“The two of them are wanted for a number of crimes against the Empire. There is possibly a third person – Male, likely early twenties – listed with similar crimes, who may be associated with them. This is not confirmed, and it appears that his Lordship, Fourey, is not currently utilising him as an asset.”

Where had Emmet gotten off to anyway? Emily interrupts her own clipped speech, looking to the leather fetishist for an okay to continue. The woman waves her hand in assent and Emily launches back into her disturbingly detailed dossier. Did Fourey even bother to make up a cover story?

“The male – reported name ‘Lucien Sepulchrum’ – was placed under several hours of observation, in which time he made no attempt at information gathering or espionage.” Oi, what observation? “The female – Evelyn – posed several questions, in public, to the kitchen staff. No attempt at secrecy was made.” Heh, Evelyn blushes as Emily carries on. “In addition, our information network has not reported any disturbances in Empire lands that match the severity of the charges levied at these two, suggesting an expected degree of corruption and that the accused were likely guilty of a significantly less severe crime. Fourey is likely aware of this, assumedly attracted to their expendability and susceptibility to coercion on account of their status as wanted criminals. This demographic is consistent with all his previous plants.”

Emily salutes and resumes her stance. Her boss cocks her hip assumes an exaggerated thinking pose, while I start praying to whatever gods who’ll still have me that I’m not about to be executed for this rubbish.

“What of their backgrounds?” The woman asks, her words tinged with a vague accent, but enunciated the same way an inn keeper would when a duke drops by for a beer. Emily steps forward once again.

“Observation shows a general incompetence with menial labour.” What? It’s not like she put any more care into her laundry than me. “Coupled with his age and the quality of clothing and the satchel he carries them in, Sepulchrum is likely a runaway minor noble – or possibly from the merchant class.”

Well, there goes my career as a spy.

“The girl also shows signs of a privileged upbringing, with a similar level of unfamiliarity with common household chores. It is unlikely that they eloped together or have any prior relationship.” I can’t help but feel insulted by that last bit.

“Right then,” the woman claps her hands and leans towards us. “No reason for loyalty and quite a few to give me what I want.” A number of swords make their appearances heard somewhere behind me. “What’s Fourey’s game? Where is he hiding the Flautist?”

I gulp and start to stammer. What was his bloody plan again? What’s a flautist?

Evelyn immediately jumps to my rescue.

“No Ma’am, you’ve got it all wrong! Mister Lord Fourey was just being real kind is all. Giving my cousin an’ me such a cushy job in the kitchens an’ all.” As she speaks, her voice takes on a hokey accent that fools absolutely no one. Though I’ll give her points for trying. She pushes on even in the face of the stone-faced Emily’s mildly incredulous expression. “We coulda been a lil’ better at our job, mighty embar-”

“They’ve got encrypted documents Lady Valorie!” shouts one of the robes behind us, throwing my satchel over our heads.

“-rassing… we have what?” Evelyn squawks at the interruption, breaking character like an amateur. It’s not like it’s a surprise anyway, that bloody play is in the bag – though how they determined it was encrypted was anyone’s guess. Perhaps it was too incoherent to be anything else.

The leader –Lady Valorie – rifles through my things, flinging my stuff to the floor with absolutely zero decorum. I just hope she’s enjoying the smell of congealed goblin blood. With a triumphant grunt she pulls the book free and gives us an infuriatingly knowing smirk, as if she had discovered anything of value. Without another word she flips Darke Mag’kx open and-

Wait, where did the play go? I tense as she begins flipping through and inspecting the book from every angle. Lady, hands off my book.

“Looks a bit old and battered for orders…” she mutters as she inspects, “not to mention that it’s a whole book – surely Fourey’s too cheap to encrypt all of it.” She stamps her high heeled boot and points dramatically at me. “You! Where’s the Mythic key?” The what?

“The what key?”

“This book’s Mythic key – surely you would had to have read this at some point, correct?” she says, a judgmental, patronising tone layered thick. It makes me feel both annoyed and a little slow, why does she think I’ve read it?

“It’s in Old Mythic right?” I speak haltingly, “You can’t read it…” She rolls her eyes as I trail off.

“Not without its key, no. Which you should have. So that you can read it.”

“I thought it was just an old wizard thing,” I say, probably blushing underneath her judgmental gaze. “I can read some of it. It just takes a while,” I continue. “You know, to make it harder for the apprentices.” I trail off again and my eyes drop under the scrutiny.

