Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Do you believe in free will?”

Thorne tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, studying the man with an air of casual inquiry. The man’s apparel was all in black, a wide-brimmed hat — also pitch black — perched on his blood red hair and shadowing his eyes from view. A little smirk was sketched on his mouth. He would remind him of a charlatan, if he didn’t exude such an air of… ominous knowing.

“Why wouldn’t I believe in free will?” Thorne asked, smoothly hopping onto the sudden train of conversation with nary a flinch and responding with a smile of his own, unfazed. He wanted to see where this was going.

The man waved a gloved hand, his slight smirk still fixed in place. “You know,” he said airily, “There’s the matter of the One-God — or gods, if you’re daring enough to admit it. Most believe that Xe has a plan for each of us. Some fate or destiny in mind when we’re created. If that’s the case, doesn’t that mean that every action we take is predetermined, absolute — out-of-our-control?”

Thorne lightly grasped his cup of water, his face a mask of polite interest as he inclined his head in a gesture to continue. He suddenly felt all too aware of everything: the cool touch of the necklaces looped around his neck, the weight of the man’s intense stare.

Hael. Anything that had to do with that damned One-God made his spine itch. But it was too late to escape the conversation, not without exposing how much it had truly bothered him—

The man sat back and took a drink, hair gleaming like blood under the black of his hat. He gazed at him over the rim of his cup, his stare intense and unwavering. “Then there’s the matter of magic,” he said lightly, smacking his lips — Thorne’s gaze snapped coolly to his face, smile sharpening ever so slightly. He must have noticed his eyes. “In a world where anyone could secretly spellbind another — can we ever truly know if what we’re doing is of our own will or someone else’s?”

Lazily, deliberately, Thorne sat back in his seat; now carefully scrutinizing the man with a stare of his own. “Free will, you say?” The man inclined his head in affirmation. His light smile never wavered, but Thorne knew that the man was studying his every move, just as he was studying him. 

He contemplated the question, eyeing the man thoughtfully. For some reason, he didn't feel inclined to brush the question off with a non-committal answer — not as he was usually wont to do. The other man continued to watch him, patiently waiting as he drifted off into deep thought.

Free will. Did he believe in free will? 

As a Diminished stray who had had to survive by himself since his Wreath Day, free will had never been his to contemplate. He had just been , like a pebble doggedly fighting against a river’s rushing currents. The future stretched out before him in endless branching paths — fragile bridges and delicate trails that could crumble with one misstep. He had laughed, had charmed, had manipulated, and slaughtered, all under the looming banner of survival. 

Could the sort of life he had led be the kind that had anything to do with “free will”?

He didn’t know. 

Still, the thought that everything in his life was predetermined… to put it nicely, it set him ill at ease. To put it bluntly, it pissed him off.

Thorne gazed steadily at the shadowed man, letting a light smile form on his face and mask the bitter vitriol that swarmed beneath. “I do believe in free will.”

Faith was a shadow that he had turned his back on long ago. Whatever ‘path’ this so-called One-God had allegedly set out for him, Thorne had no interest in walking it. Just the thought left an acrid taste in his mouth. If not believing in free will meant believing in the One-God’s will, then, fine — he believed in the damn thing.

“Hmm,” is all the man said in response. He looked at Thorne assessingly. “You’re new to Haven. Do you believe you came here of your own free will — or did circumstances and the Autarchy force you to? Would you have come if things were different?”

Thorne raised an eyebrow. He had a point, but he didn’t like it. “That doesn’t mean choice doesn’t exist—” 

“I hope you haven’t come here to join the Shepherds.”

The man changed the subject before he could continue with his rebuttal, seeming to have lost interest. Thorne resisted the urge to huff in disappointment — he’d been gearing up for a debate. 

Still. “The Shepherds?” Why would he think he’d be joining anything ?

The man flicked a square of paper onto Thorne’s table; a glance told him it was some sort of newspaper clipping. The Golden One Declares Formation of Shepherds was printed across its headline with an air of finality.

