horses, both saddled and ready. Without a word, the young acolyte passed them the reins and slipped out of the stables.

“What’s happening?” Martin asked.

“We’re finally following Georgie’s advice,” Jon said, clambering into the saddle with a grunt of effort. “And leaving this mess to the proper authorities. I don’t know what the paladins of Bahamut are planning to do about him, and frankly, at this point I don’t care.”

Relief gripped Martin so tightly that it nearly choked him as he mounted the other horse. “What about us? Where do we go?”

“The Bramblewood,” Jon replied. “There’s, um. There’s a cabin there. I’ve been there once before, and… well, let’s just say it’s no longer in use.” He shook his head at Martin’s concerned look. “There’s no time to explain. I know I haven’t been someone you could rely on lately, but right now, I need you to trust me.”

Of course there was only one answer Martin could give to that.

“Lead the way.”

On the first night, neither of them spoke.

There were no words to be said; or if there were, Martin could not find them. He was cold that night, lips numb and chilled, with the fog of the Astral Sea still clinging around the edges of his vision. It was all he could do just to stay standing, to stay present , as if he might slip back into that misty otherworld if he didn't focus on the here and now, and on Jon.

Jon.

He looked… small. Had he always been that small? Martin used to gently tease him about his height, stubbornly unimpressive in spite of his elven blood. But now, as Martin watched him sway and stumble about the cabin, as shaky as a new fawn, he was struck by just how breakable he looked. As if he'd shattered once already and was pieced back together with inexpert hands.

And sure enough, Jon had only just managed to string an alarm spell around the cabin when his dwindling strength finally gave out. Martin barely made it to his side in time to catch him before he hit the ground.

It hurt.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt. Jon could be angry and careless and even cruel when pressed to his limits, but it shouldn’t hurt just to hold him. Jon was warm, Jon was soft even with all his points and angles and rough edges. Holding Jon in his arms used to feel like home, like he was someone’s home. But now, with Jon's body pressed against him, heavy with exhaustion, Martin had to choke back tears at the wrenching ache that took hold of him.

A memory swam unbidden to the surface—a house on the outskirts of Westruun, in the prickly shade of the Bramblewood. An oak tree just beyond his bedroom window, with a nest in the fork that his mother had shown him.

(He couldn’t have been older than seven, if Mum hadn’t learned to hate him yet.)

The baby bird had fallen from the nest one morning, and Martin had scooped it up to put it back, only to freeze with the tiny thing cupped in his hands, paralyzed by the feeling of downy feathers and pointy bones that weighed nothing, so soft and light that his hands may as well have been empty.

It was the first time he’d truly been aware of himself, of the space he occupied. He hadn’t thought about his hands before that moment, when he held a life in them and understood how painfully easy it would be to bring them together and snuff it out. Mum had found him petrified and crying, the nestling peeping in distress but unharmed, and fussed over him as she helped him put it back.

And now, in the present, Jon was impossibly delicate in his arms. Even as exhausted and aching as he was, lifting Jon felt like lifting nothing at all.

There was no one to break his paralysis this time, no one to dry his tears and gently take Jon from his shaking arms. Even if there had been, Martin doubted that he would have let them. So instead, he pushed down the fear and weariness and did what he did best.

He found the most comfortable chair in the place, left Jon in it with a warm cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and went to ready the cottage’s only bed. He changed the sheets for a fresh set, found a less-dusty coverlet in the closet, plumped the pillows, and swept out the room before going back for Jon. Jon wasn’t quite unconscious yet, but put up no resistance as Martin carefully freed him from his coat and shoes and outer layers. Martin did the same for himself, and left everything in a heap on the floor to be cleared away in the morning when he wasn’t exhausted and close to tears. Then, drawing Jon into his arms again, he carried him to bed.

He felt Jon drop off the moment their heads were on pillows and the blankets were drawn over them. Jon’s tenuous hold on consciousness slipped, and with a soft sigh he surrendered to sleep. His hands remained curled in Martin’s shirt.

Even in sleep, the dark circles beneath his eyes stood out. Martin could see no relief in his face. Pulling him close, he tucked Jon’s head beneath his chin and pressed his lips to his tangled hair.

Another melody came to him slowly, sluggishly, but with the steadiness of instinct and habit that could be buried, but never lost. He hummed it first, wincing when it came out cracked and fragile. How long had it been since he’d last tasted music on his lips? He’d tried to sing to himself in the Astral Plane, but the alien atmosphere had addled him, and his voice had been lost in the muffling fog.

It was easier to find the pitch and key here, in a little bedroom, surrounded by warmth and smells that could, given time, grow as familiar as the shape of his own body pressed into the mattress. It was easier to find the rhythm with Jon breathing against him, to find the words with someone close by to listen.

As he watched the lines in Jon’s face go smooth, the swell of warmth in his chest felt like coming home.

Martin woke to sunlight in his eyes and a familiar bony weight resting on his chest. He shifted slightly, turning his head away from the light, and waited to see if he would drift off again. When consciousness persisted, he finally opened his eyes and waited for the world to come into focus.

There were worse sights to wake up to than Jon's face, as battered as it was.

Jon was nestled in the crook of his arm, lying half on top of him with his arms pillowed beneath his head, to keep his chin from digging into Martin's chest. He was already awake, dark eyes watching Martin's face as if trying to memorize it. Old scars stood out pale against his skin, along with the half-healed scratches from Jon’s own fingernails.

