The Sun hovered in the sky overhead. Two birds dancing with one another in the branches above, the leaves that rustled in the gentle breeze, Danadrian took them all in as he slumped against a tree, sweating. He gulped down water from a flask he kept at his side and rested for a moment.

  Waking up before the crack of dawn was not a pleasant experience, but a necessary one. If he hadn’t, he would’ve arrived here late in the afternoon, which did not leave enough daylight to get the work done. The contract had him going to two different sites, so he planned to arrive at and complete the first today, before camping out and walking to the next.

  He felt the term ‘camping out’ was a bit misleading. A tent was too expensive, and too heavy, so what he had instead was a thick blanket, packed rations he’d bought at the inn, and a very rudimentary map that had cost him more than the previous two combined. He was back down to only a couple of coins, but the contract would make up for it. Thankfully, the trader he was employed by had provided him with the necessary tools for the job.

  No wolf packs or other violent encounters yet, which was a welcome surprise. As much as the receptionist had joked, he had listened to some of the more obvious dangers she’d been obligated to explain to him. Tuffhorns never came this close to Fordain, but according to her, that was like calmly entering a dark and unexplored cave because, of course, there aren’t any dragons in there. There were still other problems to match out here.

  And there was one last change. After returning to the Hunthorde Inn, he’d asked Innkeeper Heldreth if there was a mirror and sharp blade he could use. After he assured him the blade was for his hair, a barmaid brought both over to his room before he got to work.

  It was a long process, which involved him refilling a bucket of water from a well nearby multiple times and coming close to nicking himself once or twice. Parts of his hair had to be cut as he found the hair actually looked like it had died somehow, growing unnaturally grey as if it had lost all its colour. Quite a while later, and after he’d dried his hair fully, he thought to tie it up for practicality. The muscle memory in his hands took over and tied it into a small bun at the back, leaving the rest to hang along the sides.

  When he looked into the mirror, despite it all, he thought he looked right. He was even complimented on it by a few people when he came out to return the mirror and blade to the innkeeper. He had naturally taken the opportunity to also cleanse himself of the lingering rat blood, which smelled awful and the removal of which might have had something to do with the compliments.

  He took a few minutes to rest after the hike over, after which he rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers, placed his bag between the roots of a nearby tree, and went over to inspect the ruins with tools in hand.

  There really wasn’t much there. He thought it was about the size of a house, made of stone that, if it once had been coloured, had long since lost it. Most of the walls only reached as far as his chest in height, with a few exceptions. There were a few toppled pillars on the ground that the forest grass was reclaiming. Vines covered the place, and his only solace lay in the fact that there were no trees taking root in the ruin itself. He felt that would have been beyond his pay grade.

  He got to work shortly thereafter, cutting away vines with a knife, pulling weeds out of cracks in the stone, and pulling away any other greenery that had enveloped the area. He even had a shovel, which had been a pain to carry over with him, with which he dug at and found the stone borders of where the floor had once been. He wasn’t required to dig out the inside of the ruin, but he did make it clearer for anyone coming after him, and at least began removing the grass that had crept in.

  At that point, several hours had passed, so he took a break to eat and rest. He had dried meat, bread, and other rations. Including, of course, apples, which he was starting to suspect was a Fordain speciality. His bones were already beginning to ache, so he considered taking a nap, but wisely figured that if he did, the likelihood of his getting back up again before it was dark dropped to near-zero.

  So he took a swig of water and lay back against a tree root for a while, keeping his eyes firmly open. Not too long ago, he’d thought that the rustling in some nearby bushes was a bit too loud for a bird, but after edging closer to, spear in hand, nothing decided to show itself. Regardless, he didn’t let his guard down while he was working. His fate was not to become a predator's next meal.

  He eventually did get back up and returned to his labouring. Completing the project of clearing the grass and parts of the dirt from the ruin took the longest by far, and it was close to dusk by the end of it. He finished off the day by pruning any hanging branches that swept in too close to the ruin and were not so thick that his tools couldn’t cut through them. Thereafter, dusk came and went, and as it always was when the Sun disappeared, he felt nervous and uneasy in the restless forest.