“A Diminished police force,” the red-haired man said, clicking his tongue as Thorne leaned over to scan the article with heightened interest, though he kept his expression carefully controlled. He couldn’t really tell if the man was interested or disgusted by the concept. “Meant to deal with the Endarkened and other supernatural crimes. We’ve had lots of Diminished come through here, hoping to join them.”

“Why would anyone want to join them?” Thorne asked, skeptical. “Seems to me they’re just asking to be put on the front line. Why would anyone want to be fodder for the demons?”

The man raised his eyebrows. For the first time, Thorne noticed the strange, ocher glint of his eyes; golden depths that reminded him of a predator steadily watching prey from the shadows. “They are well-rewarded for their efforts, of course,” he said. “But more than that, there is more than one Diminished who finds the prospect of being able to use their powers… appealing. Imagine finally being able to use your magic without fear of reprimand from the Autarchy. More than that — with the Autarchy’s blessing, to slay demons. There are some who entertain fantasies of becoming heroes in the people’s eyes.”

Thorne resisted the urge to scoff at that. Fantasies? More like delusions. 

The man shook his head ruefully, seeming to read his expression. “All fantasies, of course, but appealing fantasies nonetheless. I see now that I shouldn’t have said anything; you clearly hadn’t heard of any of it before I brought it up.”

Thorne leaned back and shot the man one of his smiles — the kind that made his eyes curve up with the gesture, that made him appear mild and harmless. “Well, your insights have certainly been… informative, but I doubt I’ll be joining these ‘Shepherds’ anytime soon.”

The man shot him a knowing, golden-eyed look at that, but said nothing. He made to stand, and Thorne knew that the conversation was reaching its end.

“One last thing,” he said. “Who are you? And why approach me?”

The man glanced at him over his shoulder, eyes gleaming in the bustling light of the inn. “My name is Croelle,” was his only reply. The name made him think of dark figures of legend, shrouded in shadow and intrigue — of crows that served as omens and warnings for the gods. 

“And what is it that you do, Croelle?” he asked, lightly. His eyes, glowing storm gray, stared unwaveringly into golden ones. Why are you so interested in preventing me from joining the Shepherds?

Croelle smiled, and somehow the smile seemed vicious. Jagged and wanton, with an edge sharp enough to cut and draw blood. “I’m a watcher,” he said. “An interested party has asked me to watch the Shepherds and how they do. But now I think I’ll have to watch out for you, as well. Something tells me the tasks will be one and the same.”

Before he could say anything more, the red-haired man with the strange golden eyes gave him a nod, flipped a coin into his empty cup, and walked away.

The conversation echoed in Thorne’s ears long after Croelle had made his — rather dramatic, in his opinion — exit. He stared idly at the red-haired man’s solitary cup, sitting only a table away, and turned the previous conversation over and over again in his head.

He thought of the Shepherds, an order of Diminished supposedly authorized by the Autharch herself to use their powers. He thought of magic — of nights spent in makeshift tents and shelters, hunched over forbidden tomes of knowledge in a desperate bid to learn more of his abilities, of the magic that sang in his blood and danced with the winter snow. Books foraged and snatched and swiped from burning heaps and forbidden areas, procured through deceit and manipulation just to feed the yearning in his heart. He thought of his past.

Then he shook his head and rose to return to his lodgings, discarding his thoughts like ashes into wind. He had long left those childish fantasies behind him.

Tomorrow would be another day .

Unfortunately.

The next few days passed by in a bustling blur. Preparations for Prihine’s wedding were in full swing, and in the midst of it all, discussion about the Shepherds continued to abound. The little snatches of conversation he’d heard all but confirmed Thorne’s thoughts: the citizens of Haven were far from thrilled about the presence of the Shepherds. Though public sentiments grudgingly admitted that the order had played a part in lowering the frequency of the once-nightly demon attacks, such sentiments had a tendency to turn sour in the blink of an eye at the slightest misstep.

One slip-up, and the entire city would be calling for the Shepherds’ blood.