"Did I wake you?" Jon whispered.

"No." Martin worked his arm free from the blanket and rested his hand against the side of Jon's face. Jon's eyes drifted shut as he savored the touch. "How did you sleep?"

"Can't remember dreaming," Jon replied. "So, better than I have in a while. You?"

Martin wracked his brain, but when his memory failed to conjure up anything conclusive, he shrugged. "Same as you, I guess. Do you think we're safe here?"

Jon frowned in thought. "I… We're safer than we were. I’m free from the geas, the temple of Bahamut has been notified, and… hopefully that’s enough of a mess to keep Elias occupied. For a while, at least. And Georgie said she'd keep an ear out for us."

That’s more in one sentence than Georgie has done for us in a while, a resentful little voice in Martin’s head reminded him. The tremulous hope on Jon's face kept that thought where it was.

"I guess we’ll see, then." Martin ran his thumb over the line of Jon's cheekbone, then slid his hand to the side so that his fingers tangled in Jon's hair. Jon turned his head into the touch, eyelids lowering again as Martin caressed him. The pad of his thumb slid over the shell of Jon's ear, over the notched scar to where it tapered to a gentle point.

Jon shuddered, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. "Martin, listen—"

"Marry me?"

Jon stilled against him, eyes flying open again. "I. What?"

"I just wanted to ask, before anything else happened," Martin said. "Will you marry me?"

Jon stared at him, mouth hanging open. It wasn't often that Martin could render him entirely speechless. Sort of a feat, really.

"Sorry," Martin said absently. "I interrupted you, didn't I. What were you going to say?"

The breath left Jon with a noise that was almost a groan, and his head dropped to Martin's chest. "Martin, you can't just— gods ."

"It's alright if it's no," Martin said in a small voice. "I mean, a lot's happened, and I… I understand, if it’s not the right time or—or if you don’t want to—"

In an instant Jon was pushing himself up again, reaching for him even though he was already sprawled over top. "No, that's not what I—Martin. Listen to me." It was his turn to bury his hands in Martin's hair, fingers winding into the soft locks. His eyes were bright. "Are you listening?"

"Yes." Martin couldn't look away.

“None of this—nothing’s over. You know that, right?”

Martin blew out a sigh. “Yes, Jon, I’m not an idiot.”

"I don't know if I'm safe," Jon went on, a little desperately. "I don't know if I'll ever be safe again."

"Jon…"

"If the paladins can’t take care of this, then I can't think of any reason why Elias wouldn't be able to track me down eventually. And even if he doesn't…" Jon's mouth twisted with anguish. "I'm not… I'm different, Martin. I'm not who I used to be. I don't think I can ever be that person again.” His voice broke. “You care so much, Martin. Even when it hurts you. Even when you shouldn’t. And I don't want to trap you into being with me if I'm not the person you fell in love with. Especially if I can't even promise you'll be safe with me. So…" His throat bobbed. “I-I want you to know that if it’s too much, if you can't—you can still get out. It’s me he wants. And I’d be alright. I wouldn’t be alone. You could go somewhere else, live your life the way you deserve. If that's what you want, I'll understand."

Martin’s breath shuddered in his chest as he teetered dangerously close to tears. It hurt to hear that from him, the same way it had hurt to pull him into his arms the previous night. Not because it was cruel, but because sometimes Martin loved him too much to fit it all within his own skin. It was filling him up, overflowing, drowning words and coherence with the sheer weight of feeling.

“Martin.” Jon’s voice shook. “Martin, please say something.”

“Thank you,” Martin choked out. “Thank you for—for giving me a choice. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Jon’s eyes shone with held-back tears. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know what I deserve,” Martin whispered. “But if it isn’t you, then I don’t want it. A-and, it’s alright that you aren’t the same person I fell in love with, because I’m not the same person who fell in love with him, you know?” He tried to breath in, and his chest shuddered. “Maybe we’ve both changed, and maybe we’ve both done things we aren’t proud of, but—but we’re together, and I don’t ever want to let you go again. My place is right here, wherever you are. I won’t have anything or anyone else.”

Jon drew in a harsh breath.

“Okay?” said Martin.

Instead of answering, Jon pushed himself up and out of Martin’s arms. He threw the blankets back and stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over his own feet as he rushed out of the room. Martin sat up, confused and alarmed.

“Jon? What’s wrong?”

“H-hold on, just—just give me a moment—” In a flash, Jon was back, dragging his bag with him and fumbling with the clasps as he went. He reached in, cursing softly under his breath as he searched it, before he finally gave a triumphant ah and pulled out—

Oh.

Jon met his eyes again and froze, letting the bag slip from his grasp and fall to the floor. Between his hands, he fidgeted with the small, velvety box. “I just—”

“Jon.”

“It was after the Feywild,” Jon blurted out. “I—it was the closest I’d come to, to dying yet, and—and you were so brave afterward, standing against Elias, giving him what for—”

“Jon.”

“And you were trying so hard to be strong, even though you were hurting, and I just—” Jon broke off, scrubbing at the tears running down his face. “I was trying to wait for the right time, but it never came, and then it was just another memory that Elias plucked out, and…”

“Jon,” Martin said, for the third time in a row.

“Yes,” Jon choked out. “Yes, I want to marry you, you ridiculous man. ”

Later, Martin couldn’t say whether he threw himself into Jon’s arms or Jon threw himself into his. Either way they ended up in a tangle on the floor, surrounded by spilled blankets, Jon’s head tucked in the crook of Martin’s neck.

