Chapter 19: Knee-Deep in the Snow

If anyone was responsible for creating the world, they had clearly not put much effort into creating Gusteko.

Snow. That was it. There was nothing interesting in Gusteko besides SNOW! AND ICE! AND IT WAS FREEZING!

Who would ever want to live here!?

For as far as Armand Metrac could see, the landscape was a frozen wasteland. Here and there, a snow…dune…rose from the flat terrain, but other than that, the entire country was as beautiful as a speck of dirt. That was all it was: a speck of dirt. Well, a speck of snow, really, but there was little difference anyway.

Metrac shivered. Despite his attempts at ignoring the cold, it was almost too much for him to handle. He wished he had fire magic, maybe even light magic. Either would do just fine to warm him up right now. It took all his willpower to not just walk back to his caravan's campfire, where almost all the Wolves had gathered. All except him. There were more important things for him to do, things that called him into this tundra and the nothingness within it.

He sneezed. Damn this weather! How he wished he could be at home in Guaral, enjoying the pleasant Vollachian heat.

"Bless you," his second-in-command said. "You'll get sick out here, Armand."

He looked at his subordinate. The man was old, easily into his early seventies, and with hair whiter than the landscape surrounding him. Those who did not know him, however, would never guess his real age: he looked not a second beyond fifty. There was not a wrinkle on his face, and he could easily have made himself look younger if he bothered to shave that white beard and mustache he sported.

Much to Metrac's envy, his lieutenant had packed better clothing than he had. It was why the older man had not as much even shivered in the whole trip. Gah, that fur coat the officer wore would go a long way to save Metrac the trouble of scraping together what he could find as a makeshift cloak.

"How much longer?" the commander spat, fighting the urge to shiver. As best he could, he wrapped his blood-red cloak around himself, though it provided scant protection from Odglass's frozen fury.

The man raised an eyebrow and laughed, then took off his fur coat and tossed it at Metrac. "Take it. What would King Gionis think if his executioner is shiverin' and sneezing because he couldn't handle a little Gustekan wind?"

He put on the coat as fast as he could and sighed with relief. "If our plan goes as it should, Gionis won't ever learn about us."

"Plans never go as they should." The old man shrugged. Metrac noticed that he had ditched his usual officer's uniform, which was usually covered in medals, for a simple garb akin to that of a Gustekan peasant. The only thing that would give him away as a foreigner was his boots, though there were few in the world who could identify Vollachian-made boots at a glance.

Still, Metrac ignored the comment. "How far are we from Innorandum? Seems like a week ago you said it'd only take three days."

"A week ago, Armand, we were looking for the Jades to buy those fire crystals," he answered. "We're still a day and a half away, if the map's correct. We got over that little delay at the Trias Estate just fine, luckily. There doesn't seem to be anything left to slow us down, save for a little village in the way. It's not even on the map, can you believe that? I mean, they put the Sibarell Great Glacier there, but not this little village. These people live in complete obscurity…"

"Focus."

"Ah, right. We can afford two more stops if we want to stay on schedule. I just hope your…contact is waitin' for us, as promised."

"You worry too much. These people hate Lugnica as much as we do, gah! They will help, because it's all they can do."

A pause. "You underestimate Gustekans, Armand."

"'Underestimate!?' Ha!" Metrac gave a toothy grin. "Hahaha! As if! What's there to underestimate!?" He spread his arms, demonstrating the landscape. "Look at this! They live like animals! That's all they are! Filth! Animals! Beasts! Not. Even. Human! I'd set their country on fire but that'd give them a break from the cold!"

There was silence for a moment, until a soft hum resonated through the air, almost drowned out by the whistling wind. A small cyan orb, about the size of a hand, floated toward the old man and hovered in front of his face, bobbing up and down excitedly.

Metrac opened his mouth to speak just as another orb appeared, seemingly emerging from nowhere and repeating its twin's behavior. Their handler nodded as they moved, then opened his right hand, allowing the two spirits to float to it. There, they stopped bobbing, instead moving lazily in a circular pattern. Two more spirits joined them, all of them the same color, and joined in on the enigmatic dance until the four of them vanished.

"Ah, good news and bad news." Closing his hand, the officer cracked his neck and winced. "We could stop for the night at that little village, and set out at first light. There's no major threat in our way."

"That's the good news, I take it?"

"Yeah…because there's somethin' really weird in the way."

Metrac raised an eyebrow. Something "really weird" implied that any part of Gusteko was normal. Still, what could have spooked the spirits enough for them to consider it "weird?"

