earth? Trent scrambled down the tree to examine what had fallen. The Trial had restored itself and the disturbed earth was flat, once again covered by frosted grass. Laying in the grass was a glass vial the length of Trent's little finger.

Picking up the vial, Trent used Appraisal on it. What the Skill revealed banished Trent's frustration and brought a cold smile to his lips. Trials are meant to be challenged. It was easy to forget that they were not death traps and solutions were all around. You just had to survive long enough to find them.

Liquid Silver - a poison derived from the petals of the Wolf Vine; this highly corrosive substance is the bane of all Were-Creatures.

Trent looked from the vial to the vine. There were dozens of petals. If each of them turned into poison when plucked, Trent could coat his sword or throw the vials at the grey Werewolf, seriously injuring or killing it. Trent set to work to turn his glimmer of an idea into a feasible plan.

Chapter Six Expecting to gather dozens of vials of poison was a little ambitious. Trials

provided a way, but there were no free rides. As Trent plucked a fifth blossom, the vine wrapped around the tree withered. Its blossoms folded up and its vegetation plopped to the ground, brown, dry, and dead.

Trent clicked his tongue with disappointment but holding five vials of poison reassured him. He wanted to kill one Werewolf, and then he would be off to find less fearsome opponents. Five should be enough for what he had in mind.

Returning to his perch in the tree, Trent settled in for a long wait. The air was cold in the Trial, but Trent disregarded it. When frost settled on his clothing and eyelashes, Trent cast Spiritual Flame and used Fire Manipulation to hold and spread the heat over his stiffening limbs. He was careful not to do this too often. It wasn't only Identify that the Werewolves could sense.

Stealth and Camouflage hid him, but any active Skill or Ability could bring a passing Wolf rushing back, snarling and snapping. Trent was careful to make sure only his concealing Skills were being used when he heard a Beast approaching.

Trent had observed the trail for hours. He had to be certain of the pattern he thought he had picked out before he acted. Wolves stalked by the tree every half hour without fail. Once the Trial had reset the terrain, none of them paused beneath the tree, but Trent thought he had an answer to this.

Waiting until the most recent Trial Beast was safely away, Trent dropped to the ground. He stretched and twisted his waist to ease stiff muscles and practiced Military Fencing until his body grew warm and loose. When he thought the time had come, he sheathed his sword and took a meat skewer out of Storage.

Items placed in Storage remained in the same state they entered. The meat on the wooden skewer was still hot, and the smell caused Trent's mouth to water. He had meant to use the meat as bait but found himself falling for his own trap. He withdrew a second skewer.

Trent stared at it doubtfully. This was a weak point in his plan. Normal Trial Beasts did not eat. The Werewolf that had killed the Cat-Lizard had

shown no interest in its corpse. Other Beasts had sniffed the grave, but finding no sign of life, passed by. Now that the Trial had reset and the grave had disappeared, Trent needed something to hold the Beast's attention.

Trent removed his left glove. As he pulled the thin, soft material from his fingers, the protective equipment shrunk until Trent was left holding an ordinary-sized glove. Instead of marveling at this, Trent drew his belt knife and quickly slashed his exposed palm. Dribbling blood onto the skewer, Trent placed his enhanced bait on the ground beneath the tree.

He had to cast the Balm Charm twice to seal the wound he had inflicted on himself. After casting Self-Clean to banish any scent of blood that lingered, Trent climbed back into the Tree. He pulled his left glove back on, activated Stealth and Camouflage, and drew his sword. He took a vial of Liquid Silver from his belt pouch and cautiously poured half the substance on one side of his blade. The liquid spat and sizzled as he tilted his sword this way and that to coat the blade evenly.

Worried that he was running out of time, Trent placed the contents of his belt pouch in Storage and used the leather as a rag to spread the poison. The leather burned and charred when it came in contact with the Liquid Silver, and the air filled with a foul stench.

Once the first side was dry, Trent repeated this process on the other side. Finished, his sword no longer resembled the dull grey from before but now seemed to shine in the moonlight. Trent hoped it would be enough. He put the remains of his belt pouch in Storage. He would have tossed it away for the Trial to clean up, but he was already afraid the lingering smell would cause the Werewolf to ignore his bait.

Preparations complete, Trent was forced to wait again. Standing balanced on a branch, he kept his muscles relaxed and his breathing even. He held his sword away from his body. The poison might be most effective against Were- Beasts, but having seen its effects on his belt pouch, Trent had no desire to touch it.

Trent had not felt stressed from his hours of observation, but the minutes passed like days now that he was ready to act, and his ears waited to catch the sounds of a Trial Beast's approach. He almost gave away his position letting out a gasp of relief when snarling and snapping told him the Werewolf was near.

The Werewolf lumbered into view, and Trent's toes flexed in his boots with anticipation. The creature's nose caught the scent of blood and dropping

on all fours, it loped forward rapidly. Drool fell onto the meat skewer as the Beast's muzzle prodded it. Above, Trent lifted his sword to chest height, placed his right hand on the hilt, his left wrapped around the pommel. He stepped out into the air and dropped like a stone.

The Werewolf never noticed the Swordsman until his feet struck its back and his blade plunged into its flesh. Trent's sword sunk to the hilt, and the tip of the blade broke through the Beast's chest. It had worked! He had replicated the Cat-Lizard attack and avoided the Werewolf's howling attack to deal a devastating blow! Coated with Liquid Silver, the Werewolf would…

The Beast reared up with an agonized bellow. There was a snapping sound and Trent was thrown backward to the dirt. He rolled as he hit and came back to his feet. The creature wasn't killed instantly, but with poison circulating through its body, he still had a chance. Trent raised the hilt in his hand.

It was just a hilt. The blade was gone. A familiar sense of dread pulsed through him as Trent stared at the remains of his weapon. He had been here before. In another Trial, he had stood with broken knives before an Orc and without any means of fighting back. This time the feeling of helplessness was more intense; here was no one to rescue him.

The Werewolf spun to loom over Trent. Its jaws hung open and a red light gathered at the back of its throat. Trent threw his hilt and it bounced off the creature's fangs. He had to dodge the flesh-rending light when it came. If he could do that, if he could avoid the Werewolf's attacks for a few moments, he could take another vial from Storage. The Beast's jaws never closed tightly, and with another dose of poison deposited on its tongue, maybe two, Trent could walk away from this.

His calves tensed as the Beast stepped forward, its neck extending to direct a howl into Trent's face. He had to clear the area of the attack. How far had the light spread? Trent hoped Dodge and Dash would be enough to increase his speed. He couldn't be hit, not even a glancing blow to the legs.

The Beast howled, and Trent flung himself out of the way, toward the tree with its silver bark. He rolled again and ducked behind the sheltering wood. He heard a thud as he opened Storage and searched for a vial. He imagined the enraged Beast's claws tearing the earth as it came for him. It took painfully long seconds to find what he was looking for, and as the vial fell into his hand, Trent was sure he would be delivering it into the Beast's mouth at the cost of his arm.

Not wanting to be pinned between trunk and Beast, Trent darted forward away from the tree. He pivoted and raised his arm, ready to slam the vial against the forehead of a Werewolf he was positive was only inches behind him. But there was nothing.

No slobbering jaws or vacant white eyes. There was not even the ever- present sound of hate-filled growling. Keeping his arm up, ready to throw, Trent scanned his surroundings. Nothing. A creature that big shouldn't be able to move through the woods silently, but Beasts had Skills of their own. Trent took a second vial from Storage while he had a chance and turned in place, trying to anticipate where the creature would attack from.

A minute went by, and Trent wavered. Trial Beasts did not retreat; they couldn't, no matter how badly they were injured. Was this one smart enough to hide until Trent lowered his guard? Trent shuffled back to the tree and placed his back against it. He side-stepped until he was once again facing the path. That was where he found the Werewolf!

It had fallen forward, and Trent's broken sword blade protruded from its back. The Beast's weight had pushed it out so that a few inches were exposed. Trent could see no sign of life or movement. Still, he kept the vials of poison handy as he stepped forward.

He circled around and, stretching out a boot, kicked at the Werewolf's leg. Leaping back, Trent almost threw his glass weapon, despite seeing no movement from the Beast. He could not believe it was dead. This had to be a trick!

Then a thought occurred to Trent. There was a way to verify the Beast's state but doing so was as risky as searching through Storage. Adventurers received XP for killing. All he had to do was pull up his Status and check to see whether the amount of his XP had changed. Trent hesitated. Viewing his Status would split his attention. If the Werewolf wasn't dead and it sensed his preoccupation, it would be on him faster than he could scream.

Trent made the decision. It was not a hard one. He could tempt the Beast into attacking or waste precious resources by pouring poison on a corpse. His Status was opened, and he read the results. His XP had shot up from 1845 to 2345. The creature was dead, and Trent had earned 500 XP for slaying it. It was by far the most he had ever gained from a kill. He had enough to raise his Swordsman Class to Level 8.

Trent closed his Status with a shiver. He had needed to do this for reasons he could not explain even to himself. Now that the deed was done, he should

be exultant. He should be screaming his victory and celebrating his progress. In truth, one small part of him was satisfied and gloried in his accomplishment. The rest of him was numb.

500 XP for a single kill meant Trent had completely underestimated the Trial Beast. He had toyed with the idea of confronting the Werewolf directly, certain that what the small Cat-Lizard could wound, he could kill. Had he done so, Trent would be the one with his skin peeled away by the creature's howls. Trent's body would have been chewed and discarded like trash.

He had still lost his only reliable weapon in this fight. There was no safety net here. No Orion or Sergeant Cullen to leap in and pull him out of danger. The only person Trent could be sure was in this Trial was Martin, a man who had tried to kill or at least injure him before he fled, leaving the boy behind.

Trent stepped closer to the corpse and brushed his fingers against the blade poking out of its back. The metal crumbled away at his touch, and Trent's shoulders sank. The description of Liquid Silver provided by Appraisal had said the poison was highly corrosive. Confronted by the fact that he would have lost his sword no matter how he fought cut Trent deeply. He had to be smarter than this!

And he couldn't linger, indulging in self-doubt and recriminations. He would be smarter, better. He would get stronger! Trent had thought that he could settle for a less than perfect clear of this Trial. He would kill a grey Werewolf and ten Wererats and leave. That would have been enough.

Now he called the boy who made that decision a coward. Trent did not know that person. Trent was a Swordsman and Survivalist, and this Trial would teach him what that meant. In return, he would show the Trial that Al'rashian warriors were not to be trifled with!

Trent reached down and grabbed hold of the Werewolf's side. There was still work to be done. He heaved and strained to flip the corpse over so that he could Harvest it. No matter how he tugged or pulled, the Beast refused to budge. He had to cross its legs and pull its arms before the body finally rolled over.

The seven-foot frame looked no smaller in death, and Trent's belt knife felt tiny in his hands. This must be done, though. He was weaponless in a Trial. He needed the drops the Beast would yield, and that loot would not appear until he Harvested it.

He lost track of time as he hacked and sawed at the corpse. The bonuses

Harvest gave were not enough to make light work of this creature, not when he only had a knife meant for everyday tasks. Trent sweated as he fought a much harder battle to remove the Core than he had making the kill. Oddly, the Beast Core was the only item the Werewolf provided. Its hide and organs had no value.

A look into the Beast's white eyes reminded Trent that this was a Beast modeled after an Awakened race. What he had hacked into, under different circumstances, might have resembled Martin before his transformation. It shouldn't even have had a Beast Core! The Cores of Zombies and other human-like Undead were carried on the outside, in pouches. The same should have been true here.