  He hadn’t realised it when he had passed out in the burrow, but the forest was loud. Sure, in the day it made sense, and it was a fact he was used to, but at night? At night, the sounds didn’t go away, they just… changed. Singing birds turned into hooting owls. Butterflies became moths. The rustling leaves and grass that you might associate with a rabbit was suddenly, definitely, not a rabbit, and you better make sure you had a weapon on hand. Your sight was reduced to the point where you could barely see a meter out. The moons might have provided some light if the trees didn’t block most of them. Needless to say, he slept lightly that night.

  What I wouldn’t give for a proper tent.

  No, what was he talking about? He wanted a roof, a bed, any bed with a pillow, and walls around him with a window that kept the night at bay. It wasn’t that he felt exposed out here; he had found a corner in the ruin and huddled there with his blanket and tools, his bag of food strung up in a nearby tree. It was just physically uncomfortable. Hard rock. Hard dirt. A root digging into your back the entire night.

  Oh, how far we go for silver and gold.

  That was the last thing he thought before he fell into a restless sleep, until chirping birds above announced the coming of the dawn, and he knelt on the ground to offer a prayer, in light of his uncomfortable survival.

  To Delassie of the Dawn, harbinger of the Light and the fire of the Sun, I give you thanks for seeing me off onto a new day after the perils of the night. May forever your loving gaze watch over those of us who see true. Bless it be.

  As far as he could remember, the largest body of Clathitarie Light-worshippers in the South and West was the Church of the Light, which revered the kin of Mayare. The Goddess of the Light was naturally the highest of them all, but Delassie, Goddess of the Dawn, daughter of Mayare and sister to Elnuway, was a close second. She heralded the arrival of the day and morn, and with it the Light of Mayare. It was customary, then, to pray to her when you first woke up, though he doubted even the most zealous did. There was a spectrum of commitment and faith present in every worshipper.

  It cut him deeper than he had anticipated, to have no face to connect with the name he prayed to. To the Goddesses of the Light, Dawn, and Dusk, he knelt in worship, and yet their faces were left obscured from him, cut and drawn across like a child’s first scribblings on paper. But he knew they had been more beautiful and majestic than any Human artist could hope to capture. He considered the Angelica, then, the luckiest race of them all, to gaze upon that each and every day.

  What poor choices he must have made. Each day that he continued to live, he wondered aloud what sort of Angelica he had once been. And each evening, he cursed him for his actions, whatever they had been.

  How could he have thrown it all away?

  He cleared up his rough camp, gathering the tools and his food before rolling up his blanket. The Company had provided him with a larger bag for the contract, so long as he returned it in an undamaged state, so he took a lot of care in making sure it was in perfect condition. Whilst he did and surveyed the ruins one last time to make sure he hadn’t forgotten or missed something, he noted an oddity.

  It was on one of the walls he had cleared the day before. A small engraving that seemed like merely a crack in the wall, which was likely how he had missed it in the first place. He ran his finger over it and naturally had no idea what it meant or even what it was. It looked like an imperfect circle or ring, but it was clearly done so on purpose; even in its damaged state, he could see that. A lot of the details were lost, but he thought he saw an…eye? A fang, maybe?

  It seems to be serpentine in nature, perhaps symbolic? There are more rigid lines here and here, which don’t really match up with the more curved angles. I never was good at symbology, I wish he was-

  His thoughts cut off there. He sighed and wondered who he might have mentioned if there was more there. Another Angelica seemed the best bet, one of his order must be well versed in archaeology and symbology.

  He finished inspecting the odd symbol and picked up all his gear. He remembered that the receptionist had never told him who these ruins used to belong to; she hadn’t known, and he assumed it had been ancient Carathiliar who’d abandoned settlements for one reason or another.

  Now he looked at the small ruin that might have once been a home or workshop, and thought that if they were Carathiliar, they must have been quite different from their descendants. The angles and shapes were all off, and at least the base of what had once been there lacked the curvature he’d begun to expect from them. The lack of any maroon or red colour he could explain away: though they often favoured some sort of red stone, he noticed that cheaper or smaller buildings often chose instead to simply paint grey stone, which cost a lot less.