"I hear their leader is a Ket assassin," Caine said brightly, valiantly fighting a losing battle over their third game of cards. "They call him Kingslayer. Apparently he's one of the greatest swordsmen on the Continent and he's killed a bunch of people."

Ah, yes. Of course the leader of the only Autarch-approved Diminished fighting force in Blest would have a fearsome swordsman-assassin as its leader. Thorne would expect nothing less. The rumor mill really did work wonders.

Still, he obligingly played along. He doubted that the Inquisitors would be coming for his head over the unreliable rumors of a Norm boy. An assassin as the Shepherd's commander; all things considered, they’d probably encourage the rumor. "Why'd the Autarch make him the leader?"

“I dunno,” Caine shrugged. “All I know is loads of people are afraid he’s gonna go around killing them if he catches them talking ill about the Shepherds.” He looked up, then, gazing at him with sparkling dark eyes. Thorne squashed the urge to recoil from his stare, staring back with a raised eyebrow instead. The kid always looked at him like he was a hero, when he had done… well, nothing . Why?

“Don’t you think it seems an adventure? Joining them, using your powers for good, killing demons?”

Using his powers for good?

The words felt like a fantasy: untouchable, fanciful, the dreams of a naive child.

Thorne laughed wryly at that, shaking his head. His earrings shook ever so slightly with the movement, gleaming in the inn’s dim light. “I’m afraid not, kid.” He smiled to soften the blow — inwardly tensing despite himself as Caine’s face fell. “I’m not in the market for heroics.” I’m not who you want to think I am . “Besides, I’ve had enough run-ins with demons to last me a lifetime.”

Caine frowned a little, a touch of disappointment in his eyes. “I suppose that makes sense.” He looked at Thorne sidelong. “But I hope they’ll protect me . I’ll be staying on in Haven anyway, to see how things turn out. Got myself a job at a woolery.” 

“What about Ebert?” Thorne asked, tone so flawlessly innocuous that not even the most suspicious creature would suspect him. “Has he paid you yet?”

Caine shrugged. “He buggered off somewhere. Least I got paid before he went.”

“Pity,” Thorne murmured, the beginnings of a cool smile sketching itself on the corner of his mouth. He shrugged at Caine’s questioning look, turning over another card and smiling at his squawk of dismay. “So a woolery, hm? Sounds like a good gig.”

Caine brightened. “I hope so! Master Zatani seems really nice.” He paused, then went on: “What about you? D’you know where you’re going after wrapping up your job with Lady Prihine?”

Thorne gave an offhand hum, leafing through his cards. “I’ll ask around. Look for a place that’ll employ me.” He put down another card at that, shooting Caine a grin. “Looks like you’re in danger, kid. Better start concentrating.”

Caine made a disgruntled sound in response, staring at his hand of cards like they held all the secrets to the universe. Their game eventually lapsed into comfortable silence, Caine still determinedly squinting at his cards.

Later that night, once a gleeful Caine finally snagged a victory on their fifth round of cards (Thorne generously decided not to tell him that he’d let him win), the young boy went up to bed, basking in the halo of his victory. Thorne followed suit not long after. 

As he got ready for bed, he thought about Caine, and the dreams of magic and heroes that sparkled in his eyes. He thought about Zori, and the fanciful stories and ambitions that were an unnerving echo of Caine’s — never to be realized. He thought of his past: fractured, twisted, a path shrouded in shattered faith and bloodied fantasies.

Then he pushed the thoughts far away, into a box stuffed inside a deep, dark corner in the shadows of his mind, and drifted off to sleep.

That night, he dreamed of sunlit fields. He dreamed of the grass that had always tickled his feet, of the breeze that had always caressed his face. He wandered around his dreams, dreaming yet awake. He heard the sound of Zori’s joyful giggling, pulling him into yet another grand adventure. He saw his father and his mother, smiling at him with pride. He saw the outpost’s people: laughing, bustling, going about their lives. He remembered how they had always called him Westwood’s little mayor, and how he had always puffed up his chest and giggled in response.

