Baron Maegar Varn scrambled to his feet, stabilising himself on something that seemed to be a wooden structure, somewhat like one of the four bastions of Varnhold Keep. As he looked around, his blurry vision slowly cleared up. An unassuming settlement delineated itself before his eyes, hardly to be called a town, more like a love child of a village and a military camp, surrounded by a wooden wall, a shallow river running across it. People were scurrying about their business, fishermen spreading their nets, housewives chasing rabbits out of their gardens with broomsticks. Varnhold Town. As carefree and quiet as when he'd left it behind.

  "Your G-Grace?"

  He looked around once again, searching for the source of the voice. Then it occurred to him to look down.

  "Oh, hello, Bruiser. All is well, I presume?"

  "Erm... k-kind of," said the halfling with a confused frown on his tattooed forehead. "Except... how did you g-get here? And w-where are the others?"

  "That's a long story, Bruiser. I'll tell you everything over a mug of ale, once it's over. But not today." He squeezed the little mercenary's shoulders, partly as a gesture of friendship, partly to double-check if he was real. "Now go get me the Chronicler. Off with you!"

  Furrowing his brow, the baron kept watching his town intently, searching for anything that seemed off. Everything appeared to be in order. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and dropped himself down on a wooden chest beside the wall.

  In the blink of an eye, the realisation hit him. He had just committed an act of negligence that could have cost him his life in Lostlarn Keep.

  He jumped up as if scorched, and leapt to the other edge of the bastion, flipping out his daggers. Then he turned to face the chest, crouching down, in defensive position. It didn't move. Slowly, inch by inch, he approached it again. It was still motionless. He closed in on it, collected all his courage, and stabbed.

  Nothing.

  He reclaimed his dagger and tore the lid open. Three somewhat rusty swords, a crossbow and a folded blanket stared back at him. Ashamed, he lowered the lid, softly and gently, hoping that nobody had seen how he'd mistaken a harmless old military chest for a mimic.

  Bloody Lostlarn Keep. To think the others are still in there.

  So he had been duped into abandoning his companions like a coward. Had the portal been a harmless trick to remove him from the equation, or was it Felicia's ring that had saved his life and brought him home? He would never know. Anyway, what to do now? Should he return and rejoin the squad? It would take at least two days for him to catch up with them, plus the time he would spend trying to locate them inside the dungeon. By that time, they would wrap up the entire operation and emerge victorious... or so he hoped.

  At long last, the Chronicler arrived. In the absence of the baron and his staff, Willas Gunderson had found himself tasked with governing the state, supported by Treasurer Kjerdi, whenever he'd deigned to ask for her input. The baron took him all in with a glance, his unruly blond curls and the unbuttoned shirt over his smooth and somewhat pudgy chest, and steeled himself for the report.

  "How did it go, Your Grace?" asked Willas instead.

  "This is not the time," he snapped. "Did anything happen while I was away?"

  "Nothing special, Your Grace. There were two inquiries for mercenary troops. One from Brevoy, the other from Gralton. I did my best to keep the envoys entertained until the Treasurer could receive them, but eventually they chose to return to their homelands without meeting her. Three lumberjacks were mangled to death by an owlbear at the Silverstep border. Ah, and you got an anonymous letter. Something about your flirting with Baroness Guelder."

  "WHAT?"

  The baron's stomach squeezed into a knot the size of a baby's fist. Was he being blackmailed? Should he interrogate his personal staff, down to the lowliest cleaner, searching for a spy? And who could be the mastermind trying to drive a wedge between him and Felicia? Hazel Stormwalker again, or someone else? As to the fact that Felicia was now away on a dangerous mission without him... did that make the situation worse or better? Why was he so unable to think?

  Gunderson rummaged under his shirt and produced a letter, its blank seal already broken.

  "This."

  The baron skimmed through the lines, once, twice, a drop of sweat running down his temple and disappearing in his short beard. Then, at the third attempt, it all clicked into place. Especially as he recognised the unique forms of capital letters. He knew the source. He'd always suspected that young Lander Lebeda would grow up to be a despicable individual, and boy, was he right about that. To think Felicia had almost been killed for that little scumbag...

  "I see you got the gist of it, Willas," he said wryly. "It's Brevan court intrigue. The author is talking about alliances, not love affairs. Also, in the future, please refrain from opening my letters or carrying them around on your bare skin, will you?"

  "Erm... yes, Your Grace."

  "Anything else?"

  "A prison escape. The Galtan agitator."

  The baron sighed inside. He would never live that down.

  "Thanks, Willas," he said. "Go back to your books. I'll take it from here."

  "And... and what about the account of your adventures?"

  "That will have to wait until said adventures are over. For the time being, write something else."