  He shook his head and inspected the map. It was a shorter walk to the next site than it was back to Fordain, so his hope was to get there, finish the job, and trek back to town before the eve. It might be, and probably was, wishful thinking, but he didn’t relish another night in the Crynmon Forest.

  He got to the next ruin before midday, which was a good start. He’d hoped to get there sooner, but a leash of foxes had decided to bother. They weren’t aggressive or anything, just bothersome. He was, however, rewarded for the trouble because the second ruined collection of stone was even smaller than the first, which obviously meant less work for him. When he set his pack down and got to work, he did so with fervour and determination, the thought of a warm bed and meal pushing him forward. After several hours of nonstop cutting, trimming, and digging, he thought he might need a water break.

  Break? I’ll take a break when I’m back in Fordain.

  So he kept going, digging away dirt and grass that covered the floor, even pushing a small boulder out of the way so he could get to another corner.

  Where the previous ruin had been some sort of building or house, this one struck him as quite different. Even ignoring its size, it was definitely a square, whereas the other had been rectangular. There were four doorways, if you could call them that, each pointing in a cardinal direction, and he thought it was a little better preserved, at least comparatively. One of the door’s arches was still intact, and half the walls rose to about his head in height. As he took a step away to clean his hands in a spring nearby, he thought it might have once been a waystation or meeting point of roads, if it was indeed that much older than the surviving kingdom that now dwelt here. Glories long past now left ruined and forgotten.

  When he returned to the ruin, filled with a bristling energy to get the job done, he immediately went to the corner he had cleared of the boulder and several other stones, ready to finish clearing it with his spade. Then he stopped dead.

  For a second, he didn’t know why, only that his legs had locked into place. Then, when he managed to shift them slightly, he felt a wobble on the earth beneath him, then a small crack. He also noticed that what he felt beneath his feet was not, in fact, the soft, firm earth, but was instead a thin layer of dirt that he had mostly brushed away to reveal… cracked stone.

  Crack.

  He felt the floor collapse beneath him. Dirt and stone gave way under his weight. The last thing he saw was the image of the ruined waystation, of the fleeting light, before he was falling once more, amongst the earth and rock.

  .   .   .

  “I really wish I would stop doing that,” he said as he coughed up dust.

  He was thankful that, by all the accounts, the fall could not have been fatal unless he had landed at an awkward angle on his neck. Even whilst falling, his instincts had kicked in and he’d cupped his body into a ball, landed on his backside, and rolled. That had not mitigated the pain, which he was verbalising in curses, but nothing had broken that he could see, and the only wound he sported was a cut on his hand, which could’ve been worse. He had been lucky that no rocks had hit his head, and he could still move.

  He looked up and saw the light beaming down on him. The hole he had fallen into was roughly six meters deep; any deeper and he might have been in a bit more trouble. Well, not that he wasn’t in some already.

  The conclusion he came to was that this wasn’t a natural sinkhole, but man-made. Stone bricks of a similar kind to those of the ruins above covered the walls and ceiling, though these had a more distinct hue to them. Was that… green? Greenish-grey? He wasn’t entirely sure. Whether it was a trap or a stairwell of some sort was also not entirely clear. His first impressions had naturally led him to favour the former, but if so, it should have been deeper and more lethal to him. But if it was a stairwell or a hidden entrance, why had it been covered up? And more importantly, where were the stairs?

  He stumbled to his feet and dusted himself off. He was standing on the dirt and debris that had given way beneath him, and three walls that encompassed the chute he had fallen down. When he turned around expecting a fourth, he was instead left stunned. The hole expanded into a room beneath ground, built of the same maybe-greenish bricks, somehow illuminated despite the minimal sunlight streaming in.

  “What in the name of…”

  Thoughts of the nature of his fall left him as he walked forward into the hidden room. His attention was fixed on the source of the light, which turned out to be some strange, glowing slime placed along the walls. He reached out to touch it and found it had an uncomfortably slick texture and stuck to his fingers even while still glowing faintly. He wanted to get a better look, so he took it back to the light streaming in from the chute.

  “I have never seen anything like it… no, that’s not a good enough metric to judge it by, but it is strange. Was it made through an alchemical mixture, or is it a natural byproduct of a plant? I wonder if- GAH!”

