'The Hero's Time' I have heard it called. I am gladdened, dear city, to see you reaching out towards the world with hope in your heart and an olive branch extended. I hear the new resolve from the senate and see the excitement from the people, and I approve.

But if you wish for The Hero's time, heed well the lessons of his life. If the world was as noble as you so wish for it to be, it would be my brother that protects you now, not I. The Hero let the fires of injustice burn in his heart, and he was immolated by them. He took in the pain of our people and was consumed by it. He gave everything he had to resist the Suljuk occupation, and so he became a martyr for that cause.

Let us not forget who led the rebellion in the days and weeks following the burning of our comrades. While the hero laid on death's door, and the underground apothecaries fought against the Great Leveller itself to bring him back to us, who gave the orders? Who kept the resistance on its feet?

I can see you now about to bow in obsequiousness at my words, seeking to grovel and apologise and proclaim my great benevolence even as I scold you. Please, do not. I do not remind you of those times to diminish my brother's sacrifice, nor to elevate my own. There is a reason that the Hero's name echoes throughout our history, and mine is whispered of only on dark nights. Altine is free because of his struggle and is great because it seeks to emulate his ideals.

I wish only to remind you of the price that those ideals come with. Once the dust settles, there is always an accounting. There must be someone left to pay.

Remember history and heed his lessons; all men break, even the greatest of them. Do not let the walls crumble or the siege stores run dry. By all means, keep your blades sheathed, but do not let your hands forget their grip.

I will stay here; the looming shadow that wraps Altine in a protective shroud of bitter fury. It is not my place to travel with you across the Narrow Sea, but I see a great future for this city as it reaches from the shores of Tsanderos to the foothills of the Titans. We will never be an occupying power, never be more than a single city reaching out in solidarity with all. But that commitment comes with a price.

My presence wards you from the world outside, but I cannot – will not – decide your future on distant shores. Stay true to the Hero's ideals, and spread justice before you, but do not forget that a price must be paid.

If you are not around to pay it, onto who does that debt fall?

- Excerpt from the 3rd memoire of Sol D'Antereg, Guardian of Altine, Winter's Embrace. (Transliterated by scholar Rostruik Ibn-Falk in 'The Price Of Freedom – Seven Centuries In Altine')

*Nathlan*

Nathlan wasn't one to panic easily.

Not unless somebody disturbed his reading or rifled through his scrolls. Or if he had to present at an academic conference – those things were testing even for the elderly scholars whose accomplishments would take half the morning to fully list. Or if he was trying to blend into a huge crowd – something about the bustle made him think of the huge storms that would rock his homeland every winter, the sea-spray rising fifty feet high and coating the storm-wards with foam.

On reflection, perhaps he was one to panic easily, but that didn't mean he was wrong to do so in this case. Jorge and Vera didn't seem to disagree, either, which went a long way to reassuring him that he'd been right to worry when Lamb hadn't returned from Sally's shop with haste. Jorge had been clear; 'go and get your weapons, lad. There's red work to be done tonight' he had said, and by Lamb's eager look, the man knew what that meant.

They all did. Tonight, they would hit the Lions' safehouse.

And then Lamb hadn't returned. Nathlan couldn't figure out the purpose of taking his friend. An attempt by The Sigil to extort Jorge using Lamb as leverage? Simple retaliation for humiliating them two days prior? It didn't make sense, especially considering how confident Jorge had been that there would be no follow up after the events two days prior. But, obviously, something had happened.

Vera and Jorge left to scour the city, commanding Nathlan to stay at the inn – 'holed up tight as a tortoise' in Jorge's words. When they had returned with grim faces and without Lamb, Nathlan started to really worry. He didn't have much time to dwell on it though.

"Get your gear ready, lad. We're sorting this. Tonight."

Nathlan travelled light – he always had – and so it didn't take him long to ready himself. He felt a grim resolve settle in his heart as he considered what his friend might be going through at the hands of whoever had taken him. He could see that same worry reflected in Jorge's eyes, though his face remained stony.

