Selriph roused well before the first rays of sunlight filtered through the wooden shutters. The lodge held the quiet hush of dawn, a stark contrast to the chaos of his dreamscape the previous night. He stretched, feeling an ache across his shoulders and legs, the aftermath of the previous day’s exertion.

  He made his way to the main area of the lodge, where the scent of breakfast wafted from the cooking area. Hagan stood by the hearth, tending to a bubbling pot. A mild, nutty and subtle sweetness filled the air.

  “Good morning, lad,” Hagan greeted, his voice calm and grounded. “I trust you slept well?”

  Selriph gave a tacit nod. He felt his body was indeed well rested; the muscles felt sluggish and lethargic from the relaxation the herbal concoction had brought upon them. However, his mind felt a fog of exertion from the nightmare that he kept unspoken.

  Selriph settled at the table, his gaze on the door leading to the spare room. “Where’s Relia? We need to discuss how we are going to get into the city. I assume you already have a plan, Hagan?”

  Hagan stirred the porridge thoughtfully, the wooden spoon turning steadily, accompanied by the slosh and soft bubbling of the pot’s contents.

  “Should be up soon. Lass will probably be up with the sun.” He glanced towards the window to his left, the light beginning to peak through the trees, giving colour to their darkened silhouettes. “As for getting into Caer Eldralis… Mikus’s Feast is due to begin tomorrow. Plenty of people for us to blend in with.”

  Mikus’s Feast… two days of celebration for the god of harvest and abundance. Quite a generous occasion… for a minor deity.

  Selriph frowned. “I don’t think it is going to be that simple, Hagan. During the feast, the roads to be capital will be crawling with guards and Templar knights. They will be checking everyone coming into the city. Especially at the gates leading into the lower ring.

  Hagan’s eyebrows raised as he set down the spoon and turned his head towards Selriph.

  “You are right. In that case, we take the sewer tunnels, then try to find a way into the complex,” as the woodsman gestured to the large satchel that lay on the opposite side of the room. “It’s not clean, but if we find those sewage outlets in the suburbs, we can make our way into the low districts.”

  “Not clean is an understatement; best we bring some cleaning herbs to wash off any foul odour that sticks to us. Lest we stick out by smell alone.” Selriph’s voice, half mixed with seriousness and levity.

  “It shouldn’t be hard to gather those around these parts. Plenty to go around before we trek off tomorrow,” he said as he began scooping the piping hot porridge into waiting wooden bowls.

  Selriph nodded, his mind turning with consideration. “Right. And with the extra crowd in the city, it’ll be easier to blend in once we’re inside. We just need to–”

  The soft sound of footsteps interrupted their conversation. Relia emerged from the hallway, her dark hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep. She yawned, stretching her arms over her head.

  “Morning,” she mumbled, her voice thick and low. “Hope I didn’t oversleep.”

  Hagan chuckled, eyes crinkling with warmth. “Not at all, Relia. Just in time for breakfast,” he brought the bowls to the table.

  Relia settled at the worn wooden table next to Selriph. The comfort of warm porridge filled the air with a quiet assurance. Hagan’s attention fixed itself on the partially stale bread and placed it on a bread spatula before resting it over the coals. “The rest of the grub will be ready in a minute,” as he turned his body to the young person at the table. “The trek to the city will take several hours. While we all probably don’t want trouble, we need to prepare for it, regardless.”

  “Especially after last night," Selriph’s voice was brief.

  Relia looked at him, concern softening her sleepy expression. “Last night…? What happened?”

  Selriph looked at Relia, a look of assurance plastered on his face. “It’s nothing, Relia, just some creep who was haggling with us. Nothing that Hagan and I couldn’t handle.”

  Hagan gave a knowing glance to the boy before he continued. “I need to know, lass, you said you had family, or at least, someone who could care for you in the city. Do you still want to go there?”

  Selriph immediately retorted, “Hagan, you can’t be suggesting she go with us! If she is caught with us, she will…” Selriph looked at Relia, unable to form his next words.

  Relia’s face tightened, her jaw clenching as she weighed the decision. She glanced at Hagan, then back at Selriph, her fingers toying with the hem of her shirt.

  “I... I want to come,” she said finally. “I have a family friend in the capital, who lives near the upper district. She can send a pigeon to mother, telling her I am all right. I would have gone there if I hadn’t been caught up in the rapids.” Her voice trembled slightly before her gaze fell upon Selriph. “I would feel safer in your care. I trust you will keep me safe.”

  Selriph felt the weight of expectation on him from Relia’s remark. “This is no stroll, Relia. Even if you come with us, it is best that you separate from us once we reach the outskirts. Remember, I am a wanted face; posters of me are likely adorned all over guardhouses within a 5-day trek of the capital by now.”