As if reading his thoughts, the older man spoke, "How troublesome. There's someone drawing the spirits in. They say it's almost like…a call. They have to fight it."

"Another spirit arts user?" he inquired, already scowling. "No…worse. An Acolyte Knight?"

"Could be. They're traveling in a single carriage, probably accompanied by someone else."

"How close is this…mysterious spirit whirlpool?"

"About three hours ahead of us, and heading to Innorandum too, it seems."

Metrac brought his freezing hand to his chin, stroked his beard as he pondered on the newly-risen dilemma. "We'll have to keep our distance for now. Observe them. If anything seems off, we take action, but not a second before."

"Aye, General," the other man nodded.

Still, Metrac turned his eyes to the horizon, to where Innorandum lay.

What exactly was he walking into?

The town of Blance was quite the sight.

It was located in the middle of nowhere, right at the center of a clearing surrounded by trees. A narrow road led straight through the town, though traversing it was hazardous, what with all the snow and ice around. The poor ground dragon hauling their carriage, a gigantic white reptile apparently named Pruina, was perfectly suited for this type of weather, but Nasha would not push her luck, especially in a foreign country. If that dumb lizard slipped and got hurt, they would all be stranded in the Gustekan expanse forever…or at least until another person came through, which was essentially forever.

The town was proof that no one wanted to lose their carriage in the middle of the road. It was a diminutive and haphazard assortment of wooden buildings, all positioned in a vaguely rectangular shape, with half the town on one side of the road and the other half across it. To call Blance a town was an insult to real towns: it was a glorified camp, nothing more. Nasha had seen Kararagian bandits living in better conditions than these.

What stood out above all else, however, was a lone building that towered over the city, easily two stories taller than any other in the vicinity. Its arched ceiling gave rise to a thin spire that culminated in a snowflake. There was barely a speck of snow on it, unlike the rest of the town.

At the "entrance" to the village, which was really just where the first buildings stood beside the road, a few people watched as they drew nearer. They were too far to make out any details, but at least the villagers appeared unarmed.

"We're at Blance already?" came Fizan's voice from within the carriage. "What time is it?"

Before Nasha could say anything, Subaru replied, "Ah, it should be in the late afternoon, right? It looks like a quarter past six." He peered out of the carriage and up at the sun, then held his fingers in front of his face for a couple seconds and nodded. "Yeah, we've got like two hours before the sun sets."

Ignoring whatever he meant by "a quarter past six," Nasha raised an eyebrow upon hearing his estimate. "That little? How early does the sun set here?"

"Very," was Fizan's answer. "You won't see a time crystal in Gusteko for two reasons: they're too expensive, and they're useless. Time here is what Odglass wills it to be, so if She says you're getting two hours of sunlight, you are getting two hours of sunlight."

"You can't really measure time properly by judging the whims of a Great Spirit," Subaru commented.

"Sure you can. Jus' got to remember that it might get dark at any moment, and it's always better to let the sun go down when you're inside. It gets cold at night."

Nasha began to speak, then stopped for a moment to sneeze, and said, "Should…we be stopping here?"

The assassin chuckled. "Unless you want to ride on in the middle of the night and without any warmth."

Subaru hummed his support for the idea.

As a temporary stopping point, Blance was satisfactory.

As a place to spend the night, it was horrendous.

Subaru had to acknowledge one thing: despite all the things he had heard about Gusteko, its people knew how to survive. It felt like it was cold enough to freeze his saliva in his mouth, and these villagers were getting by in this weather with meager every-day clothes. One of them was even shirtless! In this weather!

Fizan claimed to know the town, so he guided them to a minuscule stable near the biggest building around. There was only space for two ground dragons but, luckily, Pruina and the carriage fit just fine.

The very moment they stopped in the town, though, a small crowd gathered to stare at them. Almost every villager seemed thin as a stick, and paler than a vampire. Not much different from Fizan himself, and if Subaru ignored their hair and eyes, they might have passed as the assassin's extended family.

From a small door on the large building's side emerged a lanky old man, well into his later years. His hair was wispy and almost transparent, and his face seemed taut, as if he had grave news to deliver. On his right earlobe was a long earring, ornate and decorated with a small blue gem at the end. His eyes appeared to be half-closed all the time, as if he was squinting.

What most stood out, however, was the man's attire: a flowing white cassock, of sorts, with a lilac symbol on its front, depicting a mountain and a snowflake rising behind it. On the man's hip hung a little white book, about the size of a hand. The same mountain emblem was on its cover.