“Jon,” Martin whispered.

“Yes?”

“How in the Nine Hells are we going to manage a wedding?”

“Hopefully not in the Nine Hells,” Jon replied. “I’ve been there. Not the best atmosphere for nuptials.”

“Jon.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jon told him. Martin could hear his smile, as warm and loving as a kiss given voice. “Might take time. I don’t mind a long engagement, if you’re not opposed to it.”

Martin buried his laughter in Jon’s hair. “I really love you, you know?”

“Yes. I do.”

Might take time. Of course it would, now that it could.

After everything, they finally had time .

Chapter Text

It felt good to cry. He’d been fighting it for months, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and burying everything that might slow him down.

But the journey was over now. He was where he meant to be, he’d found the people he was looking for, and nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. And now he was stuck with no clear path forward, nothing but the clothes on his back, an engagement ring hanging around his neck, and a stark absence that bled like a hole in his heart.

Georgie and Melanie wouldn’t help. He’d come all this way for nothing and he didn’t know where to go next. Might as well have a cry.

The arms around him came as a surprise. A flutter of blinking cleared his vision just for a moment, just long enough for him to see who’d stepped forward to hug him. It was Tim, surprisingly enough. The last time Martin revealed a lie like this, Tim had torn him a new one over it.

Of course, he hadn’t been crying back then. He’d been petulant, even defiant, not a pitiable, weeping mess. The thought just made him feel manipulative now, which made him feel worse, which made him want to keep crying. Helplessly, Martin buried his face in Tim’s shoulder and lifted leaden arms to hug him back.

Gerry hovered just out of reach, hands wringing at his sides. Sasha hung back, blank-faced with shock.

“I knew there was more you weren’t telling us,” Tim murmured. “After the first time you told us about the Ceaseless Watcher. But I never imagined—”

“Do you believe me?” Martin asked.

Tim heaved a sigh. “Honestly, it makes more sense than it doesn’t, you know?” He pulled back, though his hands stayed firmly on Martin’s shoulders. “You didn’t have to lie about that. I wish you hadn’t. But if I make myself really think about it, I understand why you did.”

“I… still have questions,” Sasha said cautiously. At Tim’s glare, she hastily added, “But I can wait to ask them.”

Martin hesitated. He felt wrung out and exhausted, letting all of that out at last. But at the same time he’d promised to tell them everything.

He could keep going. He had to, if he wanted to make sure they stayed on his side. It was a selfish reason for honesty, but he couldn’t count on fixing things with Georgie and Melanie.

“I’ll try to answer,” he said. “Best I can.”

“Hold that thought,” Tim told him, and pushed him to sit down on the bed. “I’m getting tea. Anyone else want anything?”

Martin barely heard the others reply; their voices were hushed, like they thought they’d upset him if they spoke too loudly. Part of him wanted to protest, to struggle upright and fetch his own tea, but now that he was seated, the thought of lifting his head, much less the rest of him, felt like more trouble than it was worth.

Months of holding himself together, and in the space of one afternoon he was useless.

The creak of floorboards cut through his thoughts, and he raised his weary eyes to find Gerry standing by him, barely within reach. He gestured to the bed Martin was sitting on, movements jerky as if he was doing his best not to touch him.

“Do you mind if I—?” Gerry asked.

“Sure,” Martin replied, barely certain of what Gerry was even asking.

The answer came when Gerry carefully sat down beside him, again not quite touching him. He’d said little since the full truth came out, and Martin could only guess at what he was thinking.

Was he asking Jon for confirmation? Was Jon answering?

Martin reached out, groping blindly for a connection that should have been there. Bard magic had come easily once, a joining of threads within himself that raveled into something so bright it was nearly tangible. It was like tying a knot, or plucking a harp string, but with his voice instead of his fingers.

His other magic—the cleric magic—was like shouting into an empty void and waiting. It came back, most of the time—holy fire and healing and simple divination. But it felt hollow and empty every time—an echo, not an answer.

Not like Gerry, who could feel Jon hovering over his shoulder at the first sign of trouble.

By the time Tim returned, Sasha had pulled up two chairs, one for herself and one for him. No one spoke as Tim pressed the tea into Martin’s hands. He sipped it. Whoever made it had steeped it just a bit too long, and tried to cover up the mistake with extra honey. The sweetness clung to his teeth, heavy and cloying over the bitterness.

“You could’ve said something,” Sasha said softly. “In the Bramblewood.”

“Said what?” Martin asked dully. “You two were strangers. You were supposed to help me get to Vasselheim and that’s it.”

“I’m talking about the cabin,” she said bluntly. “I just wish you’d—I mean if we’d known—”

“We wouldn’t have made you spend the night in the place where you died,” Tim finished for her. “That’s—that’s what it was, wasn’t it?”

Martin shrugged, unsure of how to reply. They were right; he could have said something. But he didn’t. He made his choice to shut up and bear it. There was no reason for them to feel guilty about it.

“How does it even work?” Sasha asked. “You, being a cleric to your fiance? It’s—isn’t it supposed to be about religious devotion? Faith in a deity?”

“Sasha,” Tim said quietly.

“It’s a fair question,” Martin admitted. “But I don’t know. I just—I’ve been stumbling along, trying to figure out what works. I-I understand a little bit. Holy symbols and everything—they’re just that. Symbols.” He toyed with the ring in his hands. “It’s like I said. I already pledged myself to him. It’s not about religion for me. It never has been. I just—I love him. And he loves me too. That’s the core of it.”