  He stumbled back with a cry as the slimy mixture on his fingers promptly caught fire the moment it came into contact with the sunlight. His finger burned immediately, so he shook it and wiped it against the stone wall, which put out the flame.

  Wincing, he felt his finger. The burn wasn’t too bad, but the entire substance had been set alight before melting onto his finger as the fire burned. As was becoming too much of a trend, he thought he was incredibly lucky that he’d only taken a minimal amount of the slime with him.

  Not luck, then perhaps fate.

  “What sort of mixture combusts when in contact with Light?” He asked the world as he rubbed his sore finger. When he got out of here, he’d wash it under the spring water immediately. Having learnt his lesson on examining whatever that was, he chose to stay clear of the rest of it for now.

  He took a few more steps into the room. As his eyes got used to the dim lighting, he saw roots had, over the course of time, grown and broken through areas of the stone, spilling soil into the room. Smaller roots from plants had then slithered in afterwards. The air was so musty and stale that he had to cover his nose the farther in he went. All in all, the room was smaller than he had initially thought, but still much larger than the ruins above.

  Perhaps their purpose was to conceal this…

  Wary of any more pitfalls, he walked lightly and kept close to the walls. Because of that, he noticed that there were engravings on the walls that had not yet eroded away, and the first he recognised was the same strange marking he’d seen at the previous site. Now that he saw it larger and in a more complete state, it was obvious. It was a snake, circling around itself and attempting to eat its own tail, but being just out of reach.

  Looking at the other engravings, he saw what were obviously images of battle, where armies of Humans fought strange… snakes? Snakefolk? He thought they might be, but some seemed more Human, and others more snake. Perhaps that too was symbolic.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Indeed, a lot of the engravings he saw seemed to share this snake motif. There were snakes with arms and swords, great serpents coiled over entire armies. It was rather entrancing really, and he imagined that in better days they would’ve been called beautiful, if they had their original colour, or lacking that, were able to be kept in better condition. He appreciated it, and in no small part because of a second throughline throughout the scenes he had begun to pick up.

  Glory.

  He saw glorious moments of battle, warriors facing off against entire armies alone, acts of unfaltering heroism. There was a weight to it, as fleeting as it may be, and something within that resonated with him. To be immortalised forever, beyond even the memories of your name and people. That felt special.

  And sad. What eventually became of these people?

  “Glory burns as bright as the Sun for but a moment, before it flickers out forever.” It was a quote from a book he’d heard someone talking about in the Company hall.

  He was so engrossed in his thoughts that it took him a moment to realise he had circled around the room and ended up back where he’d begun. He concluded that it was unlikely there were other pitfall traps in the room. Whatever this room had been, it didn’t seem to have anything worth protecting. With that confidence, whether well-placed or not, he approached the centre of the chamber he had otherwise avoided.

  It seemed to have fared better than its surroundings. Not many roots reached far enough to shatter its stone, and but a few piles of dirt and soil covered the floor. He brushed some of it away to reveal that, as he had expected, there were markings on the ground, but unlike the walls, these engravings were not images, but some sort of writing in a script he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t Athniuthian. Where the Carathiliar wrote with several angular lines, this had more circles and curves.

  The engravings created a square zone around the centre of the room. Once he’d pushed whatever fallen rocks he could and kicked away a little dirt, he noticed that at the centremost point the textures changed. The bricks and their greenish hues changed to a rough, sort of gravelly substance.

  Is it just debris like the dirt? But if so, why only here? And it looks so… perfect, like it was intentionally placed.

  He ran his hand over it and flinched, realising he’d used the one that was now sporting a new cut. The blood stained a thin line on the gravel. He moved to grab a handful of it, idly considering if he had the time to dig it up, before he shot up and stumbled back.

  It was inconceivable. Mana was arising from the runes that surrounded him. He could see the vivid colours bursting around him and could feel the push-and-pull of his own, reacting to the instantaneous surplus of mana in the air.

  Not possible, it isn’t possible.

  There were no people here, there was no way that there could be this much mana displacement happening without direct, conscious action. The ambient mana in the air was one thing, but this was actively disrupting it, and from what? The runes? What was it even doing?

