“You are far too good at finding trouble, my friend!” Bors clapped me on the back, nearly bowling me over again. We were back at the bridge, Bors having carried me like a stack of firewood, with Gaz in tow. Gaz had been keen to check up on Lance, who, as Bors confirmed, had been brought to camp by a very smug Gring.

  We sat in the shelter that Bors had built for the caravan. The fires were lit, and the place was downright homely. Since I’d been gone, the place had been decorated with animal skins, and he’d built out one corner to resemble a bar. Lance was propped up beside the central fire pillar on a bed of furs, being fussed over by Gaz. She seemed mostly out of it but had been awake enough to flash me a smile when I entered. Gring was curled up on the floor like a cat, watching them and clearly waiting for pets. Best of all, something was cooking, which I assumed wasn’t Bors’ work, considering it smelled enticing as it mixed with the earthy odour of wood smoke.

  “Now, I thought I told you just to head down and escort Alexis to her mistress. What’s this about duels and Divine Cultivators? Your friend there was almost out of it when she arrived but told me some of it.” Bors passed me an ale he’d just poured from a keg by the bar.

  “Well, my friend, the story is strange and complicated, and part of the puzzle is the very mistress you sent me to see.” I relished the word friend, especially after the hostility of Gaz—which had ramped back up after I’d introduced him to Bors as such. He insisted I refer to him as Squire Gareth. Too late, Gaz—you should’ve tried harder when you were just Blue-hair.

  “Wait, Alexis’ mistress is a Div—” I slammed my hand over his mouth. I didn’t know how the old witch would react to being connected to her most hated enemy, but I didn’t want to risk it.

  “Bors, listen to the story. Also, never badmouth Alexis’ mistress. Ever. Would you agree, Gaz?”

  “Again, it’s Gareth. But yes, it’s in all our best interests never to besmirch the Lady in Peach,” Gaz said, pouring himself a bowl of stew from a pot by the fire.

  The stew smelled heavenly, and I rushed through our story, explaining the major notes and glossing over most of what had happened in Captain Ban’s household. Bors, as ever, was an attentive audience, his brow furrowing at certain moments and a snarl forming on his lips when I mentioned our flight.

  Once the story was done, I scooped out a bowl of stew and was handed a surprisingly fresh loaf of bread straight from Bors’ storage ring. I’d supped on meals prepared by some of the most talented chefs in all Albion, mostly poached from the continent as Albion food was bland beyond belief, but even those dishes paled in comparison to the delight I felt as I took in the rich beef, mushroom, and onion broth.

  As I ate, Gaz offered additional details, filling in gaps like the politics of the Fos family and adding more about our climactic battle. I was surprised when he avoided mentioning my death gift. Perhaps he wasn’t an irredeemable knave after all.

  “So, this Captain is asking us to look after his daughter while he clears the house?”

  “I have a letter for you,” Lance mumbled, more awake than I’d expected. A folded piece of paper sealed with wax materialised in her hand. Bors took it carefully, inspecting the seal, which bore the likeness of a roaring bear standing over a river. He cut it open, and I felt a burst of glamour I recognised as belonging to Ban, marking its authenticity.

  Bors scratched his head as he read through it. He sighed. “So, normally I’d get Percy to help me out with this kind of political stuff. Taliesin, I might need some help.”

  At least, that’s what I think he said. I was dangerously comfy. I’d finished my bread and stew, and either the tankard had sprung a leak or I’d finished the ale too. I was very relaxed, and dog-tired, so I fumbled to put down my bowl and focus on the paper. “Sure, I can help. Just give me a minute.”

  I woke up in the tent Bors had lent me, with no memory of how I got there. The aggressive hunting lodge ambience was still strong. Had the mounted stag head always been here? A pair of dead, glassy eyes stared at me.

  Shit. I’d not even asked about the Golden Hind hunters.

  That thought merged with the sound of clashing blades outside—the sound that must have woken me. I fell to the floor as I tried to stand, summoning my armour and blade, and still half-asleep, rushed out, ready to fight.