He dreamed of home.

And then, he saw it. A demon standing in the midst of it all. A towering figure, a vision of menacing talons and sinister laughter. The world was suddenly very still: as if every seam of this dream-woven illusion were holding its breath.

And then the screams began. It echoed in his ears, burying into his chest and ringing in his bones. The world had slowed down to an arc of splashing crimson; screams rent the sky into blood curdling ribbons. Laughter had turned into shrieks, the sun an indifferent witness to it all, gently watching from its eternal throne on high. And Thorne—

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe. 

Everything was shivering cold; his hands were blocks of ice. A part of his brain, distant and far, far, away, wondered if his fingers would freeze to the point of breaking. What would they look like, when they broke? Would they shatter to pieces, unrecognizable remains of what they once were — or would they fall to the ground whole, digits separated from hand, empty testaments to what was once whole?

Do something. Something, anything, do something do something DO SOMETHING—

“THORNE!”

He awoke with a shivering jolt. 

An empty room greeted him upon his awakening. Shadows shrouded the room in ringing silence, cold and empty, devoid of blood or demons or friends or family. He sat up, cold sweat clinging to his clothes, his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

And he didn’t move for a long, long, time.

The night of Prihine’s wedding ceremony came sweeping in with much fanfare. Thorne ambled his way through the church’s entrance, deftly sliding into position as he brushed off the immaculate folds of his finest wedding attire — which admittedly wasn’t much. No amount of meticulous ironing and maintenance could ever let his attire hold a candle to that of Norm aristocrats, with how little he could afford such luxuries.

Speaking of aristocrats…

“... Ah?”

Despite himself, Thorne’s eye twitched, the perpetual smile on his face faltering for a sliver of a second.

He looked again, half-convinced that he was dreaming. Surely… surely not—

The sight that greeted him remained unchanged. The heads of the veritable number of Norm nobles and politicians lining the church’s golden pews continued to glint merrily under the candlelight, the light from the flickering flames bouncing off of their gleaming heads.

Thorne’s expression distorted into something decidedly inelegant. He blinked, trying to rearrange his expression into something a tad more appropriate, mind reeling with confused questions. 

A nearby caravan guard, who had been requisitioned as backup security for the wedding, noticed his expression.

"It's a new fashion at the Sun Court," she murmured. "The older ones don't like it when their hair turns white. Too close to the Hunters, who all have white hair, and too much of a reminder of their old age, when the Elves don't age at all. So they shave it all off. And of course the younger ones have to follow suit."

The night of Prihine’s wedding had arrived, and everyone in attendance — including Prihine, it would seem — was sporting a gloriously bald head.

So much for escaping the bizarre . Thorne thought wryly as Prihine glided down the aisle. A disconcerting glint shone in her eyes, artfully concealed behind her broad, painted smile. She looked like she was plotting murder — a sheer contrast to the veritable storm of tears she’d been just a while ago. He was suddenly very glad that his contract was set to end soon. Seems like this city is just as arbitrary as the rest of the Continent in its own way.

The ceremony proceeded without a hitch. Amidst the droning voice of the priest and the sweltering candle-warmth of the room, Thorne repeatedly scanned the area for any potential threats, stubbornly ignoring the drowsiness tugging insistently at his consciousness. He was so close to getting his pay that he could almost feel the weight of the coins in his hand. Nothing, not even the droning monotony of the priest going on and on about vows and the One-God, could make him risk losing his pay by dozing off.

To distract himself, Thorne thought about his plans. 

He had come to Haven with one mission: to find employment.

Not very glorious, but one does what one must. And what Thorne must do was find some sort of employment that involved more than wandering around the continent and picking up whatever jobs the day saw fit to throw his way — jobs of which were always a toss-up between the mundane and bizarre.

(He couldn’t count the amount of lost pets he’d had to find over the years. Once, he’d had to track down a family’s beloved pet pig after it fled deep into a forest. Needless to say, while he'd managed to rescue it, the massive wild cat that had also been tracking said pig hadn’t been very happy.)