Trent remembered a conversation he had heard at the beginning of his training. A group of recruits had argued whether Humans had Human Cores, and all had unanimously agreed they did not. Trent still believed that. The fist-sized Core in his hand was an anomaly, a quirk of the Trial.

The corpse at his feet disappeared, and three drops were revealed: Two six-inch-long teeth and a slab of meat. After all his work, and the realization that he had been cutting into an Awakened, the sight caused some of Sergeant Cullen's favorite curses to bubble to Trent's lips. He bit them back, but it was a near thing.

Appraising the items, Trent felt a swirl of disgust. The meat was the cursed flesh of an Awakened. Trent flung it into the bushes with a growl. That filth would not despoil his Storage. What kind of Trial was this?

The teeth he kept and even admired. They were the fangs of a Lesser Dire Wolf, a weapon- crafting material. Not even the memory of scratching Arakai's ears could make him toss these away! Maybe he could use his belt knife or sharpening stone to carve them into rough knives or spear tips! The points of the fangs were sharp enough on their own that…

Movement caught his eye, and Trent lifted his head to stare down the path. With no one to stand watch, he should have been away the second his work was done. Another Werewolf was approaching right on schedule, and Trent was in the open, with no trap prepared. The teeth vanished into Storage, and Trent dug out a vial he had tucked into his belt.

He couldn't fight this Beast, but he had the Throw Skill. A hit to the creature's eyes might blind it and give him a chance to escape. He might even get lucky and the corrosive liquid…

Instead of thumbing the wax-covered cork out of the vial, Trent took to

his heels, activated Dodge and Dash, and ran for all he was worth. It was not a lumbering, mindless, grey Werewolf streaking down the trail. Trent saw black fur coming at him, and this new creature moved with a purpose!

This was no stomping hulk of muscle but a sleek, fast, killing machine. Trent had caught sight of bright white teeth, exposed by the curled lips of the black Werewolf, and he knew even with a sword he was not a match for this creature. Where had this Beast come from?! Trent had watched for hours and never seen a color besides grey.

Trent focused on the path before him and pushed his legs for all they were worth. His eyes sought a break in the brush that he could duck into. He doubted very much that he would have an advantage within the confines of the trees, but it was worth a try. He clutched the vial of poison in his hand tightly. When the Beast caught up, Trent would make it regret doing so before it tore out his windpipe.

And the black Werewolf was catching up. Its steps were light, and it made no attempt to conceal its approach. It wanted Trent to know it was coming. It howled, and Trent bunched his shoulders, expecting a beam of red light to scorch him, but the Beast was merely taunting him with its hunting call. The Beast needed no special Skills for this prey.

Trent spotted a break in the brush and a flicker of white on the path ahead of him at the same moment. A second Beast was approaching, low to the ground and speeding forward like an arrow released from a bow. Trent caught sight of another pair of canine teeth and flung himself into the break. His sudden shift in momentum was too much for his fledgling Acrobatics, and Trent hit the ground hard.

Flipping to his back, Trent lashed out with his feet and prepared to throw the vial in his hand. The white Beast was in the air, leaping towards its target with teeth bared. That target wasn't the breathless Swordsman on the ground. The Wolf had launched itself at the black Werewolf that had been mere feet behind Trent. White feet hit the Trial Beast's chest, and whiter teeth tore a chunk of flesh from the Beast's shoulder. The Werewolf snapped at the animal, but powerful legs pushed the white creature up and over. The Werewolf's jaws closed on air.

The larger Beast howled and spun to reach for the retreating attacker. A rustling noise from the brush was the only warning it received as a second animal burst from cover and teeth once again torn into its skin. The Werewolf dropped to its knees as its right leg refused to hold its weight. A third attacker

came for its left leg, but the black Werewolf was ready for it. The animal yelped as heavy claws ripped into its side and sent it spinning away.

Wolves, natural wolves acting together, continued to harass the wounded creature. The largest, the white shape Trent had assumed was leaping for him, tried to keep the Trial Beast's attention by attacking from the front while its pack-mates played a gruesome game of tag, but Trent could see the Werewolf had already adapted to these new adversaries.

The wolves had come for blood and left bleeding. Surprise had allowed them to cripple one of the Werewolf's legs, its arm and teeth were unhampered. Loss of mobility kept it in one place, but the Werewolf was far from finished. Trent could see the wound in its leg had stopped seeping already, and the torn flesh was beginning to seal.

A Truce amongst Hunters. That phrase, and an image of curious feline eyes suggesting a partnership, filled Trent's mind as he struggled to his feet. Brambles clawed at his arms as if telling him to mind his own business. Trent ignored the advice. He thumbed the wax-covered cork from the vial in his hand and threw the glass container at the wound on the Werewolf's leg that had not yet healed.

The black Werewolf had been preparing to unleash a sound attack on the white Wolf when poison entered its veins. Its head went up, and a red light exploded harmlessly in the air as it howled in agony. Seizing the opportunity, the white Wolf lunged up to grab the Werewolf's throat in its powerful jaws. The Wolf's teeth sunk in and, branching its legs against the larger Beast's torso, the Wolf pushed itself away.

Blood sprayed out to soak white fur. The Werewolf's claws slashed to knock the white creature to the ground. Trent expected to see the smaller Wolf's shoulder torn away by the blow. Yet, while the animal was struck to the ground heavily, the claws failed to penetrate its hide. The rest of the pack continued to strike at its legs until the critically injured Werewolf slumped to the ground, defeated.

The white Wolf pushed up to its feet and howled. Unlike the cry of the Werewolf, this sound was clean and fresh, resonating within Trent and bolstering him. The rest of the pack joined their leader, and for a moment, even Trent felt the urge to throw back his head in victory. When Trent found the pack leader's ice-blue eyes on him, the urge quickly faded.

The Wolf looked smaller than it had when Trent thought it was attacking him, smaller even than Arakai had been. Standing erect, this creature only

reached Trent's waist. Seven more limping forms left the cover of the trees to stand all around Trent.

Believing that with the common foe vanquished, he was about to be attacked by the Beasts himself, Trent used Identify. Winter Wolves, one and all, with Levels ranging from 14 to 18. Trent could not see the pack leader's Level, even with the recent increase to Identify.

Trent had three vials of Liquid Silver left, two of which were still in Storage. He doubted they would be as effective against the Winter Wolves as they were on a Were-Beast, but anything that could cause steel to crumble had to burn flesh.

The pack leader padded towards Trent, and the lesser Wolves made way for his approach. Trent touched the vial tucked in his belt, grateful it hadn't fallen out or broken when he flung himself aside. He eased it out. When the Winter Wolf leaped for him, Trent would smash the vial against its head. He would probably be burned as well. He could deal with pain.

"You are alone, Hunter?" The pack sat as one as their leader spoke. Trent almost dropped the poison in his hand as the Wolf continued, "This is a bad place to hunt alone. It is always bad to hunt without a pack. These trees are filled with the Moon Cursed, and you smell like a cub. Where is your pack, Hunter?"

The pack leader sank to his haunches and peered at the silent Trent. The rest of the pack licked at their wounds, seemingly uninterested, but their ears were turned to catch Trent's reply. Trent straightened from the crouch he had dropped into and considered his reply.

"I have no pack," he said at last. "I am alone here." "No pack? You will die here. Your teeth are dull, and you lack even the

metal fangs your kind like to carry," the pack leader rumbled. "You hunt well. The kill was mine, but your aid made it possible. You may hunt with us. If you wish."

The offer came with a mental invitation, an invitation to join a party, to join the pack. Trent felt the proposal and wanted to accept it. He wanted to join this pack on their hunt. It would be safer, and there were things he could learn from the Beasts; he was sure of it.

But there was a problem. While the pack leader spoke with dignity and his voice contained age, he was new to his post as leader. Trent was certain of this because whatever Skill the Wolf used to form a pack was akin to the Awakened race's Leadership. Someone with that Skill could not join a party

unless the one forming the group had a Skill level higher than his own. Trent, with his Level 3 Leadership, was unable to accept the Wolf's offer, despite wanting to.

The mood changed when the pack leader's offer met a wall. His hackles raised, and the other Wolves stopped tending to their wounds to stare at Trent with lips curled back. Trent responded to the hostility by pushing his mask up and leaning forward.

Violet eyes met the Wolf's gaze, and the pack leader felt shaken. An ancient force peered out of those eyes set in the Al'rashian's unlined face. The Swordsman was at a disadvantage. His Level was lower, he was outnumbered and unarmed, but there was no fear on that face or in the Warrior's scent.

"The Truce holds, it must not be broken." A young voice speaking old words. The pack leader's hackles lowered, and his head dropped to his chest in shame as he remembered where he was.

Outside of this Trial, he and this Swordsman would be enemies. However, inside, only the Moon Cursed could be hunted. The Winter Wolf had nearly broken a rule that would have turned his own subordinates against him. He might have killed this two-legged warrior only to find all teeth in the Trial lunging for his throat.

The words left Trent's lips and he felt they were correct. The phrase came from a corner of his soul, near where his Bond had once been. As he tried to pull out their meaning, to examine how he knew to speak them, the hole within him ripped the words away. He was left empty and unanswered. Only a lingering instinct remained, one which told him to stand his ground. To stare the pack leader down and…

"An offering," Trent took a meat skewer from Storage and held it out, "in the name of the Truce, and in hopes that the hunt will go well for all."

The Winter Wolf extended its neck and gripped the gift carefully. As the still-warm meat touched his tongue, drool leaked out over the Wolf's fangs and he pulled it from the skewer, hardly bothering to chew it before swallowing. Trent found that the gazes the rest of the pack threw his way had lost their tension and turned plaintive.

Seven more skewers were taken out, and Trent gave each of the Wolves one, making sure that his eyes held theirs, and it was the Beasts that looked away. He made the offering, but there was no weakness in it. Tails began swinging as Trent used Balm to heal the Wolves of their injuries; the charm

did not do much. The gesture was still appreciated. While Trent was otherwise occupied, the pack leader returned to the body

of the Werewolf. The black Trial Beast was smaller in comparison to the greys. Its weight remained considerable. When Trent saw the Winter Wolf flip the corpse over onto its back with a single flick of its muzzle, the confidence Trent felt in his moral superiority took a hit. He had strained with his whole body to accomplish what the Wolf had done with just the muscles in its neck.

The pack leader's jaws clamped down on the Werewolf's skin, and razor- sharp teeth pulled skin away, chomping at the flesh below. Trent stuttered the trigger word to the Balm Charm as he watched the leader's gruesome display. The Wolf Trent was healing tilted its head and whined at Trent's sudden discomfort.

The pack leader ripped the Beast Core from the Werewolf's chest and stepped back. Setting the Core on the ground, the white Wolf waited until the corpse disappeared. When it did, and two teeth and a slab of meat were revealed, the leader stood back up. He treated the meat much the same way Trent had, flinging it into the brush, then gathered the teeth and Core in his mouth, brought them over to deposit at Trent's feet.

"An offering," the Wolf's voice was abashed, "in the name of the Truce." Finished tending the wounds, Trent took the teeth and Core in his hands.

"You won't eat the meat?" "That filth is not for eating! It is part of the test. The Moon Cursed hunt to

kill but never consume. We do the same to them and deny them the proper end to the hunt!" The white Wolf sounded disgusted by Trent's question. There was a note of confusion in his answer as well. How could this hunter be wise enough to know of the Truce and be ignorant enough to suggest the eating of the Moon Cursed?