Vera burned, though. There was a faint haze shimmering over her shoulders, and as he watched her rip the binding from her sword and strap her battle-gear on, Nathlan almost pitied the underground criminal organisation they were about to take on.

Almost.

Nathlan winced as a heavily tattooed man flew through the window and rolled to a stop on the street before him to the sound of crashing glass and splintered wood. Jorge stepped out of the wreckage a moment later, slapping the dust from his hands before crouching down next to the man. He lifted the man's chin and then, seeing his eyes rolled all the way back into his head, he let it drop again.

He rose with a tired groan, the noise unable to completely cover the thudding of flesh as the tattooed man's head slapped the stone street without any support to hold it up. Jorge didn't so much as spare him a second glance. Vera appeared, wraithlike, striding from the shadowed building behind the shorter man. She gave Jorge a nod as she slid her blade back into its sheath.

"Any luck?" Nathlan asked, without much hope. This was the third building they'd broken into, and while no corpses had been left in their wake, yet, he could see Vera growing more incensed as time passed without results.

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"No," Jorge replied. He had a far-away look in his eye as he stared off to one side.

"Fuck this," Vera growled. "Head of the snake. You know it's overdue, Jorge."

"Aye, I reckon you're right there. Still," he puffed out his cheeks. "This will cost us."

Nathlan might not know the specifics, but he could tell where the conversation was headed. He checked his sword in its sheathe once more, hand squeezing the familiar grip and trying to calm his nerves.

"I don't care. We have no reason to come back, and I'll happily spend a decade or two far from this fucking city if we can get him back in one piece."

Jorge mulled it over for another few breaths, then he nodded. And that was that. They'd just decided to assault the headquarters of the most powerful underworld organisation in the entire city, and it had taken less than a minute of conversation. Nathlan could only hope that it would end differently than the last few raids.

Nathlan sighed to himself as the body came flying out through the wooden door, rolling to a stop near his feet on the dusty street. It was dimmer down here in the lower levels of Colchet, suspicious glances and hard looks flung their way by any that saw them, but none had tried to bar their passage.

The two bouncers that guarded the door were lying insensate, stacked against the wall like pieces of furniture. Both were big enough to be mistaken for a large dining table if they were to stand just right, but that hadn't stopped Vera from walking through them. There was little one could do in the face of an angry berserker though, especially one that was in the 3rd tier.

"You'll pay for this," the woman shrieked, spitting blood as she rolled smoothly to her feet. "You can't just assault The Sigil with impunity!"

It was Vera that came stalking out of the building this time, and unlike Jorge, she didn't pause to dust off her hands. It wouldn't have worked in any case – there was blood beneath, mingling with the dust to form a dull brown paste that covered her hands up to the forearms. Someone had made a non-lethal approach non-viable, then.

Jorge, standing only a few steps in front of Nathlan, replied calmly. "Yeah, I expect we will." Nathlan could only see the shorter man's back, but the chill in his tone was unmistakable with his next words. "But you'll tell us what we need to know first, and that's a fact."

Nathlan was surprised to hear no further bravado from the woman. Whatever she read on Jorge's face was enough to silence any pointless posturing that most liked to do once outmatched. It might have been Vera prowling behind her though, the blood of her guards still caking her arms, that convinced the woman to back down.

"You're the speaker," Jorge said after a moment of silence. "Speak."

"What do you want to–"

"Where is he?" Vera bellowed, interrupting the woman's asinine question. Her shout echoed around the empty street and made The Sigil's speaker flinch.

"Don't play dumb, lass," Jorge followed up, voice quieter but no more gentle. "I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to try anything, or have a good reason to either, but given our Lamb has gone missing tonight, I'm very much doubting the intelligence or rationality of the organisation you serve right now."

"If you are referring to the man that started the fight in the craftsman's district on level three recently, then I don't know anything about it."

Vera grunted and the woman flinched again, holding up a hand and hurrying on. "I don't! But the elders will be along any moment now, and they might know something I don't." She glanced up at Jorge again, face setting into a stubborn expression. "As I said, you'll pay for this once they arrive."