Thorne had heard tell of Diminished-owned establishments that managed to thrive in Haven: of businesses managed by mages and the like. While he had yet to ascertain if the rumors were true, he figured that it was an opportunity worth pursuing — such establishments were bound to be a fraction friendlier to Diminished employees compared to, say, Norm-owned establishments. Haven was a large city, after all. He was certain he could make do with odd jobs until he found his footing and established a more solid direction for his plans.

If all else failed, perhaps he could make an inquiry at the Merchant’s Guild — though Thorne doubted that such an endeavor would bear any fruit. A guild composed primarily of Norms would show no good will towards a Diminished. Especially when said Diminished had no power to their name.

Regardless, there were bound to be some Diminished traders and merchants around Haven. With his skills, Thorne was confident that he'd find some sort of employment in the industry.

Well. Somewhat confident, anyway. He was used to seeing where the winds took him — to manipulating its currents and directions in his favor. One would have to, if they were to survive in Blest as a lone Diminished stray.

Still, he'd never planned on joining any sort of police force — no matter how valuable the benefits. From what he knew, the work the Shepherds did was thankless: bloody, dangerous, and life threatening, all for people who likely wouldn't appreciate their sacrifices. And gratitude aside, what if the Autarchy decided to turn on the Shepherds one day? Such an organization, composed primarily of Diminished, would likely have nowhere to turn to if such a day were to ever come.

No. He'd rather not get himself involved in such a mess.

As for the ever-looming threat of demons breaching the walls — what of it? Either he would die, or he would survive. If Thorne were to be completely honest, he couldn't bring himself to care. He was too jaded, too disillusioned, to answer to the calls of heroism. To indulge in naive dreams of saving the world. No, he'd rather make his own way through other paths.

Even if it was a path that meant suppressing his magic for the remainder of his life.

He would finish his job with Prihine, find employment somewhere he could learn the ways of the merchant trade, and immerse himself in the field. There. He had a plan. Easier said than done, but it was a direction.

Amidst the intoxicating candle-warmth, his mind gradually relaxed; his thoughts wandered from detailed plans to daydreams about Haven cuisine.

Steak and honey pudding. Mmm.

Naturally, his plans (and daydreams) were promptly blown to smithereens the moment demons decided to invade Prihine’s wedding. 

Shit.  

Thorne only had time to give one profound, resounding, and heartfelt curse in his head before he was tearing towards the demon, heart thumping and thoughts racing. Prihine was still here. Although he’d technically been released from duty the moment Prihine was wed, he knew better. If anything were to happen to her mere seconds after she’d been released from his charge, the blame and dishonor would fall on him. 

And that would be very bad for business. Who would want to hire anyone whose charge died seconds after their release?

Thorne whipped out his bow and let a barrage of arrows fly .

The arrows hit their mark, sinking deep into the demon's flesh amidst its pained — or annoyed — cries. It shook off his arrows like a horse impatiently shaking away a swarm of persistent flies, seeming no worse for wear. Thorne darted and dove, barely getting swiped by an incoming talon.

Ow.

Well. Fat lot of good that did.

The dance continued for a few more seconds—  Thorne rolling and dodging, arrows flying from his bow in quicksilver darts as the demon clawed and roared, its razor-sharp talons coming dangerously close to his neck as he dodged. Finally, he saw an opening; his arrow struck true, straight through the demon's eye; it crumpled to the floor with a dying screech, and lay still.

The demon was dead.

And then a scream rang through the chapel, and Thorne’s heart skipped a beat.

Prihine, in her blood-spattered wedding dress. Caine, stubborn and white-faced, clutching a little penny-knife. And a demon, monstrous and looming and o-so-horrendous, standing right in their path.

Thorne’s ears rang. His vision narrowed into a stark black, everything else falling away until there was nothing — nothing but Caine (stupid, brave, stupid, just like Zori— the echoes of a scream, haunting and terrible—) and Prihine (so young, so tempestuous, a bride in a blood stained gown—) and that stupid fucking demon.