"Hunger sharpens the Hunter. We will eat when the hunt is finished," The white Wolf explained.

"I… see," Trent wondered if he could go without eating while clearing a Trial. He was glad he wouldn't have to find out.

"We must go, Hunter. Three more Moon Cursed must fall before we can return to our territory." The white Wolf's words stirred his pack to action, and seven Wolves faded into the trees. "I know not what the Forest requires of you, Hunter, but you would be wiser to seek the rats. The Moon Cursed here are too much for you."

Trent had more questions and no time to ask them. The white Wolf had already dashed away, continuing down the trail while the pack shadowed him in the brush. With a sigh, Trent stored the teeth and Core before pulling his mask back into place. He was alone again and without a sword. He would need to find a place to rest.

The black Werewolf had been faster than the greys, and appeared without warning. Also, Trent did not want to risk being trapped in a tree if the Beasts turned out to be more astute than their larger relatives. He might have to if he couldn't locate a Safe Zone.

He had no weapons. It struck him that what he did have was the material to craft some in his Storage. Trent had to see what could be made of Dire Wolf teeth first. Then he could go find the Wererats. The thought of looking for the Trial exit never occurred to him.

Chapter Seven Where is Trent? The question had been asked a dozen times. Tersa was glad the group of

people she had been sent to bring to Master Taylor had stopped shouting the words at her. She was frustrated and angry when she voiced the question herself. Now, as she sat forgotten in one corner of the Duke's practice hall, a sick feeling churned in her gut.

Sergeant Cullen did not know where Trent was, and neither did Lady Kirstin, Corporal Francis, Captain Michael, or Lieutenant Nell. When the Duke himself came at Taylor's urging, Tersa had felt panicked. At first, she thought that fear was from the repercussions coming her way. It was her question that had caused Duke Lewis's schedule to be interrupted, after all. When the Duke stormed into the room with an air of authority surrounding him like a cloak, Tersa realized it was Trent she was anxious for.

To Tersa, Sergeant Cullen was the strongest man alive. Fairies, fathers, and officers all fell before the Sergeant. Cullen was her example and her wall. When she was afraid, she asked herself what Cullen would do and then acted accordingly. That Tersa was afraid almost all the time was why she threw herself at every situation with belligerence and false bravado.

The anger in the Duke's eyes and the frown scarring his face caused Tersa's mask to crack and break. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. The Duke was the only man Tersa had ever seen Sergeant Cullen act respectfully around. For the Duke to look the way he did meant Trent's absence wasn't the simple matter it should have been.

Tersa's only friend was lost, and it had taken her a week to realize it. More than a week! She couldn't remember the last time she had seen Trent's stupid… Trent's honest face. He had been there when she entered the Garden, hadn't he? She was sure Trent had gone through the white gate of that hateful place first. The thought made her feel even worse.

Trent had gone in, but no one could say whether he had come out! The Garden was filled with Fairies! Tersa shook at the image of Trent at the mercy of those winged horrors while she was complaining about wall- cleaning detail. Boys could be strung up and sliced to pieces as easily as girls could! It would not be fair if that happened to Trent! He never talked back or

broke plates. Tersa would bet Trent had never spilled a drop of beer in his whole life. Trent was good! He never…

When a furry white head deposited itself in her lap, Tersa, lost in the memories of a little girl who feared her own family as much as she feared Fairies, wrapped her arms around it and sobbed quietly with her face buried. She didn't question the support of the canine that had less business in this training hall than she did. She just leaned into it and trembled.

No one paid any mind to Tersa. The most important people in Al'drossford had all gathered, and they all wanted answers. Where was Trent? How long had he been missing? Why hadn't Cullen noticed his absence? Why hadn't Kirstin reported that her summons mark had vanished? They were all questions that could not be answered.

Lewis Al'dross rubbed his forehead with one hand and muttered a curse. Besides the Junior Guardsman in the corner, only he, Cullen, and Taylor remained in the training hall. Everyone else had been sent to scour the keep for answers. Tersa was allowed to stay because Cullen had demanded she stay within sight, as if he were afraid whatever had swept Trent away would come back for the girl.

The three men were some of the most powerful Awakened in the kingdom, and they were stumped. A Summons mark, the tattoo that came with a contracted Beast, was not something that faded away without being noticed. But when Trent's absence was brought to Kirstin's attention, Lewis's daughter had looked stunned, until she had been dismissed. Her eyes were far away as she left the room, scratching at the back of her hand.

Summons could be transferred with the contract holder's consent. Another way of losing a summons was for the Beast's loyalty rating to drop below zero. When that happened, the contract would be broken. Normally, a Beast who lost its contract would stand in one spot until another formed a pact with it or it died.

This was where things got murky. Trent was unique. A Human Summons, or from what Cullen said, the boy had become Al'rashian. No one could say with any certainty what would happen once he was free. Michael had assumed that because the boy had awareness and intelligence, he would become exactly what he appeared to be: an Awakened with unlimited potential, with the right to pick his own path.

Lewis had not been willing to risk that. Trent was too valuable to assume that he would behave differently from any other summons. The Duke had

insisted that Kirstin keep her contract. He had subtly influenced his daughter into recognizing how extraordinary Trent was. Lewis hadn't recognized any urgency to the matter. A contracted Summons wasn't an easy thing to lose.

"This is my fault," Cullen said weakly for the hundredth time. The Sergeant fluctuated between looking angry enough to punch holes through the walls and depressed enough to weep. "I sent Kris away. I should have…"

"Stop blaming yourself, Cullen!" Taylor snapped irritably. "You couldn't have known! Loyalty Ratings don't just drop after reaching 25. It takes mishandling for a contract to break. Kirstin's presence would have made no difference. And there's more at play here. Why did it take so long for us to realize the boy was missing? What kind of magic could accomplish that?"

"The contract was always strange." Lewis let his hand fall back to his side. "I saw it when I did the evaluation but put it down to the boy's unusual nature. We need a Diviner. And something the boy owned, something he has handled."

"Stop calling him 'the boy!' The Runt's name is Trent!" Cullen's knuckles creaked as his hands curled into fists. "And fuck Diviners! We need Agatha!"

The conversation died. Cullen interrupting and cursing at Lewis wasn't unheard of. It was the Sergeant speaking the name of Taylor's wife, without tacking on an insult, that caused his oldest friends to peer at him with worried expressions. Cullen was right, of course. What a Diviner could do, a Seer could do better, but Cullen was known for saying the opposite, loudly, to Agatha's face.

"His name is Trent, Trent Embra, and the matter is more serious than any of you recognize." The modulated voice that spoke drew the men's eyes over Cullen's shoulder.

An Al'rashian stood there. With his silver eyes and angular features, the man could be nothing else. Dressed in a black cloak and brown leather armor, a sword belted at his waist, the Al'rashian did not have a particularly imposing appearance. He looked like any number of Al'rashian Riders the three had encountered over the years. The fact that he stood there drumming his fingers against the hilt of his sword and had presumably done so for some time without being noticed indicated the man was no common Rider.

"Who the fuck are you?" Cullen was strangely grateful to the Al'rashian. He needed something to focus the swirl of emotions tearing him apart on. Peacemaker was a thought away, and the Sergeant offered up a prayer to any

gods that might be listening, begging that this Al'rashian would give him the chance to use his axe. If Lewis had not been present, Cullen might have already started swinging.

Ranar gravely nodded his head as if Cullen had politely asked for his name. "Introductions, of course. My manners desert me. I am Ranar Wygon, of Clan Wygon." Ranar swept his cloak behind him and offered a low bow.

"Clan Wygon?" Lewis grabbed hold of Tailor's shoulder. The Assassin had drawn his knives and was drifting to the side, looking for a vulnerable place to strike. "The Wygons are always welcome in Al'drossford."

Cullen looked incensed at the Duke's polite tones, and Taylor quirked an eyebrow as well. Lewis was too focused on Ranar to notice. The Al'dross had waited for centuries for a representative of one of the major clans to arrive. If Ranar was who he said he was…

"Please, do not misunderstand," Ranar straightened up, "I do not, cannot represent Clan Wygon. I am here as Master of the Dusk Tower, and my concern is for Trent Embra."

"You could be the Empress of Triordon and I wouldn't…" "Shut up Cullen!" Lewis barked tersely. The was no time to explain to the

Sergeant who the Master of the Dusk Tower was. Lewis himself barely understood. From what he had read in his family history, if Ranar was telling the truth, Lewis was saving Cullen's life by interrupting him.

"Thank you. Forgive me, I do not know how you are addressed, Lewis of… Lewis Al'dross. As the leader of your family, you would be called Elder in Al'rashian terms, but your clan has…" Ranar was at a loss to continue. Implying that a Clan had declined was a serious insult, and the last thing he wanted was to antagonize Lewis.

"You address him as Your Grace, and…" For Taylor, the sneer in his voice was the equivalent of Cullen's cursing. Neither man was handling being taken by surprise well, and Lewis squeezed the Assassin's shoulder to warn him.

"Your Grace." Ranar rolled the words around his mouth and nodded gratefully to Taylor, pretending not to see the knives the man still held. "About Trent Embra, I can tell you he entered this keep along with you, Sergeant. I also came to Al'drossford at that time. You should not be relieved that Trent Embra was here so recently. The fact that he escaped my watch as easily as he did yours should alarm you."

"You entered at the same time as we did?" Cullen's eyes lit up as a few

ideas clicked together in his head. "Then you had been following us for some time. I have you to thank for the ice snake, yeah?"

"Yes, I…" Ranar's head rocked backward and he took a half step back as Cullen's fist landed on his face. Lewis let go of Taylor to grab at Cullen and found the action unnecessary. Cullen and Taylor looked remarkably calmer after Cullen's punch.

Ranar had only taken a half step back. Taylor sheathed his knives and Cullen crossed his arms over his chest. He had not held back with that blow. A fist that could send a thousand pounds of Greater Ice Serpent flying had barely managed to ruffle Ranar. Hidden behind his elbow, Cullen gently flexed his hand and hoped there were no broken bones.

Ranar cleared his throat. "I deserved that. I needed to speak with Trent alone. I apologize for the Serpent. I asked for a Drake, but when Terah learned what I intended for the Beast, she refused to provide one of her servants."

Cullen grunted and tried not to look impressed. It wasn't every day you heard a man claim to have sent a goddess to capture a Beast. If this was true, it was one of the most exceptional feats Cullen had ever heard of. If it were a lie, the Sergeant could learn a thing or two about the art of bragging from this Al'rashian.

"Why did you need to speak with Trent?" Lewis asked, his eyes narrowing.

"We should speak of that alone, Your Grace. There are a great many things we should speak of alone." Ranar's fingers began their drumming again. "For now, the boy must be found. I am capable of sensing those with Al'rashian blood, and l tried to do so the second I realized Trent Embra was missing. I found nothing. Either he is too far away, or he has entered a Trial. Let us pray for the latter."

"Hopefully, the boy has followed the instincts of his Class and is challenging a local Trial, in which case, I will find him the moment he exits." Ranar took a deep breath and his silver eyes flashed. "It will be more difficult if he has been abducted, but my Bond has his scent and will be able to track the boy, wherever he may be."

Ranar's gaze flickered to the corner where Arakai was comforting a small crying redhead. "I imagine if Trent Embra has been taken against his will, his captors will soon regret it."

"Why is that?" Taylor asked. "He's a Summons; if he forms a pact with

whoever lured him away…" "He was never a Summons," Ranar spoke quietly but bit off the last

word. "He… tell me, Sergeant, you took your trainees to the area near the lake Trial because it is filled with low-leveled Beasts, yes? How did you end up in an Instant Trial? Between the domains of two Trials, you should have been safe from the Wanderers."