He dug through his pouch for the journal, battered and well-thumbed and filled with scribbling. The first part of the book was poetry. Nothing complete, nothing particularly good, just lines and phrases and verses that caught his fancy at the time. Eventually the pretty words came to an end, replaced with research notes, reminders, and passages copied from dusty books he’d found on the shelves of the Cobalt Reserve: a chronicle of his frantic studying when he exhausted all other ways he had of helping Jon. Not all of the writing was his. Interspersed through the poetry were notes from Jon, messages and reminders he scribbled in it when Martin’s back was turned. Jon’s research notes mingled with Martin’s own. And at the end of the book, when there was no more studying to be done, were a few halting attempts at the old verses, interrupted by notes and messages in Jon’s spidery handwriting.

It was a disjointed, disorganized mess of uneven lines and smudged ink, but… “This is the closest I’ve ever had to a holy text,” he said. “It’s got my writing in it, and Jon’s. There’s no scripture, just… bits of everything. Notes we wrote to each other. The spells don’t seem to know the difference.” He shut the book before any of the others could get it in their heads to read it. “My augury dice were from him. He spent hours picking out the most evenly weighted ones—the shopkeep almost tossed him out.” His throat ached. “I can’t remember why he did that. I think it was over a bet.” He tucked the journal out of sight. “There’s nothing holy about it. About any of it. But it’s important. It makes me think of him when I hold them in my hands. And it works.”

“There’s… one thing that still bothers me,” Tim admitted, sounding reluctant.

His eyes flickered to the side, and Martin’s heart sank with resignation. Of course they’d ask about that. They deserved to know. He’d let them stew in false assumptions for so long.

“How does Gerry fit into all this?” Tim asked. Beside Martin, Gerry shifted uncomfortably. “And why—why all the trouble, when we first met him? I always thought it was because he was bound to an evil god you were out to kill. Obviously that isn’t true, so…”

“I didn’t know what it meant,” Martin said plaintively. He should have been looking at Gerry when he spoke, he should have addressed it directly to him, but he couldn’t bear to look him in the eye now. “I didn’t know who you were. The only ones who should have known about Jon were me, Elias, maybe Peter, maybe the people working with him. I just—” His voice caught. “I didn’t know what you wanted with him, or why you knew enough to make a pact with him in the first place.”

“I mean, I didn’t know about him,” Gerry pointed out. “It—honestly he’s the one who sprung it on me.”

“I know that,” Martin told him. “I know. And I’m sorry, for how I was before. I was just—I was scared. And then when I found out that—that you could hear him, or feel him or—I don’t know. I was angry. I didn’t understand. I still don’t.”

“Don’t understand… what?” Sasha asked.

“I don’t—” Hot shame filled the back of his throat, nearly choking him off. “It’s been months, and I can’t feel anything. I cast spells, but it doesn’t feel like anything. I go through the motions and it works, but it’s not like—” He looked at Gerry for a split second before he had to turn away again. “It’s not like how you described it. He won’t talk to me, or reach out to me. I can’t tell if he even knows I’m here. He—he can’t know. He must not know. He wouldn’t—he’d answer me if he knew, I know he would. He wouldn’t just…”

A hand landed lightly on his shoulder—Gerry’s, this time.

“I’ve been calling, and calling.” His eyes burned again, blurring with tears. “And he won’t answer.”

“There’s a reason,” Tim said firmly. “There’s got to be a reason. Gerry?”

Gerry startled slightly. “What?”

“Are you, I don’t know, getting anything? Right now?”

“I…” Gerry hesitated. “No. It’s—he’s being quiet. And honestly, now that I really think of it—” He glanced quickly at Martin. “There are times when I can feel him like he’s at my back, looking over my shoulder. Usually when I’m alone, or when I’m in a fight. And sometimes I can’t feel him at all. Thinking back on it, he’s often quiet when it’s just you and me.”

Martin’s heart sank.

“I’m sorry,” Gerry said softly.

“It’s not your fault,” Martin answered.

A knock at the door cut off further questions. Martin couldn’t help startling at it, even though the knock itself was a polite tap. As Sasha got up to answer it, he sat straighter to see who it was. The knock was too high up to be Melanie but it could have been Georgie. Maybe she’d calmed enough to want to talk.

His hopes were dashed as soon as Sasha opened the door. Their visitor was a woman, but not one that he recognized. She was robed in black, the cloth shimmering faintly in a jagged pattern reminiscent of feathers. Her face was as still and grave as carved stone.

“You are Martin Blackwood?” she asked. Her voice was deep and mellow.

“That’s me,” Martin said hesitantly.

The woman nodded, or inclined her head. Martin wasn’t sure which. “Your presence is requested in Raven’s Crest, in the Duskmeadow district,” she informed him. “One of the Matron’s faithful wishes to speak with you.” Her eyes flickered to the others. “You may bring your companions, if you wish. He said you might not want to come alone.”

“Did he say what he wants with Martin?” Tim asked warily.

“Only that it was a personal matter,” was the reply. “There is no rush. He does not leave until nightfall. Until then, he will be waiting for you in the temple.”

With her message delivered, the woman left.

“What’s that about?” Sasha asked. “Do you know anyone else in town?”

Martin wiped his eyes wearily. The dried tears made his eyelids tacky. “Not that I know of.”