You’ve only known them a few weeks.

Thorne took a step forward.

The Inquisitors. Magic to save them— the Inquisitors. They will know. You’ll be—

And another.

Prihine— so young — dying at her wedding altar. And Caine— so young, so grown-up, dreaming of heroes and magic —

He opened his mouth—

—And all his carefully cultivated self-preservation instincts went out the window as the bizarre power that had been the source of his nightmares since that fateful Wreath Day so many years ago, became the one thing to save Caine and Prihine from their fates.

He'd chosen to save them.

Because of course he did.

Stupid. Idiot. Fuck.

He recalled a glimpse of Shepherds rushing back through the entrance, ( dark clothing, silver livery, a rampant hound gleaming proudly on their chests ), staring at him as he fell into darkness, tumbling onto the floor like a ragdoll.

He passed out.

And the last thing he heard was Zori’s laughter, echoing like a memory, loud and obnoxious and so, so, alive.

He dreamed of sunlight, laughter, and gentle hands holding his own. He dreamed of peace. He dreamed of safety. He was happier than he had been in so, so, long. Yet through it all, something tore at his chest like claws determined to rend him to bloody pieces. Aching. Piercing. It was—

Grief?

He fell.

Thorne awoke with a trembling jerk.

The first thing he noticed: he was in a room. A darkened room. Most likely an infirmary, judging by the soft outlines of cots and shelves, given form by the mage-lamp emanating light from a corner.

The second thing he noticed: a thin Norm woman with long, pale hair was standing next to his cot, her spectacles gleaming softly in the light. Anxiety was etched on her delicate features. Her gray eyes widened when they met his, as if surprised to see him awake.

The third, fourth, and final things he noticed: his face was wet, and he couldn’t breathe.

Thorne leaned over the side of the cot and heaved. 

Nothing came up; he heaved empty air, like a man drowning underwater. Bile rose in his throat, acrid and bitter and hael he felt like shit — but luckily, it didn’t come spewing out his mouth. His skin felt cold, clammy, sweat sticking to him like a second skin — hael, he felt disgusting — his chest ached with the force of his gulping breaths, as if a boot was repeatedly pounding into his sternum.

Thorne clenched his trembling fists, digging his nails into his palms. No. No. There was no way he was doing this when he was right in the middle of unfamiliar territory in front of a Norm he didn’t know. Abso-fucking-lutely-not.

His body didn’t obey him.

Thorne doubled over, shoulders trembling as he coughed and wheezed. Godsdamnit.

Then the Norm woman came into view once again — slow and deliberate, as if approaching a scared animal. Fearful of approaching, but unable to leave them alone. Thorne reared back at her approach, heart thumping as his fingers gripped the sheets beneath him. She flinched at the sudden motion, but managed to hold her ground, slowly holding her palms up. 

And then the doors burst open with a bang: three figures were outlined in the doorway. His eyes snapped to them instantly, his body tensing so much that it felt like he would break. One of them — tall, stocky, and broad — instantly burst through the door and yelled in urgent tones. “Shery, what’s—” a pause. Then, in more uncertain tones, “—going on?”

“I told you not to be rash,” one of the figures murmured.

“Who the fuck are you?” Thorne snarled, hitting his breaking point. His fingers bunched around the sheets; his chest felt like it was caving in. “Why am I— I—”

Who were they? What did they want with him? He—

Suddenly, the Norm spoke again. Her palms were still raised, gray eyes focused solely on him. “I’m going to count to ten,” she said, softly — it seemed like she was choosing to ignore the three newcomers for now. Her voice was like the rustling of silk, somehow both skittish and reassuring. “And you’ll breathe with me, okay? One… two…”

She counted. One, two, three, four, right up to ten. Between every count, she paused to inhale, then exhale; and though a large part of him wanted to rebel, to refuse this aid that was being offered to him so casually, so freely, by a mere stranger — Thorne followed. 