Cullen rolled his neck and took out his pipe. As he lit it, he pretended to consider Ranar's question. He merely needed to occupy his hands, keeping himself from grabbing hold of the Al'rashian and shaking a straight answer out of the man.

"We'd fought a pack of Howlers right before the Survival Trial appeared." Cullen exhaled a heavy cloud of smoke towards Ranar. "Blood and death can draw a Wandering Trial. Figured that was what did it."

"You were wrong," Ranar said shortly. "Trent Embra brought that Trial to you. Outside of a domain, the violet-eyed attract the Wanderers like honey attracts flies. Until he is trained, Trent shouldn't be allowed to step a foot away from a permanent Trial, a fact which any that currently travel with him are sure to learn."

"He didn't have violet eyes until after…" Cullen argued. Lewis blurted, "Violet eyes? How did you forget to mention that,

Cullen?!" Cullen was spared from responding to the murderous tone in Lewis's

voice by a knock at the door. Helmand, the Dukes's adjutant, stuck his head into the room a moment later to announce, "Your Grace, the Duchess and her escort have been spotted. They will be here within the hour."

Lewis's hand pressed against his forehead again. He felt a headache developing. Vanessa had been sending regular letters for the past six months. She had sent a message the day before saying she was almost home, but this one was the first to mention that she was traveling with a troop of Immortals and forty or so minor Nobles.

After a day of speculating, Lewis wondered if she had withheld that morsel of information to keep him from worrying, or because springing it on him was more amusing. The presence of all those Nobles, not to mention the Immortals, would curtail his search for Trent. He could not send out the Guard in force without alerting watching eyes that something was going on.

"Master Wygon, if you would work with Cullen and Taylor to find the boy," Lewis sighed, "I suspect I will be occupied for the foreseeable future."

Cullen glowered at Ranar's back as they made their way towards the main gate. Lewis was being too trusting, and Cullen couldn't understand why. Was it because the man was Al'rashian? Or the fact that Ranar clearly had the power to waltz in, out, and around the Keep, unnoticed at will? Shouldn't that make the Duke suspicious of the man?

But no, instead of summoning Guardsmen to take Ranar into custody, Lewis walked beside him and offered every courtesy. The Duke had already sent Helmand to arrange guest quarters for the Al'rashian, and seemed more concerned with Ranar's comfort than the arrival of the Duchess!

That was another thing that stuck in Cullen's throat. He wanted to be out searching for Trent; he already had an idea for finding the Runt. An idea that did not include Ranar's help, thank you very much and piss off! But instead of rushing to Agatha or the Guild, Cullen had to go along to greet the visitors from the capital.

If Vanessa Al'dross had been returning the way she had left, unaccompanied, Cullen's presence would not be needed. Her escort of Immortals changed that. The arrival of the kingdom's elite troops, rather than the Nobles they protected, required a certain amount of ceremony. Had it been Nobles alone, Michael, as Captain of the Guard, would have sufficed. A hundred soldiers, all over Level 50, meant Cullen would be needed to stiffen the backs of the Keep's own men and head off trouble should it appear. It would not be fitting for the Duke to reveal his own strength, and in Al'drossford, Taylor was known for his skills with a needle, not a knife. Cullen was the public face of the city's armed forces.

That was how Lewis put it. Cullen found it all ridiculous! His Guards could handle the men that called themselves Immortals. There was no fight in the king's men. They were merely Class Holders who had unluckily drawn the king's attention with their success and fortune, enough to be enslaved rather than killed. Cullen knew that the collar, which all Immortals wore, was no honor.

Cullen might have been collared himself if the enchantments on such a device were not limited. A slave owner had to be of a higher Level than those he entrapped. For centuries, Al'verren kings had stood at the pinnacle of the kingdom, but Lewis's adventuring days had changed that. The Duke and his retainers might be constrained by the kingdom's charter, but Lewis and his companions made interference in Al'drossford's business much too costly for serious consideration.

Corporal Francis fell in beside Cullen as the group exited the Keep. He wore the ceremonial uniform of the Guard, highly polished black and silver armor, and had his helm tucked beneath one arm.

"What have you found, Frank?" Cullen said out of the side of his mouth. His eyes never left Ranar's back. He hurled provocations at the Al'rashian with his mind, urging the man to give him a reason to attack. His fist hadn't gotten the job done, but Cullen had always preferred an axe. Peacemaker would make the point that his bare hands couldn't, if given the chance.

"I've contacted the Watch; they keep their ears to the ground. No one has heard anything about why we're being blessed with a troop of Immortals or the brats they're babysitting," Frank reported quietly. "Can't understand it myself. The Duchess would have made better time alone."

"Fuck the Immortals! I don't give a rat's ass about those puffed up sons of bitches! I want you to tell me where the Runt is!" Cullen's outburst caused a passing servant to drop the bundle he was carrying, and even the Corporal winced. Lewis and Ranar looked over their shoulders. The Duke's glance was condemning, though oddly, the Al'rashian's eyes danced with approval.

"No one has seen the kid." Frank cleared his throat and replied carefully, "I still have men looking, but since the Duke wants things done discreetly, there's only so much we can do, Sergeant."

"Call off the search! It's a waste of time!" Cullen snapped. "Once this farce is over with, I'll find the Runt personally."

Corporal Francis opened his mouth and then shut it. From all indications, the Keep was about to become too busy for the Sergeant to run off. However,

there was no way Frank was going to be the one to mention it.

All the Guards at the gate were wearing their dress uniforms, and an honor guard lined the road. Two hundred men stood beside the road outside the gate, holding ceremonial spears at just the right angle and not moving so much as an inch, as they waited to greet their Lord's wife. Cullen was distinctly out of place in the everyday breastplate and chainmail of the Guard, with just a short sword hanging from his waist.

The Immortals' disciplined formation could be seen riding up the hill, and Frank risked his life by whispering that the Sergeant might want to change. Cullen shook his head irritably. He had always hated the pomp that came along with his position. Usually, he put up with it. Today he was in no mood.

The clattering of hooves cut off anything Frank may have wanted to add. Cullen sneered as the Immortals peeled off to the sides, allowing a group at their center to come forward. The precision of the soldiers was ruined by the mob they allowed through. Slumped in their saddles, looking bored, the Nobles showed no appreciation for the display that had been arranged for them.

The two women that led the group tried to make up for their companions' lack of decorum. Vanessa Al'dross and a silver-haired girl Cullen did not recognize smiled as they brought their horses to a stop and dismounted. Cullen brushed at his breastplate, self-consciously, when he caught sight of Vanessa's cheerful face and graceful form. In his temper, he had forgotten he was coming to welcome a friend home. Reminded of it now, a hint of shame that he kept from his face crept into him.

Grooms hurried forward to take the reins from the Duchess and the girl. More servants helped the rest of the Nobles dismount and guided their horses away. Vanessa smoothed the front of her shirt and, with steady flowing steps and a tired smile, she brought herself to stand before Lewis.

"I've returned, husband," she said, taking his hands.

Lewis brought her knuckles to his lips. "You were gone too long. The Keep has been empty these last months. And you've brought guests with

you."

Lewis's tone was even, and the words appropriate but the crinkle at the corner of his eyes told Vanessa he would have liked more warning. Vanessa moved to his side and linked her arm through his.

"You remember Eliora," The Duchess started to introduce the silver- haired girl, standing a step behind her but was interrupted by a disdainful voice.

"Are we through with this? You have prepared rooms, Baron, show us the way. And I trust you have competent servants available. Ours were ordered to remain with the barge for some incomprehensible reason."

Cullen sighed with relief as the silk-clad man, with the face of a woman, strutted arrogantly forward to make demands. The Sergeant had been itching for someone to unleash his pent-up frustrations on, and with Tersa left behind, asleep on a Dire Wolf, he had been afraid he wouldn't get any volunteers.

"Corporal Francis, this young man desires appropriate accommodations. See him to the cells and arrange for our prettiest jailers to see to his needs." Cullen tapped his sword hilt, his eyes on the Immortals as he gave the order he was entirely serious about.

Frank saluted, his fist ringing off his breastplate. His eyes were hard as he went to work. Seth Al'verren found his arm in the Corporal's unyielding grip before Cullen's words had finished bouncing off the nearby walls.

Seth futilely tried to wrench his arm away as he shrilly shouted, "Unhand me, peasant! Colonel, deal with this man. I am a prince, you unwashed oaf! Baron Al'dross, unless you wish to see…"

Colonel Bromden had been running to resolve the issue but came to a stop and closed his eyes as Lewis spoke, "Prince? I was unaware the Kingdom's Heir was planning to visit."

"Uncle," Eliora said casually, "Your Grace, he is not the Heir. He is the

eleventh born son of our father, the King."

"I see," Lewis inclined his head towards Eliora. "In that case, Colonel, was it? Do you wish to execute the criminal personally or should I?"

"Perhaps, leniency could be shown, Your Grace?" Colonel Bromden said respectfully, "He is the King's son. It's a minor mistake."

"What!"

"You will keep your mouth shut," Lewis hardly raised his voice. In comparison, the click of Seth's teeth as they slammed together was much louder. Lewis rarely used the Right to Rule, granted to him by his Greater Noble Class, but when he did, any loyal subject of the kingdom had no way to resist his commands.

"I will overlook his transgression this time. An execution would spoil my wife's return. Release him, Corporal." Lewis lifted his gaze from Seth to address the rest of the Nobles. "Rooms have been prepared for all of you, and an early dinner will be served once you've had the opportunity to freshen up. Colonel, your men are welcome to stay in the barracks."

Servants rushed forward to see Lewis's orders carried out, and the Duke clasped his wife's hand to lead her inside the Keep. Freed from Lewis's influence, Seth whirled on Colonel Bromden.

"What was that? You allowed a Baron to speak to me that way? How will you answer for this?"

Bromden kept his voice low as he answered, "Your Highness, Lewis Al'dross is a Duke, granted the title by the World itself. In your father's capital you may outrank him, but here…"

"Here, you step one toe out of line, and I'll hang you from the city wall myself." Cullen stood behind Seth and growled into his ear, "Welcome to Al'drossford, highness."

Chapter Eight It took Orion Embra longer to reach the Trial town of Sweet Meadows

than he anticipated. He found his feet dragging as he neared his destination. Sweet Meadows would have a Guildhall, and in that Guildhall, Orion might find word of his Clan. It was why he headed towards the town in the first place, but each step that brought him closer to his goal had been harder to take.

Technically, Orion was still an exile. Though unsealing his Spirit Summoner Class fulfilled the conditions of his return, until the Clan Elders officially confirmed it, Orion was an outsider. And there was a possibility that that declaration might never be made.

There were forces at play that were beyond Orion. His crime, the execution of his own brother, had been serious but justified. He should never have been exiled to begin with. Exile was the most severe punishment the clans handed out. At most, Orion should have been set a task to redeem himself.

As the first Al'rashian to gain the Spirit Summoner Class since the fall, Orion should have been protected. His crime should have been reasoned away. If not for his secondary identity as the adopted son of the First Elder, it would have been.

However much Orion's Class had been celebrated when it first appeared in his Status, along with the joy came the rumors. What good was a Spirit Summoner without an Orb? How could Orion not instinctively know how to guide Al'rashians to their Bonds? The Elders had seized the opportunity provided by Albion's death to rid themselves of an embarrassment and apply pressure to Orion's mother.