“She said Raven’s Crest,” Gerry pointed out. “That’s the temple of the Raven Queen, isn’t it? Pretty sure there is someone we know who might fit in there.”

A brief hush settled over them as they all landed upon the same conclusion.

“Welp,” Tim said. “If it is him, then we might as well see what he wants.”

By the time they reached the Duskmeadow district, it was late in the afternoon. From there, the temple of the Raven Queen was easy to find; the structure jutted above the surrounding roofs, tall and black and forbidding even in the sunlight.

It was even more intimidating up close. Steps led up to a pair of doors that towered high over Martin’s head. Martin couldn’t tell what material they were made of; it looked like glass, but it was opaque, polished, and jet-black. The doors looked impossibly heavy, especially given their height and width, but they slowly swung open at the group’s approach as if on their own. In spite of their size, they made almost no noise as they turned on their hinges.

With a nervous glance back at the others, Martin ventured inside.

Stepping onto the polished floors of the main entrance chamber, Martin was hit with the sudden sense that the air itself had taken on weight. It pressed in on him from all sides, trembling as if it was alive. The further he got in, the more it surrounded him.

It was power, he realized distantly. Pure divine power, in a quantity he’d never felt before. Compared to this, he might as well use his strongest spells to light candles.

Gerry gripped his shoulder, either steadying Martin or steadying himself. He released him a moment later with a murmured apology. Before Martin could reply, or even finish taking in their surroundings, a familiar voice hailed them from further into the room.

“Oh good, you all made it.”

An arched doorway toward the back of the chamber presumably led deeper into the temple. Standing before it was Blake, cloaked in black the way he always was. He gave a little wave when Martin met his eyes.

At his back, Tim sighed with relief. “It is you,” he said. “Hello again—Thomas? Have I tried Thomas yet?”

Blake blinked in surprise, then let out a quiet laugh. “Not my name, regardless,” he said. “It’s… good to see all of you?”

“Is it?” Martin asked warily.

This would all be a lot easier if he just knew what Blake wanted. Or, better yet if he knew what the Raven Queen wanted. She couldn’t have been mad about his averted death. If he remembered right, Revivify was on the short list of death-manipulating spells that didn’t piss her off. And Georgie had been the one to cast it in the first place.

For his part, Blake looked sheepish. “Well. I think it is. Guess you might not agree.”

“I do,” Tim offered.

“Yeah, me too,” Sasha added.

“It’s fine,” said Gerry.

Blake looked to Martin, and for a split second it looked like he was looking for approval. But then he seemed to remember himself, and the cool, impartial mask slipped back into place.

“Right. Anyway.” He stepped forward, hand slipping beneath his cloak to retrieve something from a hidden pocket. Martin fought the urge to back away. “Sorry I didn’t do this earlier. I meant to, but it took longer than expected to find it. And things have been a little… busy. I came to Vasselheim to report back, and I thought I’d find you here as well.”

None of that made any immediate sense, and Martin was too tired to try to parse it himself. “What are you talking about?” he asked, impatience boiling over. “Why’d you call us here?”

Blake’s hand came free of the cloak, and he held it out. “Here. You dropped this.”

Martin held out his hand, and froze in place when Blake dropped a palm-sized stone into it.

The weight and shape were familiar, as was the pattern of runes against his skin. His Message stone sat in his palm, without so much as a scratch or a stain to suggest that he’d dropped it into the sea.

“You—” He gaped at Blake, then at the stone, then at Blake again.

“Like I said,” Blake said with a small smile. “It took a while to find it.”

“How.”

“Called in a few favors, asked for a few blessings.” Blake heaved a sigh. “I cannot stress enough that it took a while.”

The stone was already warming in his hand when Martin tucked it securely into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said. “Thought I’d lost it for good.” He could feel his friends’ curious gazes on him. His instinct was to recoil, to hide it away like a secret, but he tempered the urge. They knew all the rest. He could let them have this, too.

“That’s, uh, really all I needed,” said Blake. “Don’t, you know. You’re probably busy with… everything. Chasing after your god and all.”

“You know about that?” Tim asked.

Blake hesitated, glancing quickly at Martin as if for permission. At Martin’s noncommittal shrug, he coughed and answered. “I was… there. The night of the ritual in the Bramblewood.”

“What.” Sasha’s voice echoed sharply, and she winced at her own volume.

“Martin Blackwood’s death was important,” Blake went on. “There was nothing we could do to reverse the ritual itself, but my queen sent me to make sure nothing went… amiss, with his soul. I would have escorted him beyond myself, but one of Bahamut’s paladins revived him instead.”

“Why keep popping in, though?” Sasha pressed.

“Because a mortal became a god that night,” Blake replied. “It’s only natural that she’d take an interest.”

Sasha looked confused. Martin opened his mouth to explain, only for Gerry to beat him. “The Raven Queen was mortal, once,” he said. “She overthrew the previous god of death, literal ages ago. Right?”

Blake nodded. “It’s different now. The Matron of Death intended to ascend, and did so through her own actions. Jonathan Sims did not. It’s troubling, to say the least. We don’t know what his newfound power has done to him, either physically or mentally. We don’t know if he might—” he stopped.

“What?” Martin challenged him. “You don’t know if he might turn rotten? If he might start—what, commanding legions of evil? It’s been over a year.”

“It’s just that,” Blake said firmly. “We don’t know. And you don’t, either, do you? Have you communicated with him since his ascension?”