The old man gave a lame smile and nodded. "Finally," he recited, as if he was preaching to the crowd behind him. "Haya's prodigal son is returned to us."

"Not for long," Fizan countered, giving a sympathetic shrug. "Only for tonight. We're setting out for the monastery tomorrow."

Nasha studied the old man closely. "Are you the leader of this town?"

"I am, though the title is a heavy burden to bear." He sighed, looking as if his slender body might snap at any moment. "If you've come with Fizan, then you're welcome in Blance. Our humble town has no inn, unfortunately, but feel free to use the church as a home."

The crowd began to murmur, but it grew quiet at a single wave of the old man's hand. Fizan strode calmly toward him and shook his head, then spoke something in a low voice, something that made the old man scowl.

"Is that so?" he asked, his voice raspy. "In that case…show your friends around, Fizan. Come see me later."

In turn, Nasha leaned closer to Subaru and loudly whispered, "I don't like that. What's he hiding from us?"

"I'll ask him later," he responded, waving his hand. "With some luck, he'll tell us."

"In my experience, luck never works in your favor." The royal knight eyed Fizan suspiciously as he spoke with a couple villagers. One of them ruffled his hair.

"If he won't tell, you can ask him."

"Deal."

"You two!" Fizan called out to them, swarmed by a mob of villagers that almost drowned out his voice. "Welcome to Blance! Pastor Hail will show you around! I'll be right back!" The crowd's cheer cut him off, and he vanished as they led him away.

The tiny stable went quiet without the villagers, and the wind whistled, whipping anyone outside with its frozen air. The old man - Pastor Hail, supposedly - faced his two newcomers and gave a smile that seemed drawn on his face. "Shall I help you get yourselves settled?"

Subaru assented with a nod.

The sooner he was out of this weather, the better.

Armand would have lit himself on fire to escape the cold.

Every second he spent in this awful country was another second of torture. Surely, if Emperor Drizen caught him, this would be the type of punishment he would face as a traitor to the Empire. No, he would face even worse. That alone propelled him to succeed.

His desertion, his treason, was likely still a touchy subject in the imperial court, not just due to his escape from the Empire but also due to his position. As a Second-Class General of the Imperial Hand, Armand was entrusted with carrying out the Empire's will wherever its might could not reach normally, or whenever a subtle touch was required. Under his command, a small gathering of Lugnican nobles had been slaughtered, and their deaths had been more than beneficial for His Excellency, Drizen Vollachia.

Despite that, however, Armand served the Empire. He did not kneel before a man, but rather before the Imperial banner. The Emperor was a fool to let Lugnica, a nation turned against itself, heal its wounds. Now, more than ever, was the time to end this centuries-long rivalry.

Lugnica would have fallen into war with or without his interference, but Armand's presence ensured the Kingdom would not survive. He, and his Wolves, had set out to destroy that country, and this whole affair would come to its end only when one side was completely destroyed.

Behind him, from one of the scattered campfires his soldiers had constructed, a voice called out to him, "General! The…the uh…the other General wishes to speak with you, sir!"

Armand turned, looking at the young soldier who had spoken a couple meters away. "Is that so? Gah, we're not due for…I'll go see him."

"No need for that, Armand."

The General, the old man, had this unwelcome habit of sneaking up on people. Armand grew tired of it.

That was what everyone called him. The General. The old man, inconspicuous as he may be, was one of Drizen's First-Class Generals. In years past, he would have been called a "Divine General," and rightly so: he was among the finest spirit arts users alive.

With a faint sneer, Armand cleared his throat and spoke, "What's so important now? I told you-"

"I'm well aware," the old man responded with a calm grin. He shook his head to get rid of some snow that had fallen on him, and continued, "Our spirit magnet has stopped moving near a little town ahead. It's not on any maps."

"That's it?" Despite his tone, this was an important occurrence. Someone powerful lay ahead, someone with high spiritual affinity, and in Gusteko that often meant the Acolyte Knights. Armand was strong by himself, and with his followers he might score a win against one or two of the Knights, but if one of those savages fell in battle, the whole nest of them would come after him.

Raising his eyebrows, the old man shrugged. "It's a problem, Armand. The last thing we want is to raze a Gustekan village to the ground because it got caught in the middle." He gestured to the falling snow around them. "Winter up here tends to get rid of evidence, but it won't make an Acolyte's corpse vanish. If one of those beasts goes down…"

"I'm aware of the consequences, gah! I'm thinking of a solution. Are you?"

