*Nathlan*

Flames crackled merrily. Mosquitos whirled and danced above. Their constant buzzing mingled with the occasional hissing pop of sap bubbles bursting in the wood below, and embers flung skyward by the campfire lit the air, casting faces in shadow. Nathlan sat straight-backed, a small twig in his hands as he listened to his companions talk.

"We'll make the final approach tomorrow," Jorge said, before gesturing to Nathlan with his skewer of meat. "So long as you feel up to it, aye lad? We've run you hard these last few days."

Nathlan nodded. "That should be fine."

Jorge frowned. "That's it? Come, lad, no need to be shy about it. You sure you wouldn't like a day to recover?"

Nathlan shook his head, hiding a wince as his neck twinged from the movement. "No, I am fine."

Fat dripped from the skewer, sizzling on the leaves below, and that was enough to distract the old man. Nathlan took the time to adjust to a more comfortable position before Jorge had recovered, but Vera picked up the conversation on his behalf.

"I could do with some time," she said softly.

Nathlan took a moment to look over, concern blooming within him. He had not spoken about it with her directly, but he knew she was hurting. This hunt had brought up painful memories for her, and he knew all about wanting his past to stay behind him. To have it burst into the present without warning had him wincing internally in sympathy.

Jorge had picked up the melancholy in her tone easily, too. He had spent far more time with her than Nathlan though, so that wasn't surprising. He had only recently realised just how perceptive the old man could be, and with their depth of familiarity, he sometimes felt that the two communicated almost telepathically.

The twig in his hands snapped, and he began running his thumb beneath the bark at one edge. To follow that thought led nowhere good, so he refocused on the conversation.

Jorge was babbling away in his friendly rambling way. "… no problem at all, lass. Truth be told, I could do with a lie in, anyhow."

"Does that mean we will arrive the day after tomorrow?" Nathlan asked.

Jorge pursed his lips. "Perhaps. Most likely we just arrive late in the evening tomorrow. Should be no bother though – can't imagine there won't be space."

His eyes then lit up with a sudden spark, and he leaned over the fire between them, casting the deep lines in his face into stark relief. "You'll love it, Nathlan! Ol' Jacklin should still be there, and she makes these lovely little sweet cakes – apricot, I think."

Vera scoffed at that. "And when was the last time you were in this empty part of the world, Jorge? It's certainly not been in the last decade; I can attest to that myself."

He shook his head with a soft chuckle in response. "No, lass. You're forgetting a few years ago. Somewhere in the Leviathan Coast…" He trailed off, unable to find the name he was looking for. "Nice enough city, though we were there at the wrong time of year to truly appreciate it, I reckon. You met a lad and wanted to try your hand at pottery, if I recall…"

"Ship's Rest," Vera supplied with a soft smile. "Though I don't remember you mentioning plans to head out here. It was only a few months."

"Aye, doubt you remember much of anything, the way you were looking at that boy," he replied with a grin. "'brown eyes like spring mud' I think you said, didn't you? And that was supposed to be a complement!"

He fell back on one arm, laughing to himself, and Nathlan found a smile crack his stony face in spite of his worry. Vera smirked good-naturedly and threw a small clump of leaves at the older man.

"Shut it, you old git," she retorted.

Nathlan had scraped the bark entirely from the twig in his right hand by now, and let it fall to the ground. He switched the left one over and got to work on that, letting his hands twist and scratch while he listened to the friendly banter. The back and forth flowed over him as the fire died down, and he found that little ball of ice in his chest melt ever so slightly.

It came back with a vengeance whenever he felt excluded, and there were times when he was reminded that he was still an outsider. Private glances, tilts of the head. He'd woken twice to whispers in the night as they'd discussed plans without him, though to their credit they had informed him of them the next day.

He couldn't quite shake the fear of betrayal, but it had become less all-encompassing over the last few months. Certainly, he had come a long way from the paranoid mess he had been when he first met them. Something about the way his two companions shared their history with him helped. They would often allude to a shared past he had no knowledge of, but counter-intuitively, it was at those times that he felt most at ease.

The ever-present fear of missing something massive was reduced simply by them sharing their past. They were so free with it, letting him catch glimpses of their lives, and feeding him more information piecemeal. Though he hesitated to admit it, even to himself, it was at those moments that he felt least alone.

Eventually the dancing orange and yellows between them had settled into the ruddy red glow of tamped embers, and the heat of the fire started to pull back into itself. The enjoyable conversation had run its course, and Nathlan asked a final question before turning in for the night.