Castalia Embra was First Elder by right of birth. She was the purest descendant of Clan Embra, and instead of marrying, she had adopted two boys to make her heirs. It rankled the old men of the clan council to no end, especially since they had no right to question Castalia or the means to persuade her. They didn't until one of her sons became a traitor, and the other a Kin Slayer.

Orion was sure Castalia had been offered a choice, to marry and produce true heirs or see Orion exiled. Orion had never considered the Council of

Elders fools before. They should have known what the results of their meddling would be. Castalia had wished Orion well and sent him away as if his exile would be a tempering and temporary journey.

Orion looked at the mud-speckled walls of Sweet Meadow's Guildhall and sighed. He placed his palms against the worn wood of the door and pushed it open. His feet might hesitate, but the note from a king pushed him on. Whatever welcome awaited him at the Clan's current camp, he had to return.

Romantics would tell you that each Adventurers' Guildhall had its own charm, its own stories to tell and secrets to share. In Orion's experience, if the walls of a Guild could talk, they would be hard to hear over the sounds of Adventurers bragging and calling for drinks, while men fought in the arena or haggled with Attendants for better Quest rewards. He braced himself for the wave of sound that would sweep over him when the doors opened.

Silence. Orion thought he had come to the wrong place. But no, the structure was all there; it was only the color that was missing. The Guildhall at Sweet Meadows was a narrow two-story building. Inside, the designers had fit all the necessary pieces of a Guild into a limited space.

An empty railed pit sat at the center of the room. This arena should have contained Adventurers honing their skills or settling disagreements to the delight of gamblers. Orion had never seen an unused arena before. Most of Sweet Meadow's Adventurers sat at the tables which were scattered about, while a few leaned against the bar at the right side of the room.

No one was lined up at the Questing Pillar or the Attendant's counter. No shouting, cheering, or ringing of coin being slapped down greeted Orion. Whispered conversations cut off as the Al'rashian entered, and every eye turned to look at him.

Orion drifted into the room. It was probably his imagination, but he could swear his boots created an echo in the stillness. Pretending he could not feel the gazes burning into him, Orion slipped passed tables and made his way to the counter.

The middle-aged Guild Attendant wore an anxious expression as Orion approached. That look concerned Orion more than anything. The Attendant should have been leaning against his station, looking bored from the lack of activity. Or if not bored, then he should have worn a prideful air of irritation, being upset that Adventurers weren't making use of his expertise. He should not have hunched his shoulders and looked about nervously as Orion stood

before him. The man cleared his throat and tried to smile. His efforts made him look

like he wanted to vomit. "If your business isn't urgent, it might be best to wait."

Orion reached into his robe and removed three melted lumps of metal from an inside pocket. He set them on the counter one at a time. The Attendant's attitude annoyed him. Orion might be uncertain how his Clan would receive him, but in a Guildhall, he was a Silver Ranked Adventurer. Whatever problems Sweet Meadows might be facing, they weren't his.

"I am here to collect a bounty, and…" Orion's hand went to his sword, as everyone in the room rose from their chairs. He had placed his Staff in Storage, and that suddenly felt like a mistake.

The roomful of Adventurers were not looking at Orion any longer. They stared at the Attendant as the man took out a monocle with shaking hands and used it to peer at the ruined Guild Tokens Orion had set out on the counter. When the man gasped and rubbed at his lips, muttering in disbelief, Orion eased an inch of his blade clear of its sheath.

The Tokens belonged to three outlaws he had killed on the road. They may have been scum, that didn't mean they didn't have friends. From all appearances, Orion had walked into a room filled with those that sympathized with Dale of Kilpond and his cronies. Orion's sword almost finished freeing itself as a young woman pushed her way through the crowd towards the counter.

The woman swayed as she came forward. Her steps were light and graceful, but her hips had more drunken stagger than seductive grace in them. Hazel eyes, blurry and reddened, confirmed Orion's guess. The woman's long brown hair hung loosely around her shoulders, and a cloak concealed most of her body. Where the cloak hung open, Orion spotted chainmail shoulder guards over red leather and the hilts of at least three knives.

Sagging against the counter, the unsteady woman ignored Orion and his half-drawn sword. She hiccupped as she asked the Attendant, "Is it them?"

"Yes, all three of them," the Attendant responded softly. Raising his voice, he repeated his announcement, "He killed all three of them!"

The crowd erupted. Orion had allowed his blade to sink back into his sheath, and he couldn't get it out in time. The woman was drunk, but as close as she was, she hardly needed to be fast. Her arms closed around him, holding his arms to his sides.

Her mistake. Orion needed physical contact to cast Bind, and this woman had sealed her own fate. Before he could cast the Spell, she pressed her forehead against his chest. Her voice broke as she repeatedly sobbed, "Thank you, thank you…"

Orion nearly cast Bind anyway. He just wanted to get away. The crowd of Adventurers closed in around him and pulled him to a nearby table. The woman never released her hold as they were both shoved into chairs. She slumped awkwardly, still muttering, while Orion was subjected to thudding blows on his shoulders and pelted with questions.

"Quiet!" The young woman shouted, straightening up in her chair. She grabbed hold of Orion's sleeve. "How did they die? Was it slow? Painful?"

"No." Orion tried to tug his arm away and stand up, but the woman's fingers and the press of the crowd held him in place. "It was over in seconds."

"What did you do with the bodies?" the woman leaned forward, her eyes clearing slightly as she focused on the Al'rashian.

"I threw them into the Blackmire," Orion replied. "Better than they deserved! You should have hung them naked from the

trees. Should have plucked out their eyes and…better than they deserved…" Her hand fell away as she trailed off. Then she came to her feet with a roar, "Drinks, drinks for everyone! Dale and his scum are dead! And the world is a cleaner place!"

Orion would have had to cut his way out of the Guild to leave. He was tempted to do it. The Adventurers of Sweet Meadows made up for their earlier solemnness by filling the hall with an uncontrolled celebration. The arena meant for duels became a stage for musicians and dancing. Men stood on tables and shouted his praises. They stamped their feet, and the barmaid couldn't bring drinks fast enough to satisfy the demand.

Orion heard the story of his battle with the three outlaws told repeatedly. The Adventurers filled in the details themselves, expanding on the few sentences he had been allowed to speak. By the end of the night, Orion had become an avenging angel, who pursued Dale of Kilpond for several days and nights without rest. The epic chase culminated in a fierce struggle on a cliff at dawn, where Dale, unable to escape, flung himself to his death rather than face Orion's fury.

It was only a few hours until daybreak when the party finally fizzled out. Orion had never moved from his seat. Despite that, he felt as exhausted as the

men curled up asleep under the tables. He would have slipped out of the hall then, run for the Wilds, and never looked back only he still hoped to finish his business.

The Guild Attendant, his anxiety gone, sat down in a chair on Orion's left. The seat to his right was still occupied by the young woman, who had laid her head on the table and had been unconscious for hours. Orion doubted she would remember the night's events when she awoke. Someone else would have to remind her, Orion planned to be long gone.

"Probably didn't expect all that, hmmm?" The middle-aged Attendant said, setting a heavy pouch in front of Orion. "Your bounty, sixty silver. Twenty for each Token."

Orion opened the pouch and counted the contents. Confirming the amount, he tied it to his belt, unwilling to announce that he had Storage. "You take bounties seriously here. Most halls wouldn't react so fervently for men worth twenty silver apiece."

The Attendant nodded at the sleeping woman. "Girl's name is Reann, she's the one who reported Dale and his lot. Reported them for killing her friends. They were popular around here; pretty girls always are. The hall took their deaths hard."

"Then why wasn't anyone out searching for their killers?" Orion had come across Dale, Brins, and Kurt days ago and had not seen a soul on the road since.

The Attendant snorted. "Sympathy is easy. Tracking three Iron-Ranked Adventurers for sixty silvers? Not many here willing to do that. Mostly soft metal on the Kilpond circuit, you understand?" He spread his arms as if begging Orion to do just that.

Orion nodded. Soft metal, Adventurers who did not adventure. They never delved too deep, never hunted outside of familiar terrain, and considered every step before they took it. Adventurers like that were necessary for local economies but they would never be great, never hold a Guild Token that was more precious than steel.

The Al'rashian didn't judge. He pulled out his own Silver Token and laid it on the table. "I'm looking for word of Clan Embra."

The Attendant waved the Token away. Guild policy said he should verify it but what he had to say wasn't official. "We don't get Ridings through here often. I did hear a rumor about a Clan doing mercenary work around Wallander. Nasty bit of fighting up that way just now. But I can't say if it's

the Embras or not." "You don't need to check?" Orion asked, looking towards the counter.

Records would be kept there, records which would hold messages from the Clans if they were available.

"Like I said, we don't get many Ridings through Sweet Meadows. Rumor I heard was from a trader."

Orion tucked his Token away and rubbed at the back of his neck. "A month to Wallander?"

"Month, month and a half, depending on the roads. I'd lean towards it taking longer. Unsettled that way, like I said. Might make better time if you've got a good mount."

That sparked an interest in Orion. It faded after he considered his finances. He'd have to work the local Trial for a lot longer than a month or two to earn enough coin for a decent mount. "What about local weapon shops? Are there any you can recommend?"

"The First Strike sells decent blades. Should meet the needs of a Silver, barely. You'll pass it on your way north if you're headed for Wallander." The Attendant regretted not looking closer at Orion's Token. Generally, Silver Ranked were Level 75 or higher. The Token would have told him the Al'rashian's specifics. Finding out now would mean using Identify, which wouldn't work if Orion was at such a Level, not to mention being considered rude. More than a few duels started with careless use of Identify.

Orion tossed a coin on the table,."I'll take a room for the night if one's available. Please send someone to wake me an hour before the shops open."

The Attendant took a key out of his pocket and pushed it, as well as Orion's silver, over to him. "Room at the end of the hall is free and empty."

"Thank you." Scooping up the items, Orion stood to leave. The Attendant rose with him. "Ahh, if you would, Reann has had a rough

time. Her room is the first one on the right at the top of the stairs. Waking up in privacy would be better than falling out of that chair."

"You want me to carry her?" Orion said, his expression flat. "I'd help, but, my back." The Attendant placed a hand to the offending

body part. "It's why I gave up Adventuring to work for the Guild, you understand?"

"I don't know this woman." Orion hoped the man was joking but had a feeling that this favor was the true price of that free and empty room.

"She won't mind. You're her hero now, didn't you hear the stories? An

avenging angel with silver eyes. The proper ending to that tale should be a chivalrous act."

Reann did not want the privacy of her room. Orion discovered this when

he opened the door in the morning and the young woman fell backwards into his own room. Her head bounced off the wood floor as he stepped out of the way.

"Ah, for Wendle's ever-loving…" Blurry hazel eyes, creaked open and upon finding Orion standing over her with a frown creasing his face, Reann rubbed at them. "It's you!"

The lanky woman rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. Or tried too. Her arms shook and she gulped as her stomach lurched. "Little hand here?"

Orion stepped over her and strode down the hall. He had done his chivalrous act the night before, going so far as to tuck Reann in and place a basin next to her bed. The woman might be mourning, but that was for her friends to worry about. He was a stranger, a stranger with a long road ahead of him.

"Hey, wait up." Reann stumbled out of the room, and with one hand on the wall to steady herself, lurched towards the stairs that Orion had already reached.

Long legs carried Orion downstairs and, with a glare at the Attendant, a mousy looking girl, who had probably told Reann where he was sleeping, he left the Guild. The First Strike and Wallander were to the north, and after orienting himself with Map, Orion headed in that direction.