"Yeah. We'll stay as far as possible. Armand, the Holy Church means trouble. The Imperial Hand steers clear from the Order of Inquisitors."

Armand spat on the frozen ground. "I defected to be brave, not cowardly! What my brothers feared to do, I will accomplish without hesitation! Let the Holy King himself come face me, if he so wishes. A thousand Acolyte Knights could not best the weakest Vollachian soldier!"

"Arma-"

"I won't debase myself! I refuse to stoop so low as to be intimidated by animals! We march onward!"

"But the Church!"

"Let them come, if they dare! Our task is holier than theirs! Let the Yang Sword's flame scorch their frozen wasteland!"

Turning, the defector faced his soldiers and spread his arms with madness on his face. The old man looked on in horrified silence.

"Hear me, all of you!" he called out. "Gusteko won't be our grave! If those barbarians stand in our way, we'll set them - and their detestable Church - alight!"

A thunderous roar of cheers came from the soldiers. A few chanted his name.

"We're Vollachian! We're soldiers! We are the Wolfin Scourge! Our spark will set the world ablaze!"

To his surprise, the old man added, "And atop the ashes, our flag shall fly."

"Metrac!" one of the soldiers yelled as loudly as she could. "Metrac and the Scourge!"

Another joined in. "Metrac and Lunzow!"

"Metrac and Lunzow!"

"For the Empire!"

"Set them alight!"

"For justice and salvation!"

"Paint the world red!"

Armand beamed, a deranged grin growing on his face. "This is something they'll never have. This is why we'll win."

"You underestimate them," the old man warned. "A cornered animal can kill a man."

Extending his hand and opening it palm-up, Armand made a small green orb appear in the air, hovering.

"We'll burn their dens, old man, and then we'll burn them too."

"How do you know Fizan?"

Pastor Hail's voice was warm, and his smile was amicable, but Subaru could not shake the feeling something about the man was off. The biggest clue was that he was somehow connected to Fizan Blum, and Fizan himself was just about the shadiest person Subaru ever came face-to-face with. An assassin from the Holy Kingdom, and with knowledge of Emerada to boot, despite being too young to have been responsible for her disappearance.

The Pastor seemed every bit the good pious man that Gusteko worked hard to create. His church, although fairly average and plain, was the de facto center of Blance. The pews were worn from use, a couple even broken, and the structure itself could have dated back to the Great Calamity. Atop the central altar sat a pile of books, each with pages yellowed and discolored. The script within was no doubt almost illegible by now.

"Fizan?" the Pastor responded, giving him a bewildered look. "That young man has quite the history with Blance. A shame, what's happened to him." As if that was the end of the conversation, he resumed sorting through some banners with unidentifiable symbols on them as he knelt beside the altar.

Subaru walked into the church, closing the main door behind him. His voice echoed as he asked, "What happened?"

Hail gave a weak and raspy chuckle. "Who knows? Something turned him from that sweet and devout young boy to the madman he is today. If I didn't know better, I'd have blamed the foul Witch and her slaves of faith."

The church felt a couple degrees colder. "The Witch…?"

Standing with a sigh, the Pastor clarified, "Fizan's no Cultist scum. He's even come home covered in their blood. If anything, he's the one person in the world who most wants to see them dead." He held up a green banner with a cross-shaped snowflake on it, examined it, and nodded. "Yes…this'll do nicely for the harvest festival."

"He hates the Witch Cult?" Subaru inquired. "Wait, I don't mean…everyone hates the Cult."

"Listen, friend," Hail said, his voice stern. "Everyone in Blance is running from something. I'm here to guide, not judge. If they want to jump into a river, it's my job to teach them to swim. What brought Fizan here, before he was called by that name, is his tale to tell."

Subaru took a few steps down the main aisle of the church, surrounded by the ancient pews. "Fizan has…promised me something. Something I want more than anything else in the world. He called himself an assassin."

Hail looked at him, and his too-white eyes made him seem blind. "Ah…that explains it…"

"Explains…what, exactly?"

"Fizan's a good boy. He'll hold up his end, if you hold up yours. But…he hides his job from others. If he told you…it's because he doubts you'll use it against him."

A faint breeze blew in behind Subaru, accompanied by a high-pitched voice that snarled, "Because you know me so well, Hail?"