As it happens, she wasn't wrong about their fast approach. Not even a minute later, three shadows descended from above. Nathlan didn't see where they came from, but one moment there was a flicker on the ground, and by the time he had craned his neck upwards, three figures already stood in the alleyway.

Vera had moved beside Jorge, but even when outnumbered, his two companions didn't seem outmatched. There was a long silence as everyone measured each other up, and Nathlan and the speaker were both forgotten as the air charged with violence. Then the man in the middle stepped forwards.

"What is the means of this provocation?"

"One of my charges is missing, just days after The Sigil pulled him in and humiliated him. I put a stop to it, and it seems to me that your organisation may have thought it a good idea to take him for some payback." He paused a moment. "I can assure you that it isn't."

The man frowned, turned to trade glances with his companions and then returned Jorge's steely glare with an impassive face. "We authorised no hit. If you're man has been taken, it was not on The Sigil's orders."

"Unfortunately, I don't believe you," Vera said, and her voice was cold as the wind from the mountains. It whispered over to the three figures, curling around them like a gilt chain heavy as the glaciers themselves. All could recognise the thrumming in the air, and Nathlan heard the creak of leather-wrapped hilts being squeezed by hands with impossible strength.

A brawl here in the city would spell disaster. Vera had enough presence of mind to hold tight to her burning aura, otherwise Nathlan and the speaker would likely be incinerated where they stood, but she couldn't stop the air from roiling above her shoulders like a mirage above the baked earth they'd crossed to get to Colchet.

Jorge held up a slow hand. "Easy, lass," he said, drawing out the word, before directing his next sentence at The Sigil's leaders. "I'm inclined to take you at your word but hear me now. If you have him, and he's irrevocably hurt…"

"This is no time for threats," said the man on the left. He was of average build, unremarkable in most ways, but the shadows around his form seemed to slip, shimmering and dancing away from the light in usual patterns. "And you are no man to give them. You know nothing about our city, outsider."

Jorge shrugged. "You're not even the most powerful people in Colchet," he said with a sad smile. "You're a single organisation in one small city in a very, very large world, of which you know precious little about. There are threats out there that would make the entirety of Colchet scream. There are things out there that would humble even the Deep Guard, and I know how you fear them."

He took a step forward, and while it didn't look menacing, something loomed behind him, dragging the gaze of the three Sigil members upwards, over his shoulder. The Speaker was lying on the ground, faced pressed to the stone and eyes squeezed tight.

"I've seen those threats. I've fought those things. You don't intimidate me. If you make me, I'll kill you all. We'll destroy The Sigil root and branch. We'll eradicate your empire from the face of Tsanderos. There won't be any shoes to fill, and nobody left to step into them. Do you understand?"

The threat was delivered softly, slowly, like the creeping mists that rise from a cool river on a warm evening. It was no less effective for it, though. Nobody spoke, and Nathlan felt his breath hitch, caught in his throat as he waited nervously for an answer. Acceptance, or retaliation; what would it be?

The man on the left flexed his arms, preparing to fight. The woman on the right stood rigidly, tendon in her neck straining as she fought against whatever unnatural compulsion Jorge had layered into his presence that so affected the powerful warriors. The man in the middle just nodded though. Slowly, reluctantly, but he nodded all the same.

"We understand."

Nathlan sighed in relief, beginning to wonder if he would actually get out of this alive, but the man wasn't finished speaking.

"… But we still don't have your man."

Vera snarled, and Jorge had to lay a steadying hand on her arm. Nathlan noted the hiss as the bubbling blood that still coated her arms sizzled against his skin, seemingly beneath the notice of either of his companions.

"Easy," Jorge again murmured out the corner of his mouth. Then, addressing the others, he said, "The Crimson Lions have a presence in Colchet. My contact tells me they are holed up in a warehouse on level 17 on the west dock. That true?"

The middle man blinked, taken aback by the change in topic. "Yes, I believe so," he replied, taking it in stride after only a moment. "But they do not work for us," he hastened to add. "They have done contract work for the Wielders of Azlan in the past…"

Jorge smiled. "We'll check in on them. Best hope we find what we're looking for, aye?"

The Sigil members shared nervous looks. Nathlan felt the same.

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