Martin’s temper flashed, and he might have given into it if Gerry hadn’t stepped in. “I have,” he said. “Sort of. Mostly he just… I guess he helps? I’m a warlock, but for the life of me I’ve no idea if there’s something he wants me to do. I do magic, I let him look over my shoulder, and sometimes he drops bits of knowledge in my head, but aside from that, nothing.”

“No news is good news, isn’t it?” Tim asked.

Blake sighed. “I—hope so. I really, really hope so. But it doesn’t change the fact that he needs to be found. Regardless of what he wants now, someone went to great lengths to make him what he is, against his will.”

“Have you?” Martin broke in. “Found him? You travel the planes, don’t you? Have you seen him?”

“Once,” Blake admitted, looking away. “I was in the Deep Ethereal. I found him near the Prime Material border. But I got hasty. He panicked as soon as he saw me, lashed out, and ran.” His hand briefly drifted up toward his chest. “He didn’t—injure me, at least. But he did something. I can’t really describe it—still hurts to think about. It was like being—injected with panic and despair, which are two things I haven’t felt in a long time. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“He has that effect on people,” Gerry muttered.

“I couldn’t get a word out, much less go after him,” Blake went on. “By the time I recovered, he was long gone. I haven’t seen him since.” He met Martin’s eyes for a moment, then looked away again. “I’m sorry.”

It took a second for Martin to find his voice again. “It’s—it’s fine,” he forced himself to say. “It’s not your fault.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Not his fault, either. He’s just… he must be scared.” He hesitated again. “Sorry he hurt you.”

Blake smiled ruefully. “Trust me when I say that I have had far worse.”

He probably thought that was a comforting thing to say. It really wasn’t.

“But you’re still looking for him?” Tim asked. “Do you know where he’s going?”

Blake shook his head. “Wish I did. But he’s gotten better at hiding since that first time I found him. I don’t know if there’s somewhere specific he’s headed. I don’t think there is.”

“They do call him the Wandering Eye,” Sasha pointed out.

“If you do find him,” Martin broke in. “Will you tell me?”

Blake pursed his lips. “I—yes. Yes, I will.” He paused. “Is there—do you want me to pass anything on? A message, or…?”

“Yes,” Martin blurted out, and then his mind went blank. What could he possibly say, through a messenger? He’d been all but screaming for Jon to answer for months, with no answer.

Did Jon even want to hear from him?

Why would he? part of him wondered. His death had made Jon what he was now. Maybe he didn’t—

Maybe—

“Tell him that—” Martin’s voice caught. “Tell him I think about him, always. And I miss him. And I want to talk. That’s all. I just—I want to hear his voice.”

“Alright.” Blake nodded. “That’s only if I can find him. But I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Martin replied. He gripped the stone in his pocket. “And thanks for giving this back to me.”

“Good luck,” Blake told him. There was a whisper of disturbed shadows, and moments later Blake was gone. They were alone in the entrance chamber of the Raven Queen’s temple.

Martin drew the stone back out of his pocket, checking it again for damage. The runes were still intact. Hopefully that meant the enchantment still would be, as well. Only one way to find out.

He swiped his thumb across the runes, carefully tracing the carved lines. They lit up in response, glowing faintly in the dimly-lit room.

“Good morning, Martin,” Jon’s voice whispered to him from the spelled stone. It was soft, rough with sleep, every bit as warm as he remembered it. Martin could hear the smile in it. “Sorry if you’re waking up alone. I’m just leaving this in case you do, so you’ll know I haven’t vanished on you. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done checking the horses. I love you.”

The spell flickered out again, and the stone was silent.

Martin was crying again, taking shallow breaths to keep from sobbing as the tears ran down his face. In an instant he was surrounded on all sides, enfolded by two sets of arms, then three. He clutched them back desperately, and wished he had Jon back in his arms instead.

In the end, Gerry didn’t have to worry about knowing what to say, once Tim and Sasha had retired to their own room and it was just the two of them. Martin wasn’t in much of a chatty mood, it seemed.

Part of him wanted to reach out—no, that wasn’t right. All of him wanted to reach out. Tim had done it so easily before, pulling Martin into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. Even Sasha had joined in so quickly in Raven’s Crest, leaving Gerry straggling several steps behind, offering comfort too little, too late.

And it was too late now, wasn’t it? The moment had passed. That old heavy fog had settled around Martin again, turning the scant distance between them insurmountable. If there was anyone who could get past it, it wasn’t Gerry.

The Eye—Jon’s focus was elsewhere. Gerry tried to reach out, tried to find the familiar weight of a god’s attention. Before today it had come so easily that he had to force himself not to do it by accident—but now things were different. Now it wasn’t just a god, just a looming entity, just a prickle up the back of his neck. It wasn’t even an it anymore. He was Jon, and he was important to Martin, and when Gerry tried to reach out to him, he didn’t know what he was looking for anymore.

He looked on, helpless and mute, as Martin went through the motions of a Divination spell that sputtered out the moment the incense was lit. With a muffled growl of frustration, Martin snapped the stick and threw it at the wall. It barely made a clatter, but the sharp motion of Martin’s arm still made Gerry freeze.

To his dismay, Martin noticed, and the look of instant regret on his face made Gerry want to crawl into the darkness beneath his bed and not come out.

“Sorry,” Martin murmured, breaking the silence.

“It’s fine.”

“No.” Martin’s voice was rough. “It really isn’t.”

The urge to reach for him washed over Gerry again, so powerfully that his hand lifted off the bed for a moment. Just for a moment, before he lost his nerve again.