She puts me out of my misery, “It’s a magical encryption technique. Now give me the key!” Again, she gestures dramatically with an outstretched hand. I would say that she looks and acts ridiculous if she wasn’t currently speaking to me like a clueless novice.

“Er… I don’t have a key!” I stumble over my response.

“But you said that you could read it,” She says, her previous energy stalled somewhat by incredulity.

“A bit, yeah,” She stares at me hard then flips through the book, squinting at the text.

“Then whoever cast the spell is an idiot. The whole point of Old Mythic is that it’s perfect cipher,” she says with finality, snapping Darke Mag’kx shut.

I start to stammer in response. My father probably encoded that book. Evelyn jumps in as I flounder. Unfortunately, back to her normal voice, reducing her credibility back to zero.

“He stole it from home, I think his grandfather just did the Mythic stuff on a family recipe book. We don’t have a key, or whatever.” Valorie lowers her arm, apparently willing to take a proven charlatan at her word. Though Evelyn’s words do have the benefit of being both in line with their narrative, and more importantly, mostly true. “Fourey just gave us this play. He said they’re going to use the performance as a staging for a coup.” The words come quickly and Valorie is handed Apoxolas Nox by another of the robes.

She reads the first page, then carelessly flings Darke Mag’kx behind her into the arms of one of her minions. Both Evelyn and I make a panicked grasping motion as the book falls out of our reach. She’s way too attached to that book I think even as I cringe seeing it handled so roughly. Then Valorie achieves the difficult task of drawing attention back to herself as she chuckles aloud.

“God this is trash. Emily, is there actually a play being organised?” She continues to be awfully cavaliere with my possessions as she throws the script to Emily.

“Yes Ma’am, Apoxolas Nox is scheduled for tomorrow night at seven.” Valorie stays silent, assuming a thinking pose with her chin resting on her fist.

“Alright, that works – we just have to move the schedule up a bit,” she snaps her fingers, “Emily, go back and tell everyone to get prepped.” She points at the two of us, “Neither of you say a word to anyone and everything will work out nicely, alright?”

Without waiting for our response Evelyn and I are shoved out the door and back onto the streets of Havale. My bag and assorted clothing are flung in a pile beside me. That’s it.

I get up and walk down the street, towards where I’m pretty sure the market was. The houses either side of the wide road are all big, and more importantly, all have reasonably large windows. Windows being the best indicator for wealth. Must still be in the rich district then.

I carefully step around a puddle. Extra careful since it hasn’t rained in a week or so. Apart from that, the cobbles were reasonably clear; someone has obviously gone to the effort of sweeping anything unsightly into the alleys. I try not to gag as I pass one, the chittering of rats confirming the theory. Reaching the end of the street and stopping at the junction, I look left and right. Should’ve paid more attention to our route heading to the manor.

I head right, noting the higher levels of discarded cabbage leaves. Maybe they’re the market’s version of breadcrumbs.

Ten minutes later and the number of windows in the surroundings houses have remained relatively constant. Where is that bloody market? I take a sharp turn down an alley, walking faster and kicking refuse out of the way. I’m spat out on the other end onto a much busier street. Some guy jostles me as I stand there, reflexively calling me a fuckhead before a cart laden with pumpkins passes and I lose sight of him.

I breathe deep and hold it, bracing myself before pushing my way into the swell. I appear again behind the pumpkin cart, the tired looking porter barely sparing me a glance before continuing on his way. I walk slowly behind, letting the cart pave a way through the crowd. Hopefully he’s heading to the market, I can’t imagine that one man would buy like, twenty pumpkins.

The crowd only swells as the road empties into the town square. Somehow the place is still thronging even if it’s not officially market day, or whatever. It’s not like I’m going to take Emily at her word any more anyway. I split off from my erstwhile companion and idle by a fruit stall, then vaguely wandering with the flow of the crowd. Now where is the town gate? It only occurs to me now that Fourey had basically just plonked us into the middle of the city. I have no idea where the gate is.

I consider approaching one of the guards, who stand around watching for ne’er-do-wells to beat bloody. I reconsider, and furthermore duck into the suffocating crowd as I notice one of them staring at me – maybe vaguely recognizing me from somewhere. Since when did the free cities care about Empire wanted posters anyway? Luckily the crowd is still large enough to get a few bodies in the way before the guard can get his buddies’ attention. Whatever, I point myself towards the widest road out of the square.

Just as I leave the throng of people and the square a hand reaches out and yanks me off balance.

“Lucien! Where the hell are you going?” Evelyn puffs out before shoving me against the wall and out of the foot traffic.