  He ducked forward and stumbled to one end of the room as the mana coalesced. It gathered together and circled around before descending on the centre of the room. He wasn’t sure the focus of the spell was on until he saw it descend on the patch of gravel. His smear of blood. It changed.

  The room was cast in a scarlet light as red, jagged chains rose from the floor and latched themselves to his wrists.

  “Gah!”

  The sharp edges dug into his arms and pulled him down to his knees. Gritting his teeth and looking through eyes filling with tears, he saw that the mana in the room had likewise become multiple shades of red.

  “Chaos Magic… no.” He growled as the chains pulled him closer to the ground, “Blood-chains, blood magic, the stuff of curses.”

  He could feel what mana he had been forced back, overpowered by whatever blood curse was being used. He tried to remember how you resisted them, but his mind was blanking, and pain was making his entire body scream. Blood dripped down his arms and splattered the ground.

  He felt the magic roll over him, submerging him, attempting to latch onto him. It spoke in hissing words he didn’t understand, but its meaning he did. A test. A trap. A reminder. Rolling lines of curses prepared to cut marks onto his very soul that would last as long as he did, and then further on.

  Then stopped.

  His eyes snapped open. Grunting, he forced his arms up and began to push himself off the ground. On his knees, he forced one leg up. The chains on his arms loosened by a fraction, and he bared his teeth at it.

  “Chalador, God and Warrior of the flame, heed my words.” He gripped the edge of the chain, ignoring the punctures it made in his skin. “Not to blood or profane magics shall I succumb, nor the arts of the dead. See me now as whilst Fallen I rise. So bless it be.”

  The chains shattered around him. The mana in the room simmered, before what was left of it receded back into the runes. The glow returned to normal, and the adrenaline in his body relaxed, and he stumbled. He looked back at the patch on the ground where his blood had been smeared and saw something new.

  There was something protruding from the ground, whether by the machinations of the spell or simply his own oversight. Not knowing what else to do, he leaned over to touch it, and his hand felt metal. He gripped it and began to pull. When it didn’t budge, he pulled harder, harder, and he felt it begin to budge. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he ripped it from the ground with a shout and stumbled back again.

  It was a sword.

  It was entirely made of metal and entirely rusted over. It had seen better days, and he couldn’t even begin to think how old it might be. The blade was long and thin, the hilt large enough to accommodate both his hands, but when he held it aloft, it was light enough to hold with one. He held it naturally; in the same way he breathed. The weight felt familiar to him. He remembered that, by the Company’s records, he was a swordsman.

  It felt right.

  His arms still stung from the wounds which had thankfully stopped bleeding. Having had his fill with whatever this place was, he decided that his best course was to leave. When he turned back to the chute, however, he saw that, to his dismay, the light streaming in had begun dimming.

  How long have I been down here?

  And how was he going to get back out? It wasn’t that deep of a hole, but deep enough that he couldn’t hope to jump it, even with the pile of debris beneath him. Could he stack stones until he could? One quick observation of the room again told him that, yes, he could try that, but it would take Light only knows how long, and some of those bricks could weigh a ton. No, that wasn’t a realistic option, and he’d tire himself out before he got far enough.

  He tapped his foot on the ground as he thought. Stones? No. Dirt? Not enough, and he ran into the same problem as the bricks. The roots…?

  Trying to cut or break the thickets was a losing battle without any tools, and this sword was so rusted it might as well be a hammer. But he found that the thinner roots he could pull out after some testing.

  He gathered as many as he could carry before he sat down in the light and tried to wind them around one another. Before he began, he wasn’t sure if he even knew how to, but surprisingly, his hands quickly adapted to what he was doing, coiling and wrapping the roots around one another. It was a slow process, and he was getting anxious about the time, but eventually he’d crafted a long coil of root that he prayed was enough to bear his weight.

  Looking back up at the chute, he tied the makeshift rope around a rock he could throw before heaving it with a grunt. He had to do that several times before he felt it catch on something, likely a boulder he’d moved. After tugging at the rope to make sure it was stable, he climbed up, precariously balancing the rusted sword between his arms. His cut hand painfully protested, but he just bore with it as best he could. Once he got to the top, he tossed the sword ahead of him before clambering up and rolling onto the ground exhausted.