Into the church stepped Fizan, his black-and-purple coat covered in snow. His amethyst hair hung over his shoulder, tied neatly into a braid and adorned with that flowery hairpin. That split-bladed sword on his hip blended into his clothes, but Subaru glued his eyes to it all the same.

"Fizan," Hail uttered. "Welcome back. I hope you conclude your business with haste."

"I would say 'I'll be out of your hair soon enough,' but given you're almost bald…it doesn't fit right." The young man turned his gaze to Subaru. "And you. I get it. Some guy shows up out of nowhere, claims he can find your dead wife, and drags you along to the ass-end of the world. You're hardly going to find her on your own, you need me! And contrary to what this…wizened old stick told you…I'm not a threat to you. I'm only following my orders. Close your eyes, take my fucking hand, and trust me, because if you don't, you'll remain a widow for the rest of your miserable life!"

There was silence as Fizan breathed heavily and calmed himself down. After a few seconds, he shook his head.

"It'll be night soon. That's the best time to go to the monastery. Stay in the church, and I'll get that Nasha here too. We're leaving soon."

"Shouldn't we prepare the carriage?" Subaru asked.

"No need," came the reply. "We're leaving it here for later."

The assassin turned to leave, but as soon as he was halfway out the door, he spoke one last time.

"And stop looking into my past, I mean it…the old me is dead and buried."

Nasha swirled her glass, listening to the ice clinking inside of it.

To be fair, her drink was mostly ice. Even inside this shabby establishment the Gustekans called a bar, it was cold enough to turn her beer into a half-solid chunk of frozen alcohol. It also did not help that this beer tasted like snow with an absurd amount of alcohol added into it.

Gusteko was really beginning to get on her nerves.

Having been born and raised in Priestella, Nasha expected to spend most of her life in Lugnica, with its mild climate, and rarely - if ever - venture into the arid and dry land of Kararagi. Gusteko was Kararagi's complete opposite, in every way imaginable. She liked Kararagi, so it was only natural she did not like the Holy Kingdom.

The people of Blance were nice enough, though she noticed the lack of demi-humans. It was common knowledge that the Holy Kingdom considered demi-humans to be animals and even permitted acts of violence against them, but Nasha had expected to see at least a handful, maybe one or two. There were none in this town.

After gathering the courage to take another shot of alcoholic snow, she turned to the villagers around her. Most of Blance's inhabitants were in the bar, having a great time and celebrating that a pack of strangers had wandered into their quaint little home. They did not seem bothered by the fact that two of the three newcomers were Lugnican, and if any of them even recognized Subaru, they hid it well. Surely, by now, even the most reclusive hermits had heard of his innovations.

"Hey," she called out to one of the villagers, a gigantic bald man with a rune-like tattoo under his right eye. He was sitting on a stool to her right, and turned to face her after downing his whole glass in one go. She had to look up at him to make eye contact. "What's with this town?"

He looked at her for a couple seconds, puzzled. Nasha thought if his skin was any paler, she could see his brain working to figure out a response. "What do you mean by that?" he countered in a surprisingly smooth voice.

Shrugging, the royal knight said, "You know…why's this town even here? There's nothin' around 'cept a bunch of trees, and cut off from the rest o' the world. Is there a reason behind that?"

Rune Eye frowned and motioned for the bartender to refill his glass. "Blance is what Gusteko should be. We're true believers."

"Ah-ah, don't mind him," a cheery voice spoke on Nasha's left. "I'll take it you're a new one in our beautiful land of ice, no?"

Nasha turned her head, coming face-to-face with a thin woman who gave her a too-wide grin. It was difficult to see her face through her overflowing curly hair.

"That might explain it," Rune Eye muttered, taking his refilled glass and swirling it. "Lugnicans don't come here often."

Raising an eyebrow, Nasha asked, "How'd you know?"

"You don't have that horrid accent," Curly responded, making a talking motion with her hand. "Kararagians, you know? They talk fast and weird. No one understands them."

"That still doesn't answer my question 'bout this place."

Curly snapped her fingers. "That's just it, see? Everyone in Gusteko knows something's up with the Conclave, and the priests are talking about unity more and more. Don't have to be Odglass to know there's a rift in the Holy Church."

"How'd that even happen?" Nasha inquired, taking another drink of the solid beverage she held in her hand.

It was Rune Eye who responded with a look of shame on his face. "It's only a rumor. Blance was founded after the old Holy King passed, praise be, but ever since then…well, rumors fly."

"A Cardinal was killed," Curly added. "They found her corpse hanging by an ankle from a window. They…hem, found her head three days later."