“Hey!” I exclaim shoving her back, “I’m heading to the gate.” She scowls and I continue, growing louder even over the constant noise of the crowded street. “I’ve had enough of this stupid gross city. The stupid dumb lords. These stupid overpopulated quivering masses of stupid dumb gross people!” A horse snorts and trundles past, ignoring my spittle as I finish screaming into the crowd. Evelyn grabs my shoulder and spins me around again.

“Holy shit. Can you stop being such a fucking edge lord for two seconds?” She shouts over the crowd. “This whole town – city – is about to be fucked by like, at least two different sides!” She prods me with each point, backing me against the course bricks of the wall.

“who-” she cuts me off.

“We could go to the whoever’s in charge. Give them the run down on the situation, save the day!”

“an-” Her palm pushes me back.

“We know like, both sides. We can stop an uprising Lucien! Make a difference, you know?” I don’t. “We can save the day!”

That phrase and the way her eyes light up really pisses me off.

“Who cares what happens to some back-water trade town!” I shout back, heedless of the scowls of those temporarily within earshot. “Fourey can have it. Or Valorie. Or whoever’s in charge right now. I don’t care!” My shirt sticks to my back even in the mild weather. A heat prickles at my hairline and my ears grow hot.

“But we can go fetch Emmet an-”

“Screw Emmet! He had the right bloody idea of bailing before those bastards opened their mouths.” I seethe. Lurching forward I poke Evelyn in the sternum, pushing her against the throng of plebs passing by. “I’ve spent the past two days covered in filth and wasting my time with menial bullshit. I’m not following your whole worthless saviour narrative. It’s not like you could change shit anyway. How is this crap even getting me any closer to-.” I cut myself off and loom over her, jabbing her to enunciate each syllable. “I. am. Done. With. Getting. Nowhere.” I dig my knuckle into her with me last word, locking eyes – the fuzzy prickliness spreading up my neck.

“Fuck you Sepulchrum.” I double over as her fist buries itself in my stomach. She stamps off-balance and grazes my shoulder, gives up on whatever else was to follow and disappears back into the crowd.

On automatic, I lurch to my feet and into the bustling crowd after her. I don’t know how she manages to move through this mess, but I’m immediately lost in the heat and noise of the human river. I would like to say that I struggled after her retreating silhouette, but she had disappeared before I had even stood up. I find myself once again stuck in the middle of the road, the stifling press of people tossing me further away from Evelyn and further towards the city gates. Wait, isn’t that where I wanted to go?

I stop pushing in the direction Evelyn had disappeared and turn back towards the gates. Suddenly this whole traffic thing makes a lot more sense as I’m bustled smoothly towards the exit. After a few minutes of being bumped from the sides and kicked in the legs, the crowd disperses, and I’m left standing battered and dazed in the cleared area just before the towering city gates. The sun beats down now that the road isn’t shadowed by buildings. I squint against the glare and turn away – strangely this doesn’t help at all.

Milling around at the mouth of the gate, lazily scanning anyone who exits or enters, stand a contingent of imperial soldiers – bristling with bright shiny armour and bright scary swords. Shining the brightest and strobing my eyeballs are the steel encased pectorals of that fucking paladin, Rudolf or whatever. The reflection of my now sickly green face distorted by the incredibly tacky sculpted musculature of his breastplate. All thoughts of leaving the city, fighting with Evelyn or the impending coup puff out of my head like a fart on the wind when one of the soldiers idly glances in my direction.

His gaze drifts over me for a moment before springing back, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He slowly looks between the poster in his hands and my white hair, looking more and more alert as I try to will my legs to move. We lock eyes and he awkwardly paws at the guy behind him for attention. The swordsman guy from the caves turns around and sees me standing frozen in the middle of the road like a fucking idiot. He taps another shoulder and the archer girl looks up and towards me.

As her hand reaches for the shoulder of Rodger the paladin, I dive back into the morass of peasants clogging the streets of Havale.

O – O – O – O – O

I kick the Lucien shaped rock down the gutter. It bounces pathetically off the curb and lands in a pile of horse manure – right where he belongs. God, I hope that’s horse manure – I give it a wide berth just to be sure.

Hubert looks up from his mid-afternoon whiskey on the rocks as I bump open the door. He seems surprised to see me so soon, I’m just surprised that I managed to find my way back – autopilot for the win.

“You’re back already lass? That pasty string bean behind you?”