  He let the cool breeze blow over him for a while, regaining his strength and taking a glance at the sky. The Sun was already descending rapidly, so he had to move quickly. He really didn’t want to be out here for a second night.

  .   .   .

  It got dark before he made it back to Fordain, so when he got to the Company of the Gethanhol building, it was largely empty of any regular day-goers, and only those who stayed in its rooms were milling around the bar-side of the first floor. Nonetheless, he drew their attention as he walked in, and this time he knew why, having checked himself out in a nearby window beforehand.

  The rusted sword was slung on his back, not adding as much weight as he’d assumed. His face was covered in dirt and dust, as were his clothes, and parts of the latter he’d had to rip up to act as bandages. Said bandages covered the worst of his cuts to avoid possible infection, but most he’d been forced to leave bare. They ran around his wrists and halfway to his elbows, excluding the cut on his hand.

  He stopped at the front desk. “Danadrian, reporting my completion of the contract.” He put his marker and the list of instructions down in front of him. “Also reporting an uncovered chamber beneath the farthest ruin and accessible via a pitfall, trapped with an unknown form of a blood magic spell that may or may not be exhausted.” He met the receptionist's eyes. “And I’m keeping the sword.”

  She nodded slowly. “Of course, sir. Here’s the allocated payment from one Trader Deana, and the Company.” She handed him fifteen silver coins. “I could also recommend you to a local healer…?” She was looking at his arms.

  “Too expensive.” He sighed, “I’ll be on my way then.”

  Then he left the building, ignoring the obvious stares and questions from its occupants. Call it being slightly blunt, but he was exhausted. What he wanted now, more than ever, was a warm bed and a good night’s sleep. He felt he was well due the reward of a long sleep well into the morn.

  “You alright there, Danadrian?”

  On his left, wandering out of some bar he thought, was Lethandirr, looking at him with the same concern that edged into wonder.

  He just nodded. “Compliments of the trade. It’s good to see you, Lethandirr.”

  “Likewise. Are you sure you shouldn’t have someone look at those? One infection could be the death of you.”

  “Naturally, but I have better uses for my coin. Besides, they look a lot worse than they actually are; the cuts aren’t too deep.” He flexed his arm as an example, but winced. “Not that much anyway.”

  Lethandirr didn’t look too convinced. “If you’re not busy right now, I could take a look at them. I’m no healer, but I’ve had to tend to my fair share of wounds.”

  That was how, instead of comfortably in his bed, he found himself sitting in a quiet bar as Lethandirr unwrapped what bandages he’d made and inspected the cuts on his arms. The bartender didn’t ask any questions, and for that he was grateful, but other patrons did eye him while they thought he wasn’t looking. Most, thankfully, seemed to be absorbed in their own conversations about some announcement or whatnot that had been made recently.

  Lethandirr produced a tiny ceramic pot filled with a slimy poultice substance that he claimed would numb the pain and help the healing process. When Danadrian protested and then offered to pay him, he just shook his head with a smile. “I’d be remiss to leave them in so sorry a state, and there’s no point in owning the stuff if I’m never going to use it. But, if this does become a regular occurrence, I would recommend buying your own, and visiting the local healer, costs or not.”

  He concluded what Danadrian had already, that the wounds were not deep enough to cause any lasting damage and weren’t likely to be infected, though he recommended washing them frequently, which he also already knew. After that, Lethandirr ordered himself a drink, and when offered, Danadrian only took a glass of apple-flavoured water. Then the conversation turned to the weapon he’d propped against the bar.

  “In one of the old ruins, you say? Remarkable, I’d have never thought to go looking there. Think there’s any chance of other discoveries?”

  He smirked. “Not unless you hurry out there quickly, I’m pretty sure every other member of the Company is going to be combing those old bricks for hidden weapons after hearing my story.”

  Lethandirr sighed, “I’m not interested in digging anyway. Shame it's rusted over like that, you’ll have a hard time finding a blacksmith in this town that could restore it.”

  “Really?” On his walk back, he’d toyed with the idea of asking around and considering what the general cost might be, though he had concluded that it would be a long-term project. “How many blacksmiths are there?”