  “That is fine. Tunnels right? I can handle a little grime. Feels safer than walking through a checkpoint of templars and guards…” Her eyes gazed up as her expression hardened.

  “Then it’s decided; the lass comes with us. One less mouth for me to feed once this is all over,” he chuckled.

  “Hagan…” escaped Selriph’s lips as the woodsman turned, bread spatula in hand. His incredulous expression was emphasised by his dramatically raised eyebrows.

  “Was a jest, lad,” as he settled the bread on the table with a thud.

  He turned to Selriph, his eyes sharp with focus. “Anyway, the tunnels are not in good shape. City folks do a good enough job up top, but we might face our fair share of collapsed passages, impossible to clear by hand.” His eyes traced over to Selriph.

  “Yes, I know. Been working on the basics of terramancy. Should be enough to get through any obstacle,” as Selriph showed his palm, a brief wisp of maroon energy flicking to life.

  Hagan’s lips curled up slightly in approval as he took a spoonful of porridge. “And you, Lass, what’s the name of this family friend you are supposed to find?”

  Relia’s expression shifted. Her eyes grew distant as she reached into her memory.

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  “Yes. Her name is Shaylee, a friend of Ma. She visits our village from time to time, especially in the spring when the Solar Hickories, Kauten, and Buckthorns bloom. Paid a visit to her on two occasions, at her home in the Tollerton District.”

  Hagan nodded slowly, filing the information away.

  “Shaylee. Tollerton district,” he echoed. “That’s a solid lead, Relia. Gives us something specific to aim for.”

  He turned back to Selriph. “Know where that is, lad?”

  “Tollerton is in the eastern part of the Upper District.” Been there twice,” as Selriph stood up to grab a piece of bread.

  “Then we drop the lass off once we are in. We should spend the rest of the day preparing what we need.”

  “Right,” Selriph said. “Also—where are the repair tools? Need to fix her up,” as he gestured with the bitten-into piece of bread at his estoc, which lay by his bedroll.

  “Down there, lad,” he gestured toward a small trapdoor near the cabinet beside the pile of chopped firewood. “There’s a bench in there with everything you need.” His eyes glanced towards the corner of the room where the damaged blade lay.

  “It’s really something, the way you use it. You’ll want it in top shape for what’s coming,” he said as he finished up the last of his food.

  “Hopefully, nothing too dangerous will come upon us,” as Selriph got up from his seat, bowl in hand, as he paced to the basin. “I’ll be in the clearing later, repairing my estoc. If you need help in gathering those herbs, Hagan, just call for me. “

  Hagan gave a nod as he turned his attention back to Relia. The content of their conversation faded out of Selriph’s attention as he paced over to the trapdoor.

  Selriph settled himself in the clearing behind the lodge, the leather pouch of tools secured at his side. The sun had climbed beyond the canopy of trees, casting a soft golden shimmer on the dew-kissed grass. The cool autumn wind was blowing across his face. Quiet surrounded the lodge, broken only by the sounds of rummaging in the clearing.

  He pulled out the once-gleaming blade, now marred by small hairline fractures; the leather and surface of the hilt were shattered and burnt. The explosion chipped off the tip, and even the pommel showed signs of strain, but it remained intact.

  Selriph knew he was no blacksmith, but he had observed the basics from the Daryth family lessons. While he had no access to a forge, his pyromancy could act as a sufficient substitute–at least, that is what he hoped. He withdrew the tools, file, and hammer, and settled the implements and weapon on a mostly flat piece of stone.

  He took a breath as he called upon his arcane energy. A concentrated but small flame erupted from his hand, focused on the tip of the blade. The heat slowly coerced the metal into a pliable but not molten state. The steel glowed with a faint red as sweat built on his face from the heat.

  In theory, it would be possible to do so without a mould; A skilled blacksmith could easily do so; all he had to do was skilfully shape the tip of the weapon. Or at least that is what he attempted to do. But without a mould, every strike required both precision and intuition—neither of which was easy to muster with his lack of experience. Frustration clawed at the edge of his mind as the clang of the hammer on steel only seemed to further warp the blade.

  The decision to give up the endeavour was averted by a spontaneous thought. He placed the hammer back down and began to channel arcane energy into it, this time emanating a brown hue of terramantic energy. There, he shaped stone, carving an intent to act as a makeshift mould; in the likeness of the weapon’s tip. Selriph resumed his work, the earthen imprint guiding the softened steel into form with renewed focus.

  The result was far from masterful—nothing an apprentice smith would boast about. But it was functional; the reforged tip retained a faint red glow as Selriph dispelled the orange flame from his fingers. When the metal had cooled, he worked on the next step; The files came, and with them came the sound of metal on metal as Selriph worked to polish the pitted surface of the blade.