  Baron Varn took the day for himself to catch up with state affairs, chase off people asking uncomfortable questions, drop off the ankou wing blades at the blacksmith's to have them fitted into hilts, maybe get some rest, and make a plan. Sadly, the plan was unwilling to take shape in his head, and having a rest didn't work out, either. Most of his thoughts and feelings revolved around Felicia. For no apparent reason, he felt increasingly worried for her. He tossed and turned all night long, his feverish brain imagining her getting into all sorts of trouble and needing his help that would never come. Still, he decided to give the matter a little time. It would be disrespectful of him to question her ability to see this through on her own. Also, Cephal was there to keep her safe.

  The first rays of the morning sun found him in the throne room, sitting at Cephal's desk. He finished the weekly summary for Lady Jamandi, a custom initiated by Felicia to maintain (or restore) the state's cordial relationship with the Aldori of Restov. It was quite a bit less detailed than Felicia's usual reports, but Jamandi would have to make do. Baron Maegar Varn, Lord of Varnhold and Dunsward, would die before informing a powerful neighbouring state about his own failures and weak spots. Whatever Felicia said, he would never consider Jamandi his liege. No strings attached meant no strings attached, and that was that.

  He suddenly realised he was playing out his usual dispute with the General. He could almost hear her contradict him and tell him off for his ungrateful attitude. At the last moment, he stopped himself from crumpling the letter into a ball and tossing it into the corner, unwilling to start it all over again.

  Next, he wrote a letter to Baroness Guelder to explain the Varnhold delegation's absence from the hunting event. This time a more open and honest kind of communication was in order, considering that Nightvale, too, had its own share of troubles. He decided to send a few helpful items to Guelder instead of a Varnling squad. There was no way in hell he would despatch Felicia on another dangerous mission right after she returned. Of course, she would be raring to go, to prove her worth, and it would fall to him to hold her back, force her to take some time for herself to recover, and make that time pleasant and meaningful for her.

  If she returns at all.

  The baron shuddered. Wherever that bone-chilling thought had come from, now it conquered his brain by assault. Not even focusing on the letter to his dearest ally could make it go away. His lighthearted lines, meant to assure Baroness Guelder of his support and perhaps also make her smile, now felt contrived and unnatural. He was about to crumple the sheet and toss it into a corner, now for real, when something popped beside him, and the frail silhouette of Cephal Lorentus materialised out of thin air.

  "You're sitting in my chair," grumbled the old wizard. Then he snatched the untouched chalice from the desk, full of dry Chelaxian wine (Felicia's favourite), and emptied it with one swig. "Damn dry sandy air in the Tors. My throat is killing me."

  The baron stopped himself just in time from apologising and explaining himself. Felicia was right. He needed a desk of his own.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Felicia.

  "Where is Darlac?" he blurted out, jumping up and tossing back the chair.

  "Still in there, as are the others."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "A deadfall cut me away from the squad. Darlac is trapped inside the building with Dusty, Shakoth and the bear. Wekky is gone."

  "What do you mean, gone?"

  "Dead."

  "You had two more Scrolls of Raise Dead! The entire stash of the barony!"

  "We went through them like candy. That's what you get when the only comrade who can disarm traps suddenly teleports away, and you have to send your fighter through every single trap to soak up the damage. Pharasma must be getting used to my requests for souls in the name of Asmodeus."

  The baron's earlier, vague idea of returning to Lostlarn Keep and rejoining the squad turned into an urgent necessity. He was just wasting his time here.

  "Go down to the inn, Cephal, and get something to eat. As of tomorrow, you shall rule Varnhold until I return. I'm going to set out at the first light of dawn with Tehara, Gekkor, the Bruiser, and maybe Gunderson to document the rescue operation."

  Cephal squinted at him, as he usually did when trying to make sense of one of his bad jokes.

  "Are you sure you want to take your fool?"

  "There is one thing I'm sure about. This was the last time I left Varnhold to him. Never again. Not even for five minutes. You and Kjerdi can hold the line until I'm back with Felicia and the others. As soon as I'm finished with this letter, I'll go get a dozen construction workers for the rescue team."

  "We don't even have a dozen construction workers in town. Most of them are working on the Tower of Arno."

  "We'll take what we have. Stonemasons, lumberjacks, anyone able to do heavy haul. Also, I'll redirect some of the tower builders to the keep."

  He trailed off, wondering if Gekkor could summarise the itinerary from the watchtower to Lostlarn Keep in 25 words for the builders. It would be nice to meet them there, without having to make a detour to pick them up.

  Meanwhile, Cephal studied the letter on the desk, frowning.

  "Oh, I see you're keeping ahead of your baronial chores. Thoughts and prayers for our esteemed western neighbour... Brilliant."

  The baron remained silent, unwilling to start the same conversation all over again.

  "Although," continued Cephal, "this time you might want to be a bit more generous with your support. If I were you, I would send her some troops."

  "Mhm. To stab her in the back while she is busy with the monsters. Let's not start this again, shall we?"