  “Well…” He swirled his drink around a bit as he thought. “There’s old Aenar, but he’s mostly retired and has his apprentices doing the work for him. Conchobar does work for cheap down near the slums, but that’s cause he’s honestly not that good. Illanai is the only other, and she’s probably the best, but her prices are outrageous and frankly, I don’t think she’d know what to do with this.” He nudged the sword with his foot.

  Danadrian tried not to look disappointed. “Right. So, a city then?”

  Lethandirr nodded. “Tandrias City is the closest, and I’d bet you gold they have a smith with the wherewithal to restore it. If not there, then you might as well ride all the way to the capital, or better yet, abroad.” He took a long sip from his drink before raising his finger for a refill and talking to the bartender in their own language again.

  He mulled over the information he’d just been given for a moment before pausing and turning to the Carathiliarian man with a frown. “Pardon me, but did you say slums? Fordain has slums?”

  The bartender snorted as he pushed a mug down the counter. “You really must be new around here, never been down to the Eastside.”

  “Eastside? No… I’ve mostly kept near the main road and the immediate area, ignoring one foray down to the West Corner.”

  Lethandirr nodded. “It isn’t a slum in the same way you’d see in the big cities, Fordain’s much too small for that, so it’s more like a nickname for the poorer side of town. Mostly on the eastern edge, hence ‘Eastside.’ I wouldn’t recommend visiting, though.”

  “Not unless you want to have every coin taken from you at knife point,” the bartender added. He paused to squint at Danadrian. “You might be fine, though.”

  He wasn’t sure how to take that comment, and whether to be flattered or offended, so he opted to just ignore that it had even been made. He instead kept looking at Lethandirr. “If there is such an obvious disparity, why hasn’t anything been done about it? I barely see any job listings for that side of town.”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” He said darkly. “Most of the people there, they’re resentful, you know? Being down on your luck or born into a poor life doesn’t breed a healthy view of those above you. The Company’s power is the power of the crown, so most don’t want to bother bringing their problems to them. And even then.” He sighed, “The Company won’t advertise those requests as much as others in nicer, safer parts of town, though they’ll deny that if you ask.”

  As someone reeling under the pressure of balancing his own money bug, he felt he needed to speak up for these people, but it wasn’t as if he knew anything about what it was like. Not really, anyway. He may be poor, but he hadn’t lived poor, grown-up poor, had to scavenge and live off the dregs of society. He had lived a life of immortality and opulence, even if he didn’t remember any of it. And even when he had Fallen, in hindsight, it could have been so much worse. Death was an obvious hazard, but getting found by Lethandirr and being helped by Velandus was a boon he now felt he needed to be more thankful for than he had been. To that end, he ordered Lethandirr another drink on him, over the man’s protests.

  The apple juice had reinvigorated him somewhat, so he wasn’t at risk of passing out then and there, which was a relief because Lethandirr was in a talking mood, probably due to his increasing inebriation, and a few more people were entering the bar now despite the time. Danadrian thought this might have been a splendid time to get more of his views on the Carathiliarian culture, and perhaps ask him why they were so abrasive and wary of foreigners, current inebriation notwithstanding. However, as he was returning to the counter after using the outhouse, he paused halfway through the door.

  He wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, but he thought he’d seen… no, that was real.

  A slim figure came running down the road, their features completely obscured from him in the dark, but he distinctly saw a wide-brimmed hat on their head. That alone wouldn’t have been that interesting; everyone had their reasons, but what made him pause longer was the much larger figures chasing after them. Most of them seemed to be carrying knives, but he saw the distinct outline of a longsword at the side of one. They turned and ran down an alley near the corner of the road, disappearing from view.

  He stood still for a few seconds, making sure it hadn’t been a trick of his mind. Then he dashed into the bar, wordlessly grabbing the hilt of the ruined sword and barely processing Lethandirr’s confusion before he was back in the cold air of the night, running as fast as he could to the same alley.

  What am I doing?

  He ran through the darkness, barely illuminated by the twin moons that hovered in the sky and the glow of fire from nearby windows. He appeared on another street that was made up mostly of the side doors and windowless exteriors of buildings. At the edge of it, he saw that the group had surrounded the figure, having cut off their escape into another alleyway between houses.