"Why were the Lions here?"

Jorge and Vera exchanged glances, and Nathlan knew they had spoken of this before. Perhaps one of those late-night chats he wasn't privy to. The ball of ice returned, and he swallowed it down with an effort of will.

"We don't know," Vera said. "And that's the problem."

Jorge nodded. "Clearly, they were hunting Vera. That much is obvious. But I just can't wrap my head 'round the timing."

Nathlan quirked an eyebrow in question. "When was the last time they sent someone after you, Vera?"

She shrugged, shuffling around to get comfortable on the other side of the fire. It was a strange thing to see the powerful woman snuggle into her bedroll, even after seeing the sight so many times. Something about the juxtaposition of a warrior that he'd seen split men in twain rolling around to find a spot without rocks to sleep on was surprising, even though it shouldn't have been. It reminded him of another woman he'd relied on long ago – the only person that had deserved his trust, and look where it had gotten her.

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"Before you joined us. At least two years ago, I think. It's hard to remember each attempt, being honest, but it's been long enough that I thought they'd learned their lesson by now."

The bitterness in her voice was obvious, despite her attempt to supress it. It was an emotion he was well-acquainted with, after all.

"Aye, it's a riddle for sure," Jorge replied. "If they hadn't learned their lessons before though, they sure as shit will have now."

His grin was a touch predatory, and Nathlan was reminded of the corpse impaled on the tree, the wood cratered from the force of Jorge's charge. He might look like a regular man in his fifties, but he possessed a strength far surpassing Nathlan's own. He shouldn't have been surprised by that, but something about the old man's easy nature always made him drop his guard.

"Was this different, then?" Nathlan asked, and Vera just gave a soft, mirthless chuckle, staring up into the sky from her back.

"I haven't seen that many red-cloaks since the war, Nathlan."

He sucked in a breath. "Why now, then?" He asked, repeating Jorge's earlier question.

"Who fucking knows?" She asked the empty sky. No stars twinkled above, obscured by cloud as they were. The moon lit the dark shapes from within as they trundled across the heavens, but it was a wan light, weak and unwilling to bless their little camp with its illumination.

"The duke is a pragmatic man. Brutal, but pragmatic. I can't see what he hopes to gain from this," she muttered.

Jorge shifted nearby, throwing the dregs of his tea into the banked fire and drawing forth a soft hiss. "In my experience, when someone smart does something profoundly stupid, there's usually a damned good reason for it. It would have cost a fortune to buy the lives he just threw away, and he can't have expected it to work."

Nathlan quirked an eyebrow, though from his position lying on his back, he knew the others wouldn't be able to see. "Is it so foolish to expect fifty well-trained mercenaries to subdue a single fighter? They were all 2nd tiers from what I could tell…"

Nathlan heard the crunching of leaves and knew Jorge was shaking his head. "No, lad. The duke knows Vera ain't alone, and they've lost stronger teams before sending them against us. Not so numerous, I'll grant you that, but a single 3rd tier team would be more effective than all the fodder they sent to die in this valley."

Nathlan rankled at the words – the so-called 'fodder' had for the most part been higher levelled than himself. His class was far from optimised for combat but given his upbringing and the training he'd received from Jorge and Vera over the last year he felt confident he was a match for most of the mercenaries they'd faced. That didn't mean he was comfortable writing them off as a threat entirely though, and more than one of them at a time would prove a difficult challenge for him. For his companions to think so little of them wounded his pride.

"Anyhow," Jorge continued, breaking him away from his bitter thoughts, "best get some sleep, lad. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow. I want to get to that outpost before our God-Touched friend gets bored and leaves."

Nathlan had some thoughts about the likelihood of the man even still being alive, but he kept them to himself. He had spent long enough alone with his thoughts to know when he was stewing in negativity, and didn't want to poison his companion's with it, especially when Vera had her own demons to battle.

"Do we need a watch?" he asked the silence as his eyes grew heavy.

"No, lad. Your wards are more than enough," Jorge replied softly, and Nathlan felt a small smile slip across his face as sleep crept upon him. It was nice to know that the faith they had in him, however misplaced he thought it might be.

*Francis D'Sware*

Francis D'Sware snorted as he dropped the missive into the fire. It had been delivered that morning by Sven, and he'd recognised the hand of Varice immediately in the lettering. He watched the flames lick at the curling edges of the parchment as he pondered the message within.