  Blinking against the noon sun, I stumbled out to find Lance and Bors in an enthusiastic spar in an arena they’d cleared from the forest.

  Of course, they were fighting.

  The phantom images of murderous hunters or Divine Cultivators putting my new friends to the sword melted away. I slumped into a seat and watched, throwing smoke around myself to hide my shifting armour and blade.

  The pair made for an impressive duel—a purely martial battle. Neither was using glamour to empower themselves or throwing out techniques. It said a lot that Lance could go toe-to-toe with Bors. He was older and had more mass. Gaz was watching the bout, entranced by the display of skill. I probably would’ve been more enthralled if my brain weren’t wishing it was still back in bed.

  From my storage ring, I pulled out some rations and began to chomp down on a much-needed breakfast—or maybe lunch? As I ate, I mulled over the last couple of weeks. The fight became background noise as I thought over everything that had happened—from meeting Bors to the slaughter last night. It was exhausting to review it all. The quietest portion was the few days escorting the caravan.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The worst was the fight last night. I’d come as close to dying as I’d ever done without actually being dead. Ice settled in my veins as I checked my pathways again. They were nowhere near ready for a revival. I’d been risking permanent death.

  How had I managed to keep my cool? I’d been slashed, nearly burnt through with a light beam, and shot with icicles—all without even considering what would happen if I took a blow. The story could’ve ended there, with me hacked to death by a berserker. I’d been so focused on the fight I hadn’t even thought to check if I could return.

  I shuddered. How had I forgotten? My mind was so used to the idea that I got a second chance, I hadn’t thought twice about it yesterday. The idea that I would be the one staring up at the stars with eyes that would never close hadn’t even crossed my mind. For years, I’d spent all my energy worrying about being found out, but not actual death!

  I had to change my thinking. Or… I could just munch down on a few Fae Cores.

  I’d done a lot of personal growth lately, and this would just be the next step in leaving the Harkleys’ influence behind me.

  Screw that.

  I could seek a proper relationship with my mortality after making sure I didn’t have one. I began to inventory my resources: some alchemy supplies, the core of the Gale Hare, and whatever Miss Peaches had given me.

  I debated going back into my tent to eat the core right now, but that was when Gring announced his presence by stealing the loaf of bread hanging limply from my hand.

  “Ah!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. Dashing backwards, I brandished my lute at the thieving beast, forgetting the form my magical gift was currently in.

  Laughter burst forth like a war drum. I turned to find Bors doubled over in mirth, with Lance grinning too. Gaz was stoically neutral, but given his crippling imbalance of humour, I’d take that as an endorsement.

  Never one to disappoint an audience, I bowed, even as I cursed the equine rogue on the inside. Still, he had broken me out of my funk quite effectively.

  “It’s good to see you up. You slept like the dead,” Bors laughed, even as the words threatened to send me spiralling back down the hole I’d just climbed out of.

  “Is everything fine? No daft hunters or corrupt cultivators?”

  “Nah, I took care of the hunters a few days back.” There was a snort from Gring. “Alright, Gring and I dealt with them. They were trash—a bunch of smug gits who thought they’d already won. The surprise on their faces when we ambushed ‘our hunters’ was something to behold. The only good thing about them was they were carrying a hunting lodge’s worth of stuff between them! Where do you think I got the extra furniture from last night? No sign of any shitheads, Divine or otherwise, but we’re staying alert.” Bors then turned to Lance and shared some feedback from their sparring match.

  That was good news. My mind turned to Fosburg. I couldn’t even imagine what was going on there right now. It was time for the Founders Festival and whatever chaos it brought.

  I wanted nothing more than to relax, forget the world, and play some music, but the reminder of my mortality loomed large in my mind.

  What to do?

  I decided to get out the book from Miss Peaches. The sooner I learned to handle my gift, the better. I was about to pull it out when Lance came to sit next to me.