  By the light of a nearby hanging lantern, he saw that the group were all men, thug-looking types and all Carathiliar. The lone figure was dressed in a dark green cloak that matched their hat and was in a low stance, their hand at their waist.

  “Eight figures, male, six knives, long, three swords, one longsword, one lone figure, female, shortsword,” he said without thinking.

  All eyes turned to him. He saw now that none of the men looked like the savoury sort.

  The largest spat on the ground. “Hithnadrr, mind your bloody business.”

  He came to a stop in front of them. “What did she do to you? And whatever it is, does it warrant violence?”

  “None of your bloody business, now why don’t you scurry off before we gut you as well.” They were looking dismissively at the sword he still held in his hand.

  “If you are assaulting civilians, I am sure there is a law against it-”

  “Like you have a damn clue about our laws.”

  “-so, I must ask you to cease any unnecessary violence.”

  One of them frowned at him and then spat on the ground. “I know him. He was in the Palace a few days ago, spewing on about his Goddess and beliefs. He’s one of them Light folk.”

  The largest one, clearly their leader, growled at him, “Light bastard, are you really going to stand up for one of her kind?” He indicated towards his figure with his sword. In response, she lashed out quickly, her shortsword stabbing into the man closest to her. He let out a cry before she ripped it out with ruthlessness.

  Time slowed for Danadrian. He had no more than a split second to choose what to do.

  He let his instincts move him.

  He jumped in, swinging his blade under one of their legs and sending him tumbling to the ground. Using that momentum, he swung the blade up and smashed it into the back of the head of the next man, who collapsed to the ground.

  Now standing in the middle of the semi-circle of assailants, he was staring into the amber eyes of the lone stranger, who was looking at him in shock. She wasn’t Carathiliarian.

  He spun around, meeting the first blade. He knocked their knife to the side, before raising and crashing his sword against his opponent’s head. The rust and bluntness of the blade meant nothing when the man fell to the ground beside his companion.

  He dodged a second too late, and pain shot through his left arm from a knife cut. He spun, gaining momentum on the blade, before smashing into the perpetrator. He kept it moving, intercepting the attacks of three more blades and knocking their owners back.

  He felt a rush flowing throughout his body. He was barely thinking anymore. Just moving, just fighting.

  He received another cut on his leg, another dangerous slash just barely missed the wounds on his wrist. He gritted his teeth before parrying a blade with little effort and jabbing the end of his pommel into the man’s eye. He fell. Immediately afterwards, he gripped the blade of his sword and bashed his hilt left, intercepting one who was trying to flank him. He collapsed.

  Then the leader was upon him. Their blades met with a thunk; he made to parry, but the swordsman dodged it before slashing at his waist. He blocked it narrowly, pushing the opposing blade up and thrusting into a jab at the man’s stomach.

  He blocked it again. He was good, better than his companions, and the only one armed with a proper blade.

  He felt the energy in him fading, sapped away by his wounds, new and old, as well as his lingering fatigue that had finally seen fit to catch up with him. The stinging pain was excruciating.

  He saw the downward cut aimed at him and made his choice in a heartbeat.

  The sword hit his shoulder, cutting through the cloth, linen, and flesh. Tears swelled up in his eyes.

  He smashed his blade against the man’s sword hand, who yelped in pain as his hands slipped. Danadrian dropped his own ruined sword and latched his hands onto the blade buried in his shoulder. His hands cut on the blade as he grappled for the hilt. Grabbing it, he spun the blade around and, with a sickening slash, cleaved the man’s head from his shoulder.

  There was silence, save for the low groans of the unconscious thugs on the ground. Internally, he realised that only a minute had passed.

  What adrenaline he had left disappeared in an instant. He turned to the fellow foreigner in green. He tried to smile but couldn’t.

  “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  She looked at him in shock but shook her head.

  He nodded. “Good.”

  His vision was growing dark. Why was it always dark? Where was the Light? Where was his Light?

  A young voice called out, distant, “Hey, hey, what’re you-”

  Everything went dark, and he finally got his sleep.