“No, bastard’s probably half way back to the border or whatever.” I say, trying not to let too much vitriol slip out through my teeth. This dude is like, orders of magnitude more done than I’ve seen before. He throws back his drink and reaches for another.

“The scraps I have to deal with, Mother above,” his eyes flick over to me as he musters some modicum of authority from where he sits slumped on a bar stool. “Shouldn’t you be scarpering too? Can’t imagine whoever’s boot you’re licking is going to be all sunshine when half their plants have gone missing.”

I stare blankly at the actually very good question. “Um, I don’t really know where else to go.” Should I be trying to go for a pleading tone here? The I feel a cool draft from the open doorway and the wool of my smock itches at my collar. “I’m pretty sure he’ll come back anyway.” I finish, more to fill the silence of his disinterested stare than anything else.

Though I’m suddenly struck by the level of confidence I have in the predictability of some guy I’ve known all of a week and change.

Hubert harrumphed and leaned back looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Whatever, if your boss is inclined to give you any choice in the matter, try not to get poisoned.” Is that meant to be a joke? He continues with zero humour. “The last time some idiot tried to get rid of their minions, the bastard poisoned the cookpot and took half the night shift with it.”

I stare silently at him agape, as I work on digesting that lovely piece of trivia. He coughs and looks away, probably regretting most of the spiel.

He coughs again and waves a hand. “If you’re staying make yourself useful and see if the cooks need anything.” I gladly take the invitation and leave him to his misery.

Half a step into the kitchen, a tray of scones seemingly materialises at chest height. Instantly unbalanced, I fumble wildly until a passing blur in an apron thrusts a basket of breadsticks at me which counterbalances everything nicely. Someone else throws a bowl of grapes into the crook of my arm and I’m pushed off to the side where a serving boy has similarly had half a picnic’s worth of platters balanced about him.

One of the cooking staff greets us, “alright, his Lordship’s entertaining so you two need to bring afternoon tea-”

“I just came back from serving afternoon tea,” complains my neighbour, poking his head around a jug of wine.

“Entre then, whatever. I’m sure his Lordship can find it within himself to forgive us,” the cook replies tiredly, “anyway bring those to the northern dining room. Yes – the one ‘round the back.” He rushes off back towards the stoves. From the entire pig they’re trying to jam into the oven, looks like dinner preps already begun. How much do these people eat?

The serving boy takes the lead, seems to be sixteen of so and thanks to medieval nutrition, is about a head shorter. Two steps in, he whips around, somehow not sloshing the open wine jug everywhere. “Oi! Who’ll be there?” he shouts to our retreating cook and the room in general. Some guy chopping blue onions glances up.

“I heard Wenton’s in.” Someone else calls over saying they saw Fourey hanging around this morning. Serving boy nods in thanks and turns back.

“Heh lucky, I reckon Lord Rorpous has forgotten I’m here. You in for either of them?”

“What spying?” I lean in and whisper as well I can over the roar of the kitchen. He nods and rolls his eyes; I almost don’t hear the muttered ‘newbie’ in the din. “Um, yeah, working for Fourey.” I don’t like the uncomfortable wince he gives me at that, but he motions over to a piece of paper that had been nailed to the door frame.

He shuffles his plates around and runs his finger up and along the grid that had been drawn on. “Too new to get guard rotations… looks like manor’s cesspit guy is new – that was fairly popular last time.” He sees my blank look, “What? Noble love knowing those kinds of things, weirdos the lot of ‘em.”

Guard patrols? Cesspit guys? “Wait, is this like, sensitive information?” I feel like this shouldn’t be visible from the front door.

“Nah, the old staff made a list of the kind of thing that keeps your bosses off your back. We just cycle through it and add some new stuff for when your noble comes for lunch.” He shuffles his plates around and starts wandering down a hallway. “Anyway, cesspit’s manned by Milard these days. If the big guy doesn’t like that, just be vague and tell him that His Lordship’s been eating more beans or something – my guy stewed on that one for months.” I’ve written my fair share of literature essays, I’m back in familiar territory with bullshitting analysis.

Milard. Like Maillard – mustard in French, or was it something from chemistry? I grapple with the name like soap in the shower as we walk. Moutard? A pair of spear things cross themselves in front of me and that poor cesspit guy’s name goes spiralling down the mental drain. The guards holding the spears barring the door looks at us with a look of bored irritation, as if completely unapologetic about ruining my intel.

“State your business.” The one on the left of the door states in an automatic monotone.

“Delivering tea to His Lordship.” Replies my partner.