  “Why didn’t you mention Bors was such a capable combatant? I’d have come to fight him even without having to shepherd you here.”

  Lance was grinning, even if it seemed a bit forced. I guessed her mind was back on Fosburg and her family. Even with the glassy smile, she looked refreshed. Not only was her armour clean, but her limp was gone—which was impressive for half a day’s healing. If I took stock of myself, I felt amazing. No doubt it was the healing brews. Getting to know Miss Peaches was the luck of the fae.

  Literally the luck of the fae.

  It was something I pondered as I took a seat near the arena. Gaz was soon to duel, which would be interesting as I’d not had a chance to see him in battle yet. As they sorted themselves out, I was still unsure how I felt being so clearly wrapped up in ‘destiny’ by the Lady.

  Knowing I was in the midst of events sharpened my desire to rebuild my supply of impurities. Considering my small step forward last night on my cultivation path, it was good timing. There wasn’t much further to go to reach peak Bronze, and then Iron.

  “You in there, Taliesin?” Lance asked, a frown marring her false happiness.

  “Sorry, lots on my mind. Well, I did write a whole song about him and told you he fought a Mist Lynx. Also, didn’t he beat your uncle or something?”

  “I mean, that’s one thing. But his technical skill is off the charts. It’s also a completely different fighting style. My grandfather, the Lord of Fosburg, is an earth cultivator, but he doesn’t fight like this at all from what I’ve heard. Far more overwhelming power than technical skill.”

  I saw Gaz and Bors square off. The smaller man fought with sword and shield—a weapon combination that had fallen somewhat out of favour recently. From the opening blows of the fight, I could tell Gaz was a talented but not truly gifted combatant. His skills were technically sound, but there wasn’t that bounce and creativity I saw from Lance or the improvisation that allowed Bors to react so swiftly to new threats.

  “We’ve convinced Gaz to stay quiet about the death gift, by the way. He tried to tell Bors about it, and that did not go well for him. Bors was pissed that you were being thrown under the cart. I also explained that you’d learned witch tricks to help you cultivate.”

  “I’m not a Gaz fan,” I muttered, my mood souring instantly.

  “He’s not that bad.”

  “Well, maybe not when he’s fussing over you at all times. I got the sense you didn’t like that kind of attention. I’m surprised you haven’t told him to stop pestering you.”

  “Oh, he’s not like that. He’s got a fiancée he’s mad about—a local noble lady called Tiff. They’re getting married when they reach Iron. We just go way back, and his Order told him to keep an eye on me.” Lance sounded entirely too reasonable.

  “Well, I doubt you’d call him friend if he were an arsehole. I just don’t like people who give me shit for things I can’t control.”

  “That’s fair, but don’t be too hard on him. He’s just trying to follow his Order’s guiding principles, and they’re mostly good principles. He just needs to…” She waved her hand, searching for the right words.

  “Pull that stick out of his arse?”

  “That’s it! You reckon if we fed him a healing brew, he’d shit it out?”

  That brought a chuckle out of me, and I turned to see Lance smiling. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, though. She sat wrong—too upright and poised, as if ready to dive into battle at a moment’s notice. I cursed myself. I was the Bard; I shouldn’t be the one wallowing and expecting others to drag me out. I was meant to be the source of fun here!

  I’d get back to the book and give Bors his gift in a bit. Time to help out my friend. Thankfully, I knew how to cheer her up. I turned back to the fight just in time to see Gaz catch a hammer blow on his shield and get sent flying out of the ring.

  That even got a laugh out of Lance, making me certain my next trick would help.

  “Hey, Bors, what do you say to a three-on-one? Gifts active?”

  Bors turned to me with a mad grin.

  “Let’s do this!”

  Lance stood, pumping both her fists, a real smile finally on her face.

  Great, I’d made two of my friends happy. Things were back on track.

  I stood, and as I did so, I saw Gaz looking up at me from the dirt in horror.

  Oh, and look—I’d made myself happy too. What a bonus.