Inhale . Shaky, but it would work. Exhale . Even more shaky, but it was an exhale, at least. Inhale. Exhale. Rinse and repeat.

Gradually, his breathing calmed; his heart no longer felt like it was fighting to rip through his chest. Thorne fell back onto his sheets, spent — his meager energy had been drained out of him. His trembling had calmed down, though a muscle still twitched every moment or so. Despite himself, he closed his eyes. His head throbbed with exhaustion.

Then there was a rustle and his eyes snapped open. He tried to sit up, but fell pathetically back down. Thorne gritted his teeth in frustration. He had never been so helpless, so — so vulnerable . And In a room full of strangers, at that. It was driving him mad.

“Take it easy,” a man, one of the three figures, said. A note of concern rang clear in his voice; it made Thorne’s jaw clench even tighter. He was a strongly-built Norm with hair the color of a lion’s coat and a square jaw: he had been the first figure to burst through the door. His skin sported the golden tan of one who worked in the sun, contrasting the white gloves that covered his hands. His face was open and expressive, displaying a look of undisguised curiosity and concern. A slight chill ran through Thorne’s spine as he noted the corona of gold that ringed the man’s bright blue eyes: that was no iladrin — he would guess that it was something else entirely.

“Where am I?” He ignored the offered concern, his voice a hoarse rasp as he leaned on his elbows in an effort to support himself. His head pounded — an aftermath of his attack. He was too exhausted to remain on guard around these… strangers, to put on airs and graces. They didn’t seem too interested in killing him or dragging him to the Inquisitors, at least.

He could use that.

“You’re at the Shepherds’ compound,” another one of the three figures said. Now that the worst of his attack was over, Thorne could finally get a good look at the features of these strangers. The one who’d just spoken was a tall, dark-haired man, with the fine-boned features of an aristocrat, and hair and eyes like the stuff of night within the infirmary’s gloom. He had a rangy, sinewy build replete with the stoic features of a Ket; a sword, dark and cruel in appearance, hung at his side.

Thorne was immediately on guard. This was a man who was always alert — someone who could assess the core of you at a glance yet pretended not to out of sheer courtesy. Such types were the most troublesome to deal with, especially when it came to his particular method of deflection and deception.

And then his words sunk in, and he stiffened. “The Shepherds?” His words came out rushed, urgent. “You’re— you’re Shepherds ?”

The dark-haired man blinked slowly, stoic and calm in the face of his teetering sanity. “Yes,” he said, straight to the point. “I am Blade Bronwyn, Commander of the Shepherds. This is my second-in-command, Trouble Alder, and my third, Tallys.”

Ah, Thorne thought numbly, nearly straddling the line of hysteria. He could practically see his carefully thought-out plans crumbling before his eyes. So this is Caine’s infamous assassin-commander. He certainly looks the part. Blade looked at him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. Thorne closed his eyes, took a deep breath…

… Then flopped back onto the bed like a dead fish. A snort — a mix of what sounded like surprise and amusement — rang through the room, only to be quietly hushed by what sounded like the Norm woman. Thorne ignored the exchange, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

Shepherds. He thought bleakly. Of course they would be Shepherds. Of all the godsdamned luck in the world.

He couldn’t even bring himself to care about how graceless he must have looked, disheveled and flopping about as he was. The fact that said state was being witnessed by a room full of strangers made it even worse, but Thorne had reached a stage of peaceful acceptance. At the moment, he was only mournfully wishing that he had passed away peacefully at the hands of the Revenant.

“I assume you’ve heard of us,” a woman — Tallys, the last of the three figures — stated with a hint of dryness. Thorne interrupted his staredown with the ceiling to peer over at her. Tallys was an elf of indiscriminate age, slim and ropy with muscle, full of an easy grace and confidence. Her skin was nut-brown and freckled, with that hair that sported much of the same color; her eyes were a startling green, like foliage lit by sunlight, and she wore an expression of placid, unshakeable frankness. If she didn’t move, it looked like she might just become a tree.