A few score Lions sent after The Butcher of Sternsbridge, most not even veterans? They had no chance, and he'd known even before he read the rest of the message that they were simply a distraction.

He'd been there all those years ago. He'd seen what The Butcher and her rabid dogs had done to a whole company of the Crimson Lions. Back when they had been a legitimate army in their own right, too, and not the shadow they were now – whoring themselves out to the highest bidders, the Academy simply a training ground for the pampered scions of the various kingdoms.

He sighed, standing and moving to the ornate chest in the corner of the room hidden behind his desk. The office was sparsely decorated, temporary as this assignment was, but he did his best to keep the chest out of view of any who entered. Not that he should have to worry, enchanted as it was, but he'd found that the fewer temptations the better when working with criminal organisations abroad.

He waved a hand, blue light enveloping his arm for a moment as the chest whirred and unlocked, and he withdrew a small stack of thin sticks, carved with simple runes at the top and bottom. Colchet was an orderly city most of the time and bribery was frowned upon, but these were strange times in the Copper Canyons, and he was confident he could get away with it.

He knew the Lions would fail, and he knew that The Butcher and her companions would roam free. Varice hadn't confirmed the true purpose of the play but had reminded him to keep an eye out for God-Touched, stating that the Seer had located another in the area. It wasn't hard to put two and two together, in fact he was sure that is what Varice had intended for him to do with her letter, and so he'd need to keep the city guard well-compensated if he expected them to report any strange groups entering Colchet.

It wasn't a busy city currently, what with the rising in the lower levels, and so he wouldn't struggle to keep abreast of the comings and goings of travellers and merchants. Sven was reliable, and while Rank was a bit of an idiot, a task like this should be within his grasp. Shavkat was a liability though, and Francis wouldn't trust the vicious bastard as far as he could throw him.

Managing underlings was not something Francis had ever been keen on doing, and experience had only confirmed that feeling. Once he was finished here and back in the Sunsets, he'd make sure to have words with the Academy heads – he was one of the strongest still active by now, and they'd listen when he made his demands.

Still, that was a task for later.

A knock came from the door, and he turned, frowning. His men were on missions and there should be no need for interruptions by the Wielders of Azlan at the present moment. He opened the door, then ducked. The mace thudded into the doorframe, sending a shower of splintering wood to the floor as he stepped back.

Three men burst through the now misshapen doorframe, grins manic and eyes wild. "Now, now, fancy man. You're going show us what you're keeping in that chest of yours," the man with the mace said.

They were dirty, dressed in the fashions of the canyon city underclass, and he recognised their type. Thugs. Bodies for the various crime lords to contract their dirty work through. Their weapons were simple steel, and none sported armour.

He snorted. "Before you die for this brazen act of stupidity, tell me; who sent you?" He asked.

As he had expected, they didn't understand the way of things yet and paid his threat no mind. But if they were the thinking type, they wouldn't have come in the first place.

"You're not listening rich boy-" the man in the front started to say, but he was cut off by a meaty thunk!

The forester's axe embedded into the back of the man's skull wrenched itself free at a casual gesture from Francis, and the soon-to-be-dead man toppled to the floor. Unlike a tree in an empty forest, he did make a sound as he fell. It was somewhere between a mewl and a whimper.

Francis turned to the other two, and repeated his question; "Who contracted you for this job?"

The man on the left, short-sword gripped in one fist, roared a battle-cry and charged. Francis slipped a clumsy thrust, caught the man's arm and snapped the wrist with a quick squeeze. The final man turned to flee, but found his way barred by the axe hovering between him and the open door.

Francis turned to stare into the face of the man in his grip and smiled. He whistled, and the man flinched at the wet squelch and cut-off scream that followed.

"Just you and me, now, my friend," he said conversationally to the whimpering man in his grip.

The thug's blade had skidded across the floorboards behind Francis' desk, and he hung feebly by one arm. Francis was tall and powerfully built, and unlike these thugs, he was at the peak of the 2nd tier. He held the man aloft by one arm like one might hold a dirty sock.

He leaned down, mouth hovering next to the terrified man's ear. "Give me a name, and I'll make it quick."

A few minutes later, Francis D'Sware strode from his office. It was located in the back of an empty warehouse in the lower levels of the canyon city of Colchet and it was still early in the morning. He had a bag full of tarrots – the local currency – strapped to his back, and a freshly cleaned axe at his waist. He had three tasks to do; dump the bodies, bribe the city guard for information, and pay a visit to a certain local crime-lord.

A busy morning, indeed.

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