Meat pastries were the snare that tangled him and allowed Reann to catch up. They weren't even that good, though he bought and ate two. He was finishing the second and brushing crumbs from his fingers when a panting Reann fell in beside him.

"Hey, you must not have heard me," she said catching hold of his sleeve. "I said to wait up."

"I heard," Orion said without stopping. "I saw no reason to." "Polite consideration is reason enough for most." Reann's face was

slightly too green to pull off the disgruntled look she tried to summon. "Not for me! Not today." Orion increased his pace. "You should be in

bed. You are hungover or still drunk. You need rest." "Nothing like a good walk to cure a hangover," came the reply. "Fresh air

and sunshine banish all ills."

Her mouth said the words, her stomach and splitting head tended to agree with Orion. She wobbled as she tried to match his stride. "My name is Reann of… Reann Quin."

It was strange to give her last name. She had been Reann of the Blue Doves since becoming an Adventurer. Now, with all her companions dead, she was back to being little Reann Quin of Kilpond. She had not tacked on the name of her hometown to her introduction because the man who led the group that murdered her closest friends shared her place of origin.

"Orion Embra, Kin Slayer." Orion always introduced himself this way. This time he emphasized his title. He hoped Reann would be one of those who mistook it for a dishonorable addition.

She didn't. "Clan kicked you out, but the family kept you, huh? You'd think it would

be the other way around with a title like Kin Slayer," Reann chirped, her attempt to sound cheerful ruined by a belch, "'scuse me. You probably don't want to talk about it. So, where are we headed?"

"We are headed nowhere. I am going to the First Strike, and you should be in bed," Orion said. He pressed his lips together. He would be running if he walked any faster, and Reann refused to be shaken off.

"The First Strike? I know the owner; I can get you a deal! Is it back to the Guild after that?" Reann prayed the answer was yes. The bartender at the Guildhall made a hangover cure from raw eggs and vinegar, mixed with Health and Stamina potions that would have her right as rain in a heartbeat.

"No, I'm leaving for Wallander." It was useless to try ducking into an alley to lose her. Sweet Meadows was too small, and the woman knew its streets better than he did. The town hadn't come awake yet, so dodging into a crowd wouldn't work either.

"Wallander? Never been, is it nice? Hey, this is the First Strike, you're about to walk right by it!"

Orion stared at the storefront which was still closed for business. He needed a new sword, but weapon shops were plentiful, and the roads had traveling merchants everywhere. He could keep going, and Reann wouldn't follow him out of the town… would she?

"So, Wallander, is it nice?" Reann repeated, leaning against the shop wall, out of direct sunlight. Orion shrugged a reply, hoping to discourage her. Reann wasn't so easily put off.

"Well, 'spect I'll find out when we get there." She took a canteen from

inside her cloak and took a drink. Swirling a second swallow around in her mouth, she spit it out to the side. Orion, looking closely at the woman for the first time, realized she was carrying a pack and appeared fully outfitted for travel.

"You are not going," Orion said bluntly. "You should be back with your friends."

The door to the First Strike opened at the same time Reann started to reply. A thin, brown-haired teenager stuck his head out and peered at the two owlishly. "Hey, Reann, you here to shop?"

"Not me, Dylan, my friend here is the one with coin to spend. Give him a good deal, yeah?" Reann gestured towards Orion. Her bright smile came off a little sickly.

"Uh, sure, I'll do what I can. Should you be up and about? You're looking…"

Orion pushed by Dylan, as the well-meaning shop clerk questioned Reann. The inside of the First Strike was tidy. Its walls were covered in weapons and shields. Racks of spears and swords were lined up in neat rows from the front door to the back counter. The number of arms was impressive. Their quality was not. A quick glance told Orion that while there were blades here superior to the one on his belt, he wouldn't be finding any hidden treasures here.

Not that he had expected to find any, but Orion questioned why the Guild Attendant would think that this shop could meet the needs of a Silver-ranked Adventurer. Behind him, Reann turned down Dylan's offer to fetch a Healer, while Orion chose a serviceable longsword at random. He wanted to be on the road soon, and given the shop's inventory, his choice didn't particularly matter.

Orion discovered a third person had entered the shop when he turned to ask Dylan the price of the sword. The new man was stocky, his face lined, and his hair grey. His thick beard was braided into twin tails, each of which had a red ribbon running through it. This was a Dwarven custom to mark a Journeyman Smith, but the man's height said he was human.

"Put that back," the Smith said gruffly. "It's not for you. Come with me." Bemused, Orion hung the blade back on its pegs and followed the man

into the back room of the shop. The lighting here was dimmer, but the contents made up for that. A single weapon in this room would be worth more than all the ones on display in the front.

"Apprenticed under Darnar Forgeheart," the Smith said, seeing the question on Orion's face. "Don't sell my own work, usually. Men like you don't come to Sweet Meadows often. Is it true you killed the men responsible for ambushing Reann?"

Orion nodded slowly. There were swords in this room that would have held his attention even when he was still a Swordmaster. Unfortunately, his purse was rather light at the moment. "You do fine work, Master…?"

"Santar, Rory Santar," the Smith said over his shoulder. He was pulling a long case from under a table at the far side of the room. Placing the box on top of the surface, he waved Orion over.

"Orion Embra, Kin Slayer," Orion supplied, joining the man. "A Rider commissioned these years ago and never came back for them,"

Rory said, patting the box. "Tell me what you think." Orion flipped the weapon case open and looked at the contents. Two

swords lay within. One was a longsword with a simple crossguard and a thin blade, no more than two inches wide. The other was a match for the blade at his hip, an Al'rashian sword, single-edged with a slight curve, suitable for use from a mount or on the ground. Both blades were made from silver-steel.

Orion drew his hand down from the tip of the double-edged sword until his hand wrapped about the hilt. He lifted it from the box and, stepping to the empty center of the room, swung it casually, testing its weight and balance. It had been made for a shorter man, but it responded to his commands, and the silver-steel it was made of gave it a comforting heft.

Orion's wrist snapped as he parried and sent a riposte to pierce the air. He swayed and stamped as he put the blade through its paces, listening as it sang. He lost himself in the familiar movements of techniques he had long mastered. When he lowered the sword at last, a thin sheen of sweat covered his face, and applause erupted from behind him.

Dylan and Reann had joined Master Santar at some point, and they both reacted as if Orion had been putting on a show for their benefit. Rory only nodded approvingly, his arms crossed over his chest.

"You do fine work, Master Santar." Orion placed the blade back into its case. "Too fine for me to afford, I'm afraid."

"That's as I expected. You don't have the look of a man blessed with wealth." The Smith picked up the blades one after another and sheathed them in black scabbards made of soft leather. "But these aren't for sale. Take them as a gift."

He pushed the swords towards Orion, and Orion found his fingers closing around them. He held them a moment before asking, "Why?"

It was a reasonable question, and Rory seemed to expect it. The Blue Doves had been popular, but merchants and smiths didn't give away their goods to avenge pretty girls. Heroism was not worth as much as silver-steel.

Rory cleared his throat as he considered his reply. "My boy was an Adventurer. He left for Kilpond three years ago and was never seen again. Dale and his lot… they came into town three days after the lad left. They said they hadn't met him on the road but…"

Orion took two stilettos out of his Storage. He had taken them off Dale after the man was dead. At the time, he had thought they were too good to be in the hands of the Assassin.

"Those…" Rory's eyes teared up, "those were Sam's, alright…" Orion placed the knives on the table. Tapping one with a finger, he said,

"I killed the Archer with this blade." That would mean something to a mourning Al'rashian. It would mean

something to the Dwarves Rory said he had apprenticed under. The look on the Smith's face said it meant something to him as well. Rory placed his hand over the hilt and stood silently grieving, as Orion switched out his borrowed blade for the longsword. He put the two curved swords into Storage and, with a bow to Rory, left the man to his memories.

Saying a quick goodbye to Dylan, Reann trailed after him. Outside, she said, "That was well done. Most would have kept the knives. So we are off to Wallander now? Or do you need more supplies? I know all the…"

"We are off to nowhere!" Orion whirled on the woman, anger in his voice. "You can go where you like, but it will not be with me!"

"Why not?" Reann shot back. "It's a long way, right? You'll need someone to watch your back. Why shouldn't it be me? I'm a Wind Blade, you won't find a better Rogue on the Kilpond circuit!"

She flourished her knives as she spoke, demonstrating her proficiency. A demonstration that was ruined when one knife slipped from her unsteady, shaking fingers to clatter to the ground.

Soft metal. Wind Blade was probably impressive in Sweet Meadows, but in Orion's mind, the Adventurers with Secondary Specializations were just those who hadn't developed their Skills and Attributes enough to gain an Advanced Class.

"I don't need anyone to watch my back, and if I did…" Orion caught

himself before he insulted the woman. "You are staying here." "I think I'm going!" Reann contradicted him, retrieving her knife.

Daggers twirled in the women's hands as she tried to stare the Al'rashian down. "Tell you what. Five minutes! Friendly duel. You lay a finger on me, and I'll admit it's my loss. We can start whenever you're ready."

Reann doubted she could beat Orion in a serious fight, but avoiding him for a few minutes? Child's play for a Wind Blade. When Orion slapped one blade out of her hand and twisted her arm behind her back, before relieving her of the second, she couldn't help but wonder what types of games he played as a boy.

Thinking they were through, Orion tossed the confiscated knife to the ground and walked away. He heard Reann curse, and a moment later her footsteps coming up behind him.

"You said you'd turn back." The words were a low rumble originating in his chest.

"No, I didn't. I said I would count a touch as my loss," Reann responded, falling into step beside him. "And you can't count that anyway. I'm hungover, remember? So, what's Wallander like?

Orion's breath hissed out from between clenched lips. He gestured to the gathering crowd of people traveling the streets while going about their business. "It's like this, but bigger."

"How much bigger?" "What cities have you seen?" Orion asked, wondering why he bothered. "Grew up in Kilpond. Worked the circuit for the last ten years." "What did you do before that?" "Washed dishes at the Bearded Lion mostly. That's an inn in Kilpond.

My ma and pa run it. Well, ma runs it. Pa hunts and keeps the pantry full. Leaves the hard work to the little woman, he likes to say." She grinned and shot Orion an expectant look. When the man's stone face didn't budge at the joke, she started to think he had no soul.

Her mother was an ogre of a woman, three times as fat and half again as tall as her father. In Kilpond, calling her a little woman would have drunks rolling and in tears with laughter. Orion, having never met the married pair, failed to react.

"You should go back to Kilpond. It's your home," was the only response Reann got.

"Won't. It's time I stretched my legs and saw a bit more than the

backyard. The folks will understand." She hitched her pack up on her shoulders and nodded to the guards at the gate as she and Orion left the shelter of Sweet Meadows wall. "Owe you a favor, and you need me."

"You owe me nothing. The Guild paid the bounty. I do not need you." "It's not about money, it's about lives." Orion had no way to counter that, and didn't try. He stretched out his

legs, hoping silence and speed would be answer enough. It wasn't. "What's your Level anyway? You must be up there to be so

arro…confident." "14," Orion said shortly. Bind or Water Shackles would hold Reann in

place long enough for him to escape. Once they were out of sight of the town's guards.

"Bullshit!" Reann exclaimed, "You're lying! Dale and that lot were third rate, but they were mid-twenties at minimum." She assumed Orion had a Specialization at best. No local Dungeon could attract better.

Orion's hand closed about his hilt. His voice was cold as he spoke, "That statement is why you should stay, why you shouldn't travel with me."