  "In fact, I wanted to suggest showing that you care about her. As an ally and also as a man."

  "Huh?"

  The wizard took a deep breath and put a hand on the baron's shoulder.

  "Listen, Maegar. Loath as I am to be the bearer of bad news, the odds are not on Darlac's side. She is in a dire situation, what with losing half her companions and abilities."

  "What?!"

  "The ring," said the wizard, holding out his hand. "Show me the ring she gave you."

  The baron patted his pockets, trying to recall where he'd put it last night, until he found it above his heart, at the most obvious location. He fished it out and laid it on Cephal's palm. It was a golden signet ring with Iomedae's radiant sword on its bezel, a little tight in size. It only fit the little finger of his left hand, and even so, it had been a struggle to take it off. Cephal closed his eyes, focusing, running his fingers round and round its edge.

  "Strange," he muttered. "It... doesn't feel like a usual rescue ring. It has several layers of enchantments besides the original teleportation function, even... a strong Illusion spell? And... oh yes, that's it. A curse that is triggered by the owner giving it away. A backlash of charisma damage. Just as I thought. I wasted two spell slots trying to remove it, to no avail."

  The baron's heart skipped a beat. Felicia had unwittingly cursed herself in an effort to save his life, and by doing so, she might well have doomed the entire operation. Many of her abilities were based on her charisma, but that was not the worst of his concerns. Trapped in those fey-infested ruins with her decimated squad, Felicia would need every ounce of her charisma to keep them going. Otherwise, there was a high chance she would fail as a leader, which could prove disastrous for all of them.

  "Desna help us all," he whispered.

  "I'll be completely honest with you, Maegar. I'm not sure Darlac will make it. And if, Asmodeus forbid, she meets her untimely demise in there... Let's just say it would be wise for you to keep another spit in the fire. Baroness Guelder is in need of a strong army and a noble lineage she can marry into. You can provide her with both, not to mention your charming personality. In exchange, she can provide you with rich, fertile soil to sow your... duh, that's not what I wanted to say. I mean, you could build a normal country on those lands, instead of limiting yourself to this haunted, barren wilderness Jamandi Aldori saw fit to bestow upon you. What you refuse to seize by force now you could claim in a much more pleasant way. Darlac would understand."

  The punch took Cephal by surprise. He didn't fall, but he needed some time to right himself. The baron grabbed the robe on the wizard's chest and backed him up against the wall.

  "I do not tolerate this kind of speech, Cephal," he said in a soft, menacing voice.

  Fear flashed in the wizard's eyes. Maegar knew he was trampling a decade-long friendship underfoot, and a little voice at the back of his brain was whining in guilt. But if his suspicion was right... There was an unceasing tension between the Regent and the General, which sometimes led to edifying and fruitful clashes of ideas, but in most cases proved debilitating. Felicia couldn't stand Cephal's constant scheming and utter lack of scruples, and Cephal scorned Felicia's simple and honest approach. The baron silently cursed his own naiveté. He'd been worried that Cephal might have Guelder assassinated, but it had never occurred to him that he might do the same to Felicia.

  His grip tightened around the handful of fabric he was clutching.

  "Look into my eyes," he hissed, "and tell me you didn't cause that deadfall."

  The old man regained his composure and returned his glare in kind.

  "Shove your insinuations where the sun doesn't shine, Maegar. In all these years, I gave you nothing but support and loyalty. I've always been a true comrade to you and the Host, including Darlac. Even if she keeps you from reaching your potential, she is a comrade and a friend. We've gone through fire and water together. Did I ever betray my companions?"

  The baron held his gaze. The old fox knew all too well how to speak to his heart, and hell, it worked. Deep inside he felt he should apologise. However, Cephal hadn't answered his question.

  "Say it."

  "I did not lift a finger against her. Let go of me."

  He released him and turned away, squeezing his hand against his forehead.

  "I'm sorry, Cephal," he muttered. "I don't know what came over me."

  The wizard let out a sigh and dabbed at his bleeding nose with a handkerchief.

  "You blame me so that you don't have to blame yourself," he said. "Quite a dick move, if you ask me. Being worried for Darlac isn't an excuse for being an asshole. Do better."

  The baron didn't answer. It was just too much, too overwhelming to imagine her trapped, powerless, starved, dehydrated... He had to act before the feeling crushed him.

  He returned to the desk and hastily scribbled a post scriptum to the bottom of his letter to Guelder: an offer of troops at the -60% price stipulated for defensive wars. He quickly sealed it before Cephal would get curious and start another argument.

  "Send this to Nightvale at your earliest convenience. I'm off to organise the rescue team."

  He was almost out the door when the wizard called after him.

  "I'm going with you, Maegar. You'll need me down there. Kjerdi can manage on her own. We'll get your girl out of that hellhole, no matter what."

  Their eyes met, and for a moment it seemed everything was as it used to be.