“I swear you lot did that an hour ago.” The other guard plucks a scone off of my platter and takes a bite of it. After not dropping dead he shrugs, “checks out.” Christ, how bad does a workplace have to be to create the level of nihilism? They give it another minute for any poison to kick in. When the guard continues to be alive, they crack the door open and we shuffle through.

A valet, or announcer type, greets us. His face morphing into the customary sneer that naturally develops when the difference between the average thread count of two parties passes a certain threshold. Nature is truly magnificent. He points us over to the dining table and gives us an exaggerated wide berth. I let that pass without comment, elitism is probably the only thing that keeps him going.

“Hark! By the Mother’s supple mounds, doth I see before me a foe to slake my lust for bloooood?” An impossibly melodic voice trills over the dull muttering of the dining room. Up on a stage set up at the end of the room, a tall blonde guy in extremely tight, vibrant lime-green leggings and a flowing pink shirt waves a sword around as a dozen armed thugs mill around him.

“I have no idea what you were on about Fourey, this play is worthless.” A gaunt man, swimming in at least three bears worth of fur coats, shouts at the no less decked out Fourey. Fur must be in this season. The more egregious fashion disaster on stage continues as if his audience wasn’t loudly proclaiming his mediocrity right in front on him. A few of the thugs – fellow actors I guess – are clenching their teeth and fondling their sword hilts. The guards standing around the room look mildly uncomfortable at the sight, but the swaddled noble just keeps his hot takes coming.

“I can hardly show this mess to my guests tomorrow night,” he continues unabashed.

“Perhaps I was too hasty with my recommendation,” Fourey’s voice glistening with an oily insincerity. “Perhaps the Empire was right to ban it…”

“Banned in the Empire you say,” The gaunt man – who I assume is the baron Havaille – repeats. “Oho, clever. I almost missed the depth in this Apoxolas Nox character. Simply wonderful.” It’s a credit to his political mask that I can’t decide whether it’s spite or stupidity that draws his attention back to the theatrical disaster before him.

Fourey rolls his eyes and they come to rest on me as we approach the table. A self-satisfied smirk is absolutely not the expression I want on his face. Is this the move? I glance nervously at the linchpin of whatever this is meant to be – the performers – and once again see a bunch of extremely agitated mercenaries obviously waiting for some kind of signal. Much of the rest of the room shines with the reflection of dozens of manor guards lining the walls. All of it forming a sharp and pointy standoff that has serving boy and myself uncomfortably centrally positioned.

Serving boy doesn’t seem bothered and continues walking, as eager as I am to put the trays down and unimpeded by a sense of impending doom. We reach the table and make motions to deposit our trays while attempting to portray as much respectful subservience in the action as possible. This bit of interpretive dance leaves me bent double and arms outstretched when the baron jumps and shouts.

“Stop right there!” Myself, serving boy and about half the room’s occupants stop right there. The baron straightens up and lets out a breathy chuckle.

“You know, it was obvious from the start that you had some devilish scheme in mind, Fourey,” he begins, apparently feeling the time was right to launch into a villain speech. “At first I thought it odd that a drama with three characters needed so many armed ruffians playing trees and rocks, but now I see that was nought but Imperial excess.” His complexation looks like a furious flush and panicked pallor met half way to form a super unhealthy looking grey. He starts vibrating with full body shivers as he gets more excited.

“But after all this subterfuge, you throw yet another layer on top! Thinking that while my court was distracted by this bewitching performance, you would have your assassin waltz over and serve me poisoned scones!” I tilt my head up, not daring to straighten my back, to find his finger thrust damningly in my face.

Fourey – the bastard – starts clapping, barely trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “It seems that I can’t make a single move without your watchful eye unravelling the truth, my Lord.”

“And you never will again! While you have gotten closer than many, know that you are now and forever, subject to my inescapable gaze, Fourey.” The Baron then turns towards me as Fourey tries to contain a look of absolute disdain towards the twitching idiot. “Now what shall I do about you?” he asks, his glassy eyes asking for no input. “Guards! To the dungeon with her!”

I hear the clanking of armour as several guards detach themselves from the walls. Fourey looks around then chooses to pipe up. “In the spirit of fairness, my lord. I feel I must warn you. She is quite the unparalleled fighter. The only food she has been allowed since birth is the flesh of her fallen foes. A warrior so lethal that even her own sword fears her. I would recommend at least fifteen guards.”

The baron nods at the input, “better make it twenty guards!” The clanking intensifies.