Slowly, Thorne sat up on his elbows, blinking slowly at them — the Shepherds. His fingers twitched, as if wanting to play with the sheets, but he forcibly restrained them. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a breath, letting it out in a deep exhale. When he opened his eyes, a smile had slid seamlessly into place: worn and tired around the edges, yet effortlessly graceful in its curves.

“I apologize for my rudeness,” he said, after a pause. “It’s been — it’s been a long day.”

Trouble nodded empathically, blue eyes open and sympathetic. “You don’t need to worry about that. Seems like you’ve had a hell of a time.”

Thorne smiled bleakly. “Thank you.” he inclined his head to the blonde in a grateful gesture, before shifting his eyes to a certain pale-haired Norm who looked like she didn’t know whether to stay or to go. “And you are…?”

“Ah!” the woman gave a tiny start, clearly not expecting to be singled out. After a moment’s hesitation, she bobbed into a short bow, a curtain of long hair falling in front of her face. “I’m Shery Acquell, the Shepherds’ quartermaster,” she said, giving him a faint smile. "I look after their administrative affairs, their supply and equipment needs, and the housing and feeding of their recruits." 

Thorne nodded a bit stiffly, his hands picking restlessly at his sheets. He would smile, but somehow it felt difficult; like trying to carve something foreign onto his face. A smile filled with gratitude, and not with an attempt to charm or deceive. The fact that he’d had to be helped by a complete stranger still had him completely off-kilter. “I… thank you. For earlier.”

Shery smiled, genuinely. “It was no problem.”

Nodding, Thorne tore his gaze away from them to stare at his sheets, suddenly feeling very tired. After a pause, he asked, “... What happened?”

Shery hesitated. Blade, Trouble, and Tallys also looked over, clearly waiting to hear the story behind the scene that greeted them when they’d come running. “You were looked over by our healer,” she said, finally. “And they healed your injuries. I was asked to look after you, so I stayed here in the infirmary to wait till you woke up. But then you started…”

“Started?” Thorne prompted.

“You were crying in your sleep,” she said, softly. Thorne touched his face, still wet with what must have been tears. A grimace pulled on his face. Hael, he was crying? In his sleep? And someone had been there to witness it?

Fuck. 

“Did I… say anything?” He asked, almost dreading the answer. 

“No,” she said quickly, seeming to read the expression on his face. “You were very quiet, actually. Almost silent. I only noticed because I was checking in on you.”

Thorne was silent for a while, digesting this. Haels, this was mortifying . Shaking his head, he took a deep breath, then: “I can’t help but ask — is there something you want with me?” The question was addressed to Blade, who inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“You would be right,” he said, examining him with dark, perspicacious eyes. “We have a matter we’d like to discuss with you.”

“But if you’d rather that we put off this discussion till you’ve recovered a bit, that’s fine too,” Trouble butted in, nodding firmly when Thorne’s eyes drifted towards him. “No offense, but you look like hael.”

“Thanks,” Thorne said, giving a dry smile, “But it’s alright. I’m feeling up for it.” And he had a feeling he knew what this was about, anyway. Better to get it over with.

Tallys nodded at that, shifting forward on her feet and spearing him with a clear-eyed look. “Do you remember how we found you?”

“Of course,” he answered. “The attack on the church — the Endarkened.”

Though his head was still pounding like it was a sack of cotton getting repeatedly battered by an overly enthusiastic child, Thorne managed to make some groggy calculations in his head. He, a Diminished, had just done magic in public. Well, he didn’t know if that word was magic , per se — but the Inquisitors would certainly think it was. Granted, he had done it to save two Norm citizens, but he doubted that they would care.

All that would matter was that he, an ordinary Diminished, had done magic.

He had no backing. No protection. If he walked out of this place an ordinary citizen, he would most likely never leave the city alive. He needed a shield. He needed—

"We brought you here because we wanted to ask you about that.”

—He needed to become a Shepherd.

Thorne nodded at Trouble to continue, letting a faint smile form on his lips as he bit back the eloquent stream of curses clamoring to burst from his mouth.

Oh, hael.