"Ever since then, the clergy has been gathering at Glacia. Few venture out beyond Innorandum, let alone to the border."

"Hail's special, you know? He built this town, and when the new Holy King called the clergy back…well, he's still here, isn't he?"

As Nasha swallowed her foul drink and began to speak, the door to the bar opened. A few shouts of indignation arose, demanding to close the door and keep the cold outside, but they quickly turned into elated cheers as Fizan stepped into the room, smiling from ear to ear. He scanned the room quickly and, upon laying eyes on her, immediately strode to where she sat.

"Eia, you look like you're enjoying yourself, Nasha," he chuckled. "Wiren and Meria treat you right? I know they like to rob strangers whenever they get a chance."

Curly - Meria, apparently - laughed. "Tried it. Her pockets are empty."

Fizan pointed at her. "That's what I'm talking about." He wrung his hands together, as if washing them, and added, "Nasha, you finish that drink and go back to the church. It's almost nightfall, and I wanna be out of here before the moon goes up."

She made a sound of confusion just as Rune Eye - Wiren - spoke up. "Hey, you said the carriage was for tomorrow morning."

"Change of plans," the assassin replied, waving his hand. "Things've come up. My boss wants us on the move now."

"Does 'now' mean immediately or in an hour? Fizan, I can't get everything off my carriage with such little warning! It'll take…a half hour, or so!"

"Then get moving, snow-for-brains! Every second you waste here drinking that mabeast piss they call a beer is another second you put my pay in danger!"

Meria sighed and stood. "C'mon, then. Sooner Fizan's on the road, sooner we can get back to having fun."

Wiren stood as well, and Nasha followed suit after debating whether or not to finish her half-frozen drink, leaving her glass half-full (or half-empty) on the counter. Fizan tapped her on the shoulder and lightly pushed her toward the door before continuing his argument with Wiren.

The Lugnican could tell when she was unwanted in a conversation, and left swiftly, heading to the church.

She thought she heard Fizan mention something about a…"predicant."

This was never supposed to happen.

When Hail aided in the construction of Blance, he hoped it would outlive him. He hoped the village would one day become a great city, enough to rival Eternya or Albis. It would take many years, and he would not see it happen…but he would have been proud to have been at the inception of such a place.

It was a thriving little village, at first. It grew as fast as he expected, each day bringing new arrivals who sought to make their fortune.

One of them was that woman.

Hail had never heard of her before. She strode into the fledgling village, one of its first hundred inhabitants, clad in that bone-white robe. A curse healer, she called herself. With curses, she would heal the world.

They steered clear of her. They shunned the woman who spoke to the spirits, who wielded the black arts as easily as she breathed. A witch, they called her. The second coming of the Witch.

Shortly after she came, another group arrived. A man and a woman, both young, but with a hardness in their faces that spoke more than the two of them ever did, combined. They sought the witch, trying to claim her power for themselves.

Hail was there when the woman and the witch fought, and he was there when their duel leveled his church. When he tried to intervene, knowing that he would be injured if he so much as approached the two of them, the man stopped him. He displayed a symbol, and Hail understood immediately.

That symbol was the one he held in his hands right now: the bear's head with six spirits around it and a snowflake in the background. The emblem of the Acolyte Knights.

That had been so long ago, and like a scar, it had embedded itself into him, never to leave. The memory had been painfully brought back up when Fizan first came to the village, accompanied by the witch…his mother.

This was the only similarity they had. Both of them, mother and son, had that same audacity to walk into other people's lives and change them completely, for better or for worse.

Now, it was the latter.

"Vollachians are coming," Fizan had said to him. "They'll threaten everyone here. I need you to give them the Acolyte Knight banner."

The sun was down at the horizon. By now, Fizan and his companions would be setting out to the monastery. To the witch.

He should have been there. He should have seen them off. But he did not.

Patiently, he waited. He sat by his altar, reading his prayer book again and again. He had memorized the words within years ago.

He clutched the banner with the Acolytes' symbol as he recited the book's words in a low voice. There was nothing left to do but wait.

After a few minutes, the door opened.

In stepped a man who seemed to personify the word "vagrant." His lemon-colored hair was filthy and scruffy, like his long beard. His clothes were basically rags, and they were all mismatched. A blood-red cloak covered his body and hid a longsword's scabbard.

"Look at that," the man muttered. "The beasts have a religion."

His green eyes, filled with madness, turned to the Pastor.

"I take it you're the one I want to talk to."