"How do you mean?" "I'm going to rejoin my Clan, and you know nothing of Al'rashians." "I still don't understand." "Your face carries no scars. Do you like it that way?" "What does that have to do with anything?" "You called me a liar, and young Al'rashian Warriors carry two swords." "What?" Reann was baffled. She was determined to leave the Kilpond

circuit and all its ghosts behind. She was ready for a new start, and Orion, a man who could defeat three Iron-ranked Adventurers by himself, seemed a reliable person to team up with. That the man spoke in riddles, she put down to his efforts at driving her away.

"You called me a liar. Most Riders would challenge you for that." Deciding they were far enough from the city walls now, Orion stopped and faced Reann, carefully judging the distance between them.

"Al'rashians get offended by the truth?" Reann spoke lightly, but there was a challenge in her voice. "What was that about two swords?"

"Young Riders carry two swords." "Smart, good to have a spare," Reann quipped flippantly. Orion wasn't amused. "Don't interrupt! They carry one sword for battle

and the other for duels. Their dueling blade they coat with the extract of

searing berries." "Poison? Not a fair duel if you use poison." Reann wondered if the

fluttering in her stomach was caused by last night's excesses, or the way Orion's eyes flashed in anger. She cleared her throat and attempted a more conciliatory tone. "What's this have to do with you being a liar?"

The other members of the Blue Doves would have taken her words as a mocking apology. No Adventurer in Sweet Meadows who knew her would have found them offensive. Orion wasn't a local, though. His hand was a blur as his sword left its sheath. Reann took a step back and prepared to defend herself.

Orion's sword was back in its scabbard as if it had never left. A stinging sensation on her left cheek caused Reann's fingers to touch her face. They came away bloody.

"Searing berry extract isn't a poison. It might cause dizziness in a person with low Constitution, but no real harm. Its purpose is to mark." Orion's clipped words drew Reann away from contemplating the crimson on her fingertips. "A cut made with a blade treated with the extract will always scar. A scar that only a high priest or grand cleric can remove."

Orion stepped close to Reann. She had always been a tall woman, but she felt like a child standing in the Al'rashian's shadow.

"You've named me a liar thrice," he growled. "You are lucky I'm not a young Rider. They would scar you for the first two times and kill you for the third." His eyes softened as he stared down at her. She was younger than he had thought at first, a fact which was highlighted by her pale complexion. She flinched as he reached out and used Minor Heal to seal the wound on her face.

When he turned to resume his journey, Reann almost let him go alone. She stood in place, hand touching her cheek. She was twenty-two and had been an Adventurer for ten years. In those ten years, today was only the second time she had felt close to death.

She had been injured before, wounded badly several times, but she always had friends nearby to help her with spells and potions. Just now, Orion could have taken her head. No one would have known, and her bones would have been another set of the anonymous remains littering the Wilds.

That realization steeled her nerves. There were no local Adventurers like Orion Embra. She could remain here and be mocked as soft metal by travelers for the rest of her life, or she could follow the Al'rashian and learn

about the greater world. She could learn to protect herself and her companions, never again having to leave friends behind to be murdered.

She ran to catch up to Orion. "Touchy lot, Al'rashians, I'll have to watch it when we meet up with them. How do old Riders react to insults?"

"You won't have to worry about that," Orion sighed. His words had a dual meaning, but he didn't elaborate by adding that older Riders were harder to offend. Or that if you managed to do so, the result was death. He also did not say anything more to discourage her. He had been traveling alone for a long time. Reann reminded him of Trent and Tersa, and the pleasure of a journey shared. He could put up with her until she came to her senses and turned back.

Reann waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she decided there were things she could teach him as well. Adventurers passed the time between Quests and Dungeons by talking! How could the Silver-ranked Orion not know that! "So, which are you, old or young?"

"I…" Orion found himself treating the question seriously, "I don't belong to either group."

Pleased that Orion sounded less guarded, Reann asked, "Why not?" "Because I met a girl who could make stone statues weep with frustration,

and saints tear out their beards." "Let me guess," Reann said, rolling her eyes, "she insulted you, so you

killed her and swore off…" she didn't know how to end that thought. He obviously hadn't given up violence.

"No," Orion said, shaking his head, "I made her my sister and vowed to stand between her and her enemies. Tersa offends so many I suspect I will be killing for the rest of my life on her behalf. I can't afford to be offended for my own sake."

"Strange person to take a liking too," Reann said softly. Orion just snorted. "So where's this sister now? Shouldn't you be looking out for her?"

Orion looked as far down the road as his eyes would allow. "She is a long way away, but she has others beside her until I can find her. They will look out for her. She and I have a brother. He's young, but he will soon become one who should not be underestimated."

"Tell me about him." Reann adjusted her pack on her shoulders as Orion, behaving like a normal Adventurer for the first time, regaled her with an unbelievable tale of being imprisoned in a Trial and his rescue by a Level 1 Awakened. It was a pack of lies, of course, but she never said so or

interrupted. Somewhere on the road, they stopped traveling in the same direction and started walking together.

Chapter Nine Trent was ensconced in a second tree with silver bark. A green vine with

silver blossoms curled around this one as well. Trent's fingers itched to pick those small flowers, but he left them alone. It had taken hours of crawling through the forest to find the tree, and he thought the were-creatures left the timber alone because of the vine. The silver trees were this Trial's equivalent of a Safe Zone.

Trent was starting to think his problem with the concept of time originated from the stretches he spent in Trials. There was no way to mark the passing of hours here. The stars twinkled overhead, never rotating by to make room for the sun. The full moon hung in its orbit like an illuminated painting, not budging an inch to mark the moments.

The Land of the Undying Lord had been like that. Storm clouds had never broken there. The Garden of Clarity had been unrelenting in its cheerful sunshine. Curled up on a broad branch, with his back pressed against the trunk and his knees drawn up to his chest, it was easy to forget the outside world. Holding his breath and forgetting the cold that crept into his bones, Trent could imagine a second turning into a year.

He never held his breath for long when this urge came over him. Stealth warned him. Holding your breath or tensing your muscles would cause your body to shake. Trent's Stealth and Camouflage Skills had both risen a level, but subtle things, like blinking too often, were enough to break their effect, if he was unlucky enough to do so while a Werewolf's gaze was focused in his direction. Trent was careful to keep his movements to a minimum, except when he was certain he was alone.

Trent held a six-inch tooth and a belt knife in his hands. He decided it was time to rearm himself. He stared at the tooth until an image of a spear tip overlaid itself on the weapon's crafting material. Trent wasn't entirely sure how to make this image a reality, but he had four tries.

He slowly brought his belt knife in contact with the tooth and began to apply pressure. The blade slipped, skidded along the length of the Beast part, and never made a mark. Trent bit his lip, adjusted the angle at which he was trying to carve, and tried again.

Snap! The blade of his knife surrendered to the tooth and bounced off his mask before falling to the forest floor. Trent stared at another bladeless hilt and almost threw the offending item down to join its other half. Sentiment caused him to restrain himself. The belt knife and pouch were some of the first things he had received that truly belonged to him. Both were worthless now, but…

The hilt dropped from his fingers instead of going into Storage. It wasn't sentiment that caused his hand to catch the hilt before it fell more than an inch. Littering the ground with foreign items might draw attention. Trent retrieved the fallen blade and put both halves of the tool into Storage before wondering where the loss of his knife left him.

He rolled the six-inch tooth between his palms. He could try grinding the bone with his sharpening stone. That might work, or he could end up destroying a second tool in the attempt. Maybe if he braced the short sword, the one he couldn't hold, somehow… thoughts of pulling the tooth along an inch of exposed blade were set aside. Any use of a weapon he did not have the Attributes to wield wouldn't be allowed.

Knowing what he would find, Trent opened Storage. Useless sword and bow, broken knives, dried food, and a sewing kit, none of which would help him fashion a tooth into a weapon. His eyes lingered on the remains of Sorrow and Strife. There was half an inch of steel extending from the hilts. They could not serve in a fight, but could they be used to carve with?

The heavy bone hilt and sturdy guard of Sorrow filled his right hand. Trent pursed his lips as he brought the edge of the broken blade to the bone and applied pressure. The broken knife seemed to cut into the tooth, but no material dropped away as Trent carved. After the first pass, Trent could see a flattened area on the tooth and was puzzled by the lack of shavings.

He drew Sorrow over the tooth again and again. The tooth was whittled

into a sharper point. Trent forgot that he was trying to make a spear tip. He rotated the tooth and continued cutting until all that was left was a sliver of white. He looked around. No bone dust or chips of Dire Wolf teeth could be seen. However, was Sorrow's blade a little longer? Trent Appraised the knife.

Heavy Blade: Sorrow

Paired Rare Item

Soul-bound/will grow with user

Second form broken (restoration 1% complete)

The description of the knife's Damage Rating and Abilities had been replaced with a note that made Trent's eyes widen. Restoration, the blades could be fixed! If Trent was right, then the soul-bound knives could absorb weapon-crafting material to repair themselves! That wasn't all that made Trent excited.

The description said, 'second form broken'. Sorrow and Strife had been hand axes when Trent first earned them. They changed as he leveled up. The message should say that the knife was broken, but if it specified that the second form was ruined, what about the first?

Trent pushed Mana into the hilt like he would when binding a magic tool. Nothing happened. No, that was not quite right. The Mana gathered in the hilt and stayed there. Trent inserted more and held his breath.

There was a twisting, folding sensation, and the bone hilt became a solid wood haft wrapped in leather. Attached to that haft, heavy axe blades gleamed at Trent. Trent smiled like he was welcoming an old friend. His hand tightened around Sorrow's handle as he Appraised the weapon.

Hand Axe: Sorrow

Paired Rare Item/Good Quality

Soul-bound/will grow with user

Damage rating 10

The fact that the axe was weaker than its knife form, weaker than when he had first found it, didn't bother Trent in the slightest. He had a weapon again! Sorrow and Strife could be repaired, and the means to accomplish their restoration could be found in the Moonlit Forest. All he had to do was hunt for it.

Wererat - Level 13 Trial Beast

Trent lay flat against the earth, concealed beneath a leafy bush as he examined the creature. It was the lowest-leveled Wererat he had been able to find, and the only solitary one. Wererats traveled in groups of three or four, normally, though Trent had seen as many as eight together.

The Beast was only 4 levels higher than him, 3 if he invested his saved XP in Swordsman. Trent had fought stronger opponents before. However, the pit in his stomach said that the Wererat was more than it seemed. Trent suspected it was an Advanced Beast, a creature Sergeant Cullen would tell him to avoid.

But Trent was determined not to shy away from this scrawny Rat creature. It had detected his use of Identify and searched its surroundings with beady white eyes. The Wererat's nose filtered the air and it squeaked a challenge, pawing at the ground with thin claws.

Trent had gained another level in both Stealth and Camouflage as well as a point to Agility. As long as he remained calm and still, his location would be secure. He hoped. The Wererat was still forty feet away. If it drifted in his direction, his fledgling Skills might not be enough.

Trent clutched a vial of Liquid Silver in his palm. This was where his confidence lay. It was the bane of Were-Beast, just as fire and light had been to the Undead. With the right preparation, the proper terrain, and a trap or two, he could beat the Advanced Beasts one Wererat at a time until he could face two. Once he could fight two, then three or four…

…might be pushing it. He would take it one step at a time, patiently testing himself, slowly growing in strength. The Moonlit Forest had no time constraints. If he were careful, Trent could eventually gain all the materials

necessary to restore Sorrow and Strife. Then he could see where he was. The Wererat leaped towards a bush and shredded it with its claws. Its

narrow muzzle pushed into the plant's depths, snapping at something within. A small black and white shape broke free from concealment and rushed between the Beast's legs with a yelp.

