He sent the kid home to gather supplies and say a last farewell to his family. Were he a little less tired, Shade would’ve insisted on leaving immediately, but the hacking cough that crept up on him that afternoon told him he needed another day of rest.

Much as he hated to admit it, Shade wasn’t as young as he used to be. Time and hard use hadn’t been kind to his body, either, so he would take rest where he could get it.

Seril returned to the Pocket right on time, meeting Shade outside the barn, bright-eyed and eager. By then, Shade felt marginally better; he wasn’t cold all the time, and he’d killed the cough with whisky. The liquor helped him sleep, too. Never a minor consideration.

“I’m ready.” Seril was more serious today, hopefully after a sober conversation with his dock working parents.

“Then come with me. Can you ride?”

“Yeah.” Seril shrugged. “I won’t fall off.”

“Then we work on that first.” Shade eyed the aged chestnut mare Seril held. There was gray around her muzzle, but she pinned her ears when he studied her too closely. At least she has spirit.

Seril deflated. “Not swords?”

Shade cocked an eyebrow. “Do you have one hiding in your bedroll?”

“No. They’re illegal.” Seril kicked at the dirt. “Figured you’d know how to get one. And teach me.”

“Your mentor will teach you,” Shade replied. “But first, horsemanship. Your ability ‘not to fall off’ may save your life someday.”

“Why won’t you be my mentor? I was meaning to ask.”

Shade mounted Vic before answering. “I don’t take students.”

“Why not?” Seril clambered onto his own mare with little grace. Shade watched without comment, making a mental list of everything the boy had to learn.

“Because I’d get them killed.”

They rode four blocks before Seril spotted two youngish women herding chickens. Shade could smell their shit from across the road, and listening to the birds squawk in offended protest set his teeth on edge. Most people walked around them without even noticing; this was clearly a daily occurrence on Coelera’s gray and dirty streets, with the girls shouting good-natured insults at any Evendarian who got in their way.

“They’re slaves,” Seril said quietly.

Shade let his eyes slide over the pair. Both were on the thin side but not skeletal. Their frowning faces were creased and worn beyond their age, yet neither was bruised nor bloodied.

Both were clothed decently, too, which wasn’t always the case for slaves. And they spoke to other Evendarians without hesitation or averting their eyes. Unhappy? Certainly. Beaten? Probably not.

“They are.”

Seril looked at the women, at Shade, and then at the women again. “Aren’t—aren’t you going to help them?”

Shade shook his head. “You can’t save everyone. You have to choose your battles…and choose them wisely.”

“But you can help them. Right?”

“I could free them, yes. But then what?” Shade twisted in his saddle to look at the boy, whose blue eyes were big as dinner plates. Why did they have to be blue? They reminded Shade of family lost.

Don’t think about that now.

He shook himself. “To free them, I’d have to steal them or kill their ‘masters.’ Either way, they can’t stay in Coelera, so then I must take them away—but to where? Will they want to leave whatever family they have? And how will they support themselves?”

Seril’s mouth opened...and then closed.

“You save those you can,” Shade said more gently. “Night Riders must make the hard choices. It’s not all glamorous fights and grateful people. Frequently, it’s doing what you can, where you can, and living with the times you cannot.”

Seril swallowed. “I think I understand.”

“You don’t yet. But you will.”

They rode onwards, continuing past a small market where a group of Olorians were busy bullying an Evendarian fish merchant into better prices. Shade might’ve intervened there, under just the right circumstances, but the Evendarian stood his ground well enough, and the Olorians took a halfway decent deal. Not the merchant’s asking price, but not robbery.

Then again, the abrupt end to their negotiations might have come when they spotted Shade, saw his sword, and added two and two to get Night Rider.

One street from the edge of Coelera proper—the town’s ragged, six-hundred-year-old walls stood almost a mile inside its modern boundaries—a voice rang out—

“Who the blazes do you think you are, Evendarian?” She spat the last word like a curse.

Shade twisted lazily in the saddle to face a raven-haired woman in the leathers of an Olorian courier. Based on the colors she wore, he guessed she was from Clas Gollep, the clan second in power only to Clas Illiet, Queen Nydein’s own clan. Her haughty expression said she knew her worth, too—particularly compared to a mere Evendarian.

“If you must know, my name is Shade.”

“You’re wearing a sword.” Glaring, she fingered her own blade, a falcata in the typical Olorian style. Its hilt was jeweled; no doubt she was vasGollep, from the nobility.

He let his eyebrows float upwards in exaggerated surprise. “Am I? I didn’t notice.”

“Get off your horse. You’re under arrest.”

“I didn’t know couriers had arrest authority these days,” Shade replied. To his left, thankfully away from the courier, Seril squeaked.

Was that amusement or terror? Probably both.

“Anyone has the authority to put an uppity Evendarian in their place.” Her upper lip curled into a sneer. “Now, get off that horse before I decide to take your companion as well.”

Shade smiled. “You must be new at this.”

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

Shade slid out of the saddle, drawing his schiavona and throwing his cloak over Vic’s back in one fluid motion. “I am a Night Rider. I do not surrender to anyone.”

If you squinted at his blade just right, you could make out the faintest outline of letters. But Shade did not give her the chance. The courier’s sword was barely clear of its scabbard when he attacked.

It was not a fair fight, but Shade was rarely interested in fighting fair. He hadn’t been in years. The courier had some skill—enough to intimidate Olorian yokels or helpless Evendarians—but she was slow. Terminally slow.

She barely blocked Shade’s first attack, and her riposte was clumsy enough that Shade almost accidentally overpowered his parry. Back on balance, he twisted around her attempted counterattack, brought his sword slashing down to slice her arm open, and then stabbed her in the heart.

The courier fell in a heap.

Seril squeaked again.

Three Olorians—merchants or some sort of travelers, by the look of them—started forward, only to stop when Shade arched an eyebrow. He looked down at the body and then back up at them again.

“Either you can bury her, or I will,” he said. “Your choice.”