Better to keep his hands to himself. Better not to risk giving it all away—that Gerry had gone and developed feelings for him, when Martin was already devoted to someone else. When Martin’s entire reason for taking each step forward was to find the one he already loved.

No. He couldn’t risk that. Not when he’d known, deep down, that his feelings would lead him nowhere. That sort of thing wasn’t meant for him.

Eventually the two of them bedded down for the night. Gerry lay curled up on his side, as small as he could comfortably get, and listened to the bed on the other side of the room. Martin’s breathing was too quiet for a sleeping man, but as the minute’s passed, Gerry heard it gradually deepen. Only then did he let his own eyes slip shut.

He dreamed, of course.

As soon as he became aware of it, he knew that something was wrong. His dreams were never like this—he usually wandered through half-familiar spaces, or hovered like an observer, unseen and untouchable. In his dreams the world felt blurry and distant, almost ghostly, as if a veil separated it from him.

But now he knelt on floorboards, hard and rough enough to hurt his knees. When he tried to move, his body seized painfully and held him forcibly still. The world was suddenly thrown into sharp relief, too clear, too real.

He recognized this place. He’d dreamed of it before—an old, cluttered cabin with stains on its freshly-swept floor. But it was empty no longer—Martin knelt across from him, wide-eyed with desperate terror. And no wonder, considering the knife at his unscarred throat, and the man who held it.

His heart pounded—he found us, it’s not fair, we got away, we should have been safe—

"Elias—” His voice came out in splintered pieces, his eyes flickered frantically between the two faces before him, one pale and frightened, the other as calm and patient and satisfied as ever. “J-Jonah, please. Please don’t—don’t. Just let him go. You don’t have to do this.”

Martin struggled. “Jon, shut up— ” The edge of the knife pressed hard to his throat, drawing a shallow red line.

“I’ll come with you,” he went on, heedless. Of course Martin would say that, Martin would say anything to save him, just as he was doing for Martin now. “W-whatever you want, whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do it.” Anything. Anything would be bearable, just not this, never this —“ You won’t even have to waste a geas on me, I-I’ll come with you, I’ll do as you say, I’ll never run away again, just please—”

“Jon, stop it,” Martin choked out. His throat bled, but it was shallow. It was nothing. It could still heal.

There were tears on his face. When had he started crying? “Please don’t hurt him.”

For a few moments, it was silent. He waited on bated breath, watching the steady knife against Martin’s neck.

And then, a sigh. Steady. Calm. Pitying, almost. “Oh, Jon. You still don’t understand even now, do you?”

His heart leapt to his throat. “W-what?”

“In all the years I’ve known you, Jon—not once have you ever done anything that I didn’t find enormously helpful.”

Martin struggled again, heedless of the trickle of blood down his throat. “Shut up! Jon, don’t listen to him—” The hand in his hair tightened, and the knife pressed deeper.

“If you wanted to disappoint me, all you ever needed to do was stop looking. Stop asking. Close your eyes. Give up the search. But you never did, not once.”

Fragments of thoughts tangled in his mind, jamming together into spaces that didn’t fit. He couldn’t—he didn’t know what to do. What did he want? What could he trade away?

“Jonah, please.”

“Even now, that’s all you’d need to do. Close your eyes and look away. But you won’t, will you?”

“Jon?” Martin’s voice cut through the tangle, bringing him back into sharp focus. “Jon, look at me.” He looked. Martin had stopped moving, stopped struggling. The blood on his neck had reached his collar, but Martin’s eyes were steady. “Run.”

“Martin, no— ”

Tears ran from Martin’s unblinking eyes. “As soon as you have the chance, you run . Okay? You run as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

“Please, no, no—”

“Don’t let him get you again, don’t stop running, I’ll find a way to reach you, I love you, just ru—”

He watched as the knife went in, and he screamed, and the terror and agony consumed all the parts of him that mattered, and if all the world had died with what he loved, he would hardly have noticed, and—

And then Gerry was dragged back—dragged free, and the cabin lay empty and dark around him.

Hands—there were hands on his arms, steadying him, keeping him from collapsing or shattering beneath the weight of grief and horror and panic—and hatred, boiling over even as it turned inward on himself.

And then the touch vanished, and the presence drew back, and Gerry choked back a sob as he suddenly felt very, very alone.

But he wasn’t, not really. Because in the silence that followed, a voice spoke to him from the surrounding shadows.

“I’m sorry.”

He startled, almost turning until he recognized the presence at his back, and realized the voice was coming from the same place.

“I’m so sorry,” the Ceaseless Watcher told him, quiet with shame. “I didn’t mean to—You weren’t meant to see that.”

Gerry felt the weight of unseen eyes, at once familiar and new.

He turned around.

The figure that stood in the shadowed corner was smaller than expected. All this trouble, all this dread, and the Ceaseless Watcher was just a man, and not a very impressive one at that. He stood hunched in on himself, arms crossed or wrapped around himself, his dark hair overgrown and graying around his sharp face. Everything about him, from the way he carried himself to his clothes—a bloodstained shirt and loose trousers, an oversized coat clutched around his shoulders, no shoes—made him look smaller than he really was.

When Gerry turned to look at him, he’d startled and pulled back, turning his eyes away with a slow, deliberate force that suggested that it took genuine effort for him to look away. Moments later, his gaze turned to Gerry again as if physically pulled, and Gerry met his patron’s eyes for the first time.