Trent did not move. Whatever the Wererat was hunting was tiny, not reaching the Beast's ankles, and Trent was sure the small creature was done for. Nothing he could do would change that. It was a disgusting thought, but maybe if Trent observed how the Wererat killed this animal, he would be able to find a weakness to exploit.

The Truce Amongst Hunters called on him to act. It was not demanded. A Hunter had to depend on himself first. Trent regretted the black animal's predicament, but he was in no position to aid it. Reckless action could only result in his own death.

The crying, scurrying animal dodged another swipe from the Wererat's claws and tried to duck beneath the shelter of nearby tree roots. The Trial Beast cut it off, kicking up fallen leaves as it pounced. Trent silently cheered and then groaned as the animal slipped and stumbled. The Wererat lunged again, and razor-sharp teeth clamped down, scoring the animal's hind end but not managing to engulf it.

With a piercing whine, the black and white streak found its feet again and rocketed away as fast as tiny legs could carry it. The animal was strangely clumsy as if it had only learned to walk recently, and running was entirely new. It found the trick quickly, inspired by fear. Its legs churned the dirt as it sought to escape.

Trent caught sight of brown markings on its legs and at the tip of the animal's floppy black ears. Its eyes were brown as well. That was easily seen, as the animal's eyes were wide in panic, and it was steadily getting closer as it fled in Trent's direction. Passing directly next to Trent, it threw itself behind him with a whimper. Trent was tempted to grab it by the scruff of the neck and hurl it away, but it was too late for that. The Wererat had already arrived.

Trent's arms pushed him upright and his legs bunched to drive him forward. His shield formed on his arm, and he slammed it into the Wererat's muzzle. Boy and Beast tumbled to the ground. An ear-piercing shriek stunned Trent as he fumbled the cork from the vial in his hand and attempted to pour it into the Trial Beast's face. His body locked up, and he found himself being

hurled aside by the short limbs of the Wererat, even as the Liquid Silver dribbled out of its container.

Rolling through the underbrush, Trent came to a sudden stop beneath a tree, having made contact with its trunk. The physical shock robbed him of breath, but it also shook loose the Wererat's paralyzing Skill. Trent pulled himself to his feet and snatched Strife from his belt.

He was not ready for a face to face confrontation with a Wererat. Like so many things in his life, the decision had been taken out of his hands. He drew in a deep breath and braced himself; the Wererat was coming for him. It slammed into his shield, and only a last-second activation of Steady Footing kept him from crumpling beneath its weight.

One of the Rat's eyes bubbled, and half of the fur on its face had been burned away by Liquid Silver. Clever hands pulled at the rim of Trent's shield as the Beast snapped at his face. Trent lashed out with Strife and scored a deep hit in the Beast's shoulder. He kicked at its stubby legs and managed to force it back.

Trent activated Dodge and Dash as he followed the retreating Rat. Strife slashed at its head; his shield bashed at its torso; he had to finish it quickly. Blind in one eye, the Wererat was helpless to resist at first, and Trent continually drove it back. Then its mouth opened, and the chattering screech was unleashed once more. Trent's body froze.

A clawed hand lashed at his shield, and Trent saw the flicker of light that announced a Skill being used. Fortunately, his own Skill, Block, only needed a thought to be employed, and Trent's mind was still clear. Unfortunately, Trent's Skill was a Basic one, and the Rat's was not.

For the first time, Trent experienced the gut-wrenching sensation of having a Skill broken. His body spun from the impact and his thoughts clouded as both Steady Footing and Block yielded to the Wererat's superior Skill. He fell to the ground hard and gasped; his arm and brain numb.

But then, the black form of the animal responsible for Trent's situation rushed out of the brush to clamp on to the Wererat's leg. Its teeth did not penetrate the Beast's skin, but it bought Trent a moment to recover. As the Wererat kicked the animal aside, Trent rolled to his feet, and dropping Strife, grabbing a second vial from his belt. Thumbing it open, he tossed it into the Trial Beast's face.

The Wererat screamed and clawed at its own face, as its good eye bubbled and boiled away. Trent retrieved Strife and hacked at the Rat's

limbs, circling to avoid the creature's flailing blows. He spent another five minutes toying with the Beast before he could deliver a sound blow to its compromised skull, ending its struggles.

The Wererat crumpled, dead, and Trent hurriedly plunged Strife's blade into the soil, hoping the brief contact with Liquid Silver had not corroded it. He scrubbed at Strife with leaves and rinsed it with his waterskin to be sure. It had cost him two of his eight vials to survive this fight. If his weapon were damaged, he wouldn't even count it as a win.

Hacking the Wererat's chest open with an axe could not be called Harvesting, but Trent secured the Beast Core and three Shadow Rat's teeth before the body disappeared. He left the tainted meat, and he was anxious to be gone from this place, worried that the sounds he and the Rat had generated might draw others.

The limping form of the animal crawling out of the brush stopped him. It was the first clear look he had gotten of the creature that had brought the Wererat toward him, and he was stumped by what he saw. The animal was favoring its right rear leg as it came forward, its long tail fanning the air happily. It sniffed at the meat dropped by the Trial Beast until Trent growled at it to leave it be. Doing so, the animal hopped toward him and sat, looking up at Trent, clearly delighted.

It was smaller than he had thought, at first. It wasn't distance that had made the creature look tiny. Trent could pick this animal up and hold it with one hand. Most of its body was covered in black fur, but its legs and chest were white, and brown markings dotted it here and there. Red stained its rear leg where the Wererat had scratched it, and the wound would still be bleeding if not for the dirt that sealed it.

Dog - Level 1, common animal "What are you doing here?" Trent asked, after Identifying the creature.

"And how are you alive? A scratch should be more than enough to finish you off."

The Dog tilted its head as if seriously considering his question, which was ridiculous. A Level 1 animal, this Dog was not even a Beast, wouldn't be intelligent. It couldn't speak or understand. The yips and high-pitched growls it made weren't an answer, just noise. Trent squatted down in front of the Dog and put his hand over its muzzle.

"Be quiet; the Rat has friends!" He whispered. The Dog nuzzled his gloved hand playfully, then clamped down on his fingers and tugged at them

with a growl. Pulling his hand free, Trent chastised the Dog, "What is the matter with

you? Don't you know where we are? There's no time for that!" The animal lay on its stomach and covered its nose with both paws,

whining, as it stared at Trent with wide eyes. Trent wasn't falling for the act. Tersa distracted him with a similar look when she was about to steal his food. "You need to go back to your pack. It's not safe to be alone here!"

Trent stood back up and took stock of his own injuries. He hadn't lost any HP, fortunately, or if he had, it had already recovered. His back was sore where he had hit the tree, and his left arm felt strained where it had been wrenched by the Rat tugging at his shield, but there were no cuts.

He was in one piece and had gained another 100 Experience Points. He was pleased to find Small Blades had gone up a level. One more level in that Skill and a few hundred more XP would allow him to increase Survivalist. Not that he was sure he could wait.

He had won this clash, but he couldn't afford to fight this way again. He only had six vials of Liquid Silver left. If he used two per fight, he would only be able to kill three more Wererats. Maybe if he leveled Swordsman or chose a new Class, he could figure out a better way to defeat this Trial.

He needed to find a new hiding place to consider his options. Preferably, another silver-barked tree. For now, anywhere away from here would do. Trent dropped into Stealth and began to slip through the forest. The Dog, limping and whining, followed him. It had attempted to clean the wound on its leg but stopped when Trent started moving and the cut was bleeding again.

Snatching the animal up, Trent pressed its muzzle closed. "Where is your pack?" The Dog's tail wagged in reply to his hoarsely whispered question, and it pulled away from his hand to lick at his glove. Trent cast Balm to heal its wound.

"I can't look after you. I can barely take care of myself! You aren't alone, are you?" The Dog latched on to the tip of his finger and worried at it. Trent felt like an idiot for talking to it like the Dog was a person.

"I'll get you away from here, and then you're on your own! Got it?" More wagging. Trent was starting to think he was being tricked. Tucking

the animal into the crook of his arm, he activated his Skills and began slipping through the brush. Stealth and Camouflage would be seriously tested as they tried to counter the squirming, whining animal Trent found himself saddled with.

Chapter Ten Seth Al'verren settled into the upholstered chair in the room assigned to

him and regarded Colonel Bromden over steepled fingers. "Explain to me, Colonel. Explain why you allowed a Baron to threaten me, and a common thug to manhandle my person!"

The spoiled noble who had made a scene at Al'drossford's gate was gone. Bromden wasn't sure what that had been all about. Seth Al'verren was born to privilege, and that was exhibited in his mannerisms. He was not given to public displays. At court, Seth had always conducted himself appropriately and never did anything that might irritate his father. He was not a shining jewel in the royal family, but he was never an open embarrassment.

During the last month of travel, however, Colonel Bromden had seen another side of this younger son. Seth had played the part of a drunken fool, pandering to the wants of lesser nobility. He had raved in public and private, creating a persona that would have him called before the throne, if the king were made aware.

Bromden did not doubt that there was a plot afoot. Seth was often involved in court intrigue, and although those intrigues always failed, he was never discouraged. He was careful to keep his hands clean in his pursuit of influence, and the king allowed him his games, as long as he didn't go too far. He had clearly crossed the line this afternoon, which didn't seem to have occurred to Seth.

Bromden lifted an eyebrow at the king's son and then directed a significant look toward the other man in the room. Avery Cordwain leaned against the wall and stared out the window. The man was Seth's closest confidante, but Bromden didn't think Seth would want anyone to hear what he was going to say.

"You may speak in front of Avery, Colonel," Seth said, pressing a finger to his left temple. "Do so, quickly!"

Bromden's lips quirked at Seth's tone. The younger man seemed to have forgotten that he could no more order an officer of the Immortals than he could Lewis Al'dross. "I allowed you to be manhandled, your highness, because the alternative for you was execution. The kingdom only has one prince, and that title is not yours. Outside of court, you may address yourself as Sir, but that is merely a courtesy."

"Executed! Al'dross wouldn't dare! He has no backing among the Nobles. He is the least…" Seth leaned forward, his eyes fiery as he spoke through clenched teeth.

"At court," Bromden said, just as intensely, "that may be true. In Al'drossford, Duke Al'dross has no peers and needs no backing. Have you already forgotten how you nearly broke your teeth when he gave you an order? Lewis Al'dross is a Greater Noble! And from all accounts, that is the least of his Classes!"

"Rumors," Seth snapped. "Whatever Al'dross may be, he still stands below the King! What use are you and your men if you are unable to enforce the king's laws!"

Bromden was speechless for a moment. "The king's laws say that Al'dross could take your head and send it back to your father in a basket! Is that the law you want me to enforce? Or did you want me to rebel against a Noble on his own lands?

"I don't know what game you think you are playing, highness, but I recommend you give it up." Bromden rubbed his hands against his face. "That man who threatened to hang you from the wall? If Cullen of Al'drossford decides to do just that, I will not be able to stop him!"

Without another word, Colonel Bromden spun on his heel and stalked out of the room. Once he was gone, Seth leaned back in his chair and cursed. At the window, Avery murmured, "The Right to Rule; I thought it a myth. You may have underestimated Al'dross."

"It appears that way," Seth seethed, rubbing his jaw. It still ached from the force at which he had shut it. It didn't sting half as much as being forced