  Next came the hilt. From the repair pouch, he retrieved strips of spare leather and a sliver of seasoned wood. With practised care, he shaped the wood into a grip, carefully filing it to resemble its previous undamaged state. He bound the surrounding leather, layering each fold so that the handle would sit comfortably in the hand and remain secure under strain. The leather had a different texture from the previous hilt, firmer and harder to handle, but it served the same purpose.

  At last, he turned to the crossguard. Though it had survived the blast, it bore the subtle marks of trauma—its once-delicate contours softened by intense heat. He summoned fire once more, this time coaxing it into a gentler flame. The crossguard glowed dull red under the careful application of heat. Slowly, he bent the warped metal back into alignment, shaping it with deliberate, measured strikes. The soft chink of hammer against steel echoed softly through the trees, drawing the curious glances of a few tree-dwelling critters.

  With that, the work was done. The weapon stood once more.

  He lifted the estoc, turning it over in his hands as he examined his handiwork. He had restored the blade to a rough semblance of its former shape, making the cutting edges and sharp tip able to cut flesh once again. He knew the blade wasn’t perfect—no illusions there—and would likely need a skilled hand to reforge it properly in the future. However, deadly enough to defend him, at least for now.

  He let his stance shift as muscle memory took hold.

  At first, his movements were mechanical, calculated as he went through basic stances, recalibrating to the subtle changes in the weapon’s weight and aerodynamics. His mind wandered to the encounter last night, every parry, every counterstrike, delays that could have cost him against anything faster than the shuffling, lethargic flesh bags he fought against.

  These were lessons that had to be carved into his body, for even a single misstep, one where his limited magic repertoire could not save him, could result in an untimely end.

  His mind drifted. The flashes of yesterday’s nightmare came back, and with them came memories of Thorne’s blade work. The hulking blade he wielded belied the speed and economy of the Blackguard’s bladework. In sparring sessions, Selriph had watched, half-awed and half-afraid, as the Captain wielded his weapon like an extension of thought. No wasted movements. No second swings.

  Selriph recalled the clash against the trio comprising? some of the best from their cohort. Thorne did not advance like a man; it was an unstoppable force of steel. While he was still a league below the head of the Daryth family, his skill was undeniable.

  Selriph remembered the sound. Not the clang of steel on steel—but the absence of it. There was no grinding struggle, no contest of strength. Just clean impacts and the dull thud of bodies hitting the dirt.

  Even in his seething hatred for the man, he begrudgingly accepted the economy of movement—the subtle way Thorne shifted his weight before a killing blow, the faint stutter-step that disguised a change in direction. Despite the precision and refinement he had kept under wraps, that efficiency was what Selriph’s bladework lacked.

  The reality was clear as a masterpiece of enchanted quartz; even with magic at his call, Selriph understood the disparity between them. Furthermore, only when he had crossed beyond the boundaries of the empire could he wield his arcana without constraint; until then, his blade was all he could trust. And so he moved into his form, a fluid, precise dance of blade.

  The estoc became an extension of will. It whispered through the air, sharp edges slicing invisible paths, guided against the mock imagery of Thorne’s blade work in his mind. Thrust followed parries against the mental phantom, slashes into riposte, backsteps, and withdrawals from the imagined bladework. His footwork was crisp; his balance, poised. Every breath in sync with his bladework.

  Each motion was a rehearsal for survival, a preparation for a scenario that he hoped would never come to pass.

  A feint met with steel. A sidestep just outside the ghost’s imagined arc. The phantom advanced—relentless, unerring—a barrage of bladework overwhelming his strength, barely deflected by well-timed parries. Selriph could feel the fear even against this mental conjuration.

  But he kept in control.

  He pivoted, lunged, and sidestepped, pivoting his blade against the weight of the weapon. The greatsword overextended, its path forced wide. In the brief opening, Selriph moved, slipping inside the arc of the swing as it caught the blade.

  Then—the final motion.

  An explosive upward thrust, driven by focus and fury. The estoc tore through the mental image of Thorne’s figure, through the air. Slicing with such velocity that the very atmosphere rippled in its wake. The grass bent. Leaves rustled, petals lifted and hung for a moment in stunned stillness.

  Selriph held the stance, the point of his blade aimed skyward, breath steady. For a long moment, he remained still, feeling the surge of adrenaline through his veins. The stillness of the forest was his witness.

  He lowered the weapon, flexing his fingers around the grip.

  “Still not good enough,” he muttered, a bitter smile tugging at his mouth.

  “But it’ll bleed him. That much, I’ll make sure of.”

  He turned away, unaware of how those words would echo later.

  Of how this moment, so quiet, so certain, was nothing compared to the blood that was to come.