He was pushed and pulled in different directions, simultaneously drawn into the Watcher’s dark eyes and pressed down by the weight of them. It took a moment for him to adjust to the feeling, and as soon as he did, the god before him flinched back and turned away.

The weight and presence began to leave, the dream began to blur at the edges, and Gerry was struck with a sudden urgency. Whatever chance this was, he was about to lose it.

“Wait.” He stepped forward against the press of being Seen. “Jon, wait.”

The Watcher—Jon—froze. Gerry didn’t know how long he had, so he pressed forward.

“I just want to know why,” he said. “Why me? Why did you come to me? What do you want?”

“I don’t—” Jon flinched again, arms tightening around himself. Eyes opened in places they shouldn’t have—the side of his neck, along his arms where the jacket and his sleeves didn’t cover—before he dug his fingers into his own skin, and they closed again.

After a moment, he took a shuddering breath. The two eyes on his face opened, and slowly slid to look not at Gerry, but at the spot on the floor where the memory of Martin had knelt. Now, only a discolored patch of wood still remained.

“Everything’s different, now,” he said. “I’m changed. Every day I discover something new about what I am. I don’t know when it will stop, or if there will be anything left of who I used to be. I—” The eyes on his body flickered again. “It’s so easy to—to get lost, in the Knowing. I don’t do well alone. I never have. I needed something, someone, to anchor me. To remind me.” He shuddered. Briefly his eyes fell on Gerry again. “I-I heard you. You were alone. You were running, like me. And when I reached out, you told me that—that you didn’t want anyone suffering for you. I didn’t—I don’t, either. I thought maybe we could help each other.”

“But why me? ” Gerry pressed. “I just met two of your friends. And what about Mar—”

The breath was stolen from his lungs, even before a hand marred with old, vicious burns clamped over his mouth. Jon was inches away, staring at him with all of his eyes open.

“Don’t.”

A moment later he was released wish a choked gasp, as Jon drew back again and struggled to put away the eyes that weren’t in his face.

“Please. Please don’t. I can’t. You weren’t supposed to see that.” Jon’s nails dug into his arms, heedless of the eyes that hadn’t yet closed. “I don’t know how to make it stop. Th-the Knowing . If I let it in, even for a moment, it won’t stop even if I want it to. If I hear a name or dwell on a memory, if I let my thoughts drift too long, it takes me. I Know what your pursuers from the Clasp suffered in the amphitheater, every broken bone and drop of blood spilled. I Know the suffering of every sailor, scion, and hag who died on the Dorian . I Know what Mary Keay did to her husband the night she fled from Syngorn, and I felt his betrayal and his fear for his son—”

“Stop,” Gerry choked out.

Jon pressed his hands over his mouth, shuddering through each breath until he lowered them again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” His eyes were fixed on the stained floor again. “He’s gone. I miss him. I want to visit him, but I don’t know where they buried him. And if I let myself See, then the rest will follow, do you understand? I will Know things about him that he never told me. Things he never wanted me to know. I’ll Know what he felt when he died, moment by moment, and—and I can’t. I can’t.”

Around them, the shadows deepened, and colors ran like wet paint, but Gerry barely noticed the dream fading as understanding struck. “Wait.” His eyes widened. “You think—”

“I can’t stay,” Jon told him. “They might find me. And M—” He bit his lip until blood ran down his chin. “You saw. I can’t stop. I have to keep running. He told me to.”

“Jon, wait—”

Gerry woke to tears drying on his face. When he opened his eyes to the sight of Martin asleep in the bed next to his, he had to shut them against a fresh wave. He struggled upright, fingers running through his tangled hair, and staggered across the space between them.

“Martin,” he said, shaking him. “Martin, wake up.”

Martin’s hand closed around his wrist. “What’s wrong?” he asked groggily. “Gerry? What is it?”

He remembered, a little belatedly, how to breathe in. “He thinks you’re dead.”

In the blink of an eye, Martin was sitting up. “What?”

“That’s why he won’t talk to you,” Gerry rasped out, releasing Martin to press his palm to his eyes. “He—he blocked you off, or something. So he wouldn’t know things about you. So he wouldn’t know how it felt when you died. He won’t let himself see you. He doesn’t know you’re still alive.”

He could feel Martin staring at him—but not Jon. Jon’s presence was gone, gods damn it all. Jon wasn’t Seeing any of this. He never had, not really.

When Martin spoke again, his voice was so quiet that Gerry nearly missed it. “You saw…?”

Gerry nodded.

“Is he…?”

“He’s still running. Like you told him to.” A thought came to him. “Wandering Eye. That’s where it came from.”

“Oh,” Martin whispered.

“That’s why he came to me,” Gerry went on. “He thinks you’re dead, and he doesn’t do well alone. So he found me instead.” I took him from you. I was going to take you from him. “I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t let me.”

The arms around him were a surprise. He wasn’t sure he deserved them.

“Sorry,” he choked out.

“He’s alright?” Martin asked. “He’s still… he’s still Jon?”

“Don’t know,” Gerry admitted. “But he wants to be.”

Martin’s grip was so tight it was almost painful. “I thought—I thought he—my death caused this. I thought he was angry, I thought—”

He was grieving instead. Gerry wasn’t sure whether or not that was better.

“I’ll tell him,” Gerry promised. “I’ll find a way. I’ll make him see you.”

He’d never made a proper promise before. Hopefully he wouldn’t fuck this one up.