Air rushes from my lungs as an armoured gauntlet lands heavily on my shoulder. The world turns and I find myself on the ground, jam scones in my hair and a sharp pain as my hip impacts a fallen wine jug. Rolling over, a big silver boot fills my vision, and in the space between one blink and the next there’s a knife sticking out of it and my own foot is connecting with the owner’s face. Oh, thank god, it’s happening again.

There’s a moment of detached weightlessness as my body kicks off the guy’s nose and hangs a foot off the ground and upside-down. I feel muscles in my stomach twist and flex in an entirely alien way before the world rights itself and the wild somersault leaves me standing upright. My fist aches from where I had apparently punched someone at some point during that remarkably long second. The lull lasts just long enough for my eyes to lock with Fourey’s. His expression of genuine bewilderment is almost funny.

I’m torn away as my arm lunges for a silver platter, bringing it up just in time to deflect the pommel of a sword. I fall for a split second as my leg darts out a trip a guard coming in from my left, before pushing up to smash the sterling silver into another’s helmet. There’s a jug in my hand now, which is promptly rammed into someone’s temple. The shock travels through my shoulder but it’s secondary as my knuckles compress, my free fist flying into a guard’s unarmoured stomach. Colours smear across my vision and I land without remembering ever jumping. The platter comes up once again, probably to block something, I don’t know. My arm’s in motion as my vision sways – dizziness this time – then I choke as I cough up bile.

There’s a weird moment of sudden lucidity as I try not to throw up and everything hurts. Then something hits my head.

O – O – O – O – O

“Emmet, could you take those out into the street?” Samantha pointed at the two buckets of dirty water the nurses used to rinse soiled linen. Emmet hurried forward and strained slightly to lift them, careful to not slosh the quite frankly, foul contents anywhere within the infirmary.

Nudging the door open as he backed out, he was greeted with the slightly fresher, but no less odorous air of the city streets. As much as it gladdened his heart to be given the chance to heal the sick and injured, there was only so much one could stand the sounds and smells of the sick and injured. He’d have to work on that, hardly befitting of the Mother’s son.

The buckets swayed dangerously as Emmet misjudged the height of the doorway’s front step. He quickly retracted his foot as some of the water sloshed out onto the entranceway floor. Relieved, he chose to ignore the dark puddle, the doorway is technically outside of the infirmary.

Reaching the road, and more importantly, the gutter, he placed the buckets down. With the utmost care, he tipped them over, letting the liquid pour out mostly into the gutter in as controlled a manner as possible. As far as one can do so while keeping as many body parts as possible far away from errant splashes. He watched the pink hued water flow away, the film of fat and unmentionable floating blobs probably converging downstream – hopefully not where anyone was living.

He muttered a guilty prayer to the Mother for not being put on bedpan cleaning duty. He remembered Rodney always saying that a prayer wasn’t worth Her time if it wasn’t worth shouting. He heard his veins pumping in his ears, the memory of his senior conjuring emotions that he didn’t have the heart to analyse. It probably wasn’t good advice anyway – at least not outside of the monastery.

He suspected that he was getting some kind of special treatment from the head nurse. Less onerous tasks, maybe longer breaks. It was mostly minor, but he remembered the hubbub when he first identified himself as a priest of the Mother. All the other practicing healers followed some local gods and seemingly suffered in efficacy and efficiency. In the end, memories of home just bit all the deeper. The comfort and acceptance of the monastery still outside of reach. At least he was helping people.

Shouts and curses jerked him out of his melancholia and he looked up just in time to see a serving boy with a shock of white hair being tackled by an armoured imperial soldier. Emmet froze as Lucien struggled against his captors before another came up behind him and struck him in the chin. A largely unarmoured swordsman arrived and directed the soldiers to haul Lucien’s limp body away. Stuck frozen above a gutter choked with viscera, Emmet locked eyes with David and shook with some failed attempt to run to the pale mage.

Recognition came easily to the eyes of the older man, and for a moment they darted down the street, no doubt towards his companions. There was an endless moment of hateful indecision. Emmet felt the weight of choice once again as Lucien was dragged away, and he was once again struck by the paralysing inertia of agency.

David made an almost imperceptible motion, the slightest shake of his head and he deliberately looked away. The pressure evaporated and Emmet sucked in a lungful of air as the need for action fell away. As he watched the one who might be his friend dragged off and disappear into the city, he felt only relief. And he hated it.

An hour later, the Baron’s mansion was on fire. And Emmet faced another decision.