AN: I forgot to do this earlier, but...

The relationship between Thomas and Sarrine (especially the scene atop the mushroom and the introduction of last chapter) is dedicated to the woman I called my Countess. I don't believe in self-inserts or the inserting or others, but our early days of shyness, mischief, and, well, affection that would make even Zyke blush will stick with me forever, even though you will not.


Chapter 20

The Way North


X Ranger-General X

The Exilee remained at New Hearthglen only until the next morning. Lord Goutsting and his commanders had drawn up a map to display the hotspots of the daemons, and so Thomas and Raeloth charted their course on how to proceed north. Nearly a score of blood elves elected to remain at the city, those who were not interested in a campaign and those who felt more welcome among the paladin city than the orcish one of Stonard.

They left in their long column, over half a mile long, with the men encircling the many manless supply wagons, ballista, and inactive arcane guardians. Thomas and his procession remained in the front, which included Raeloth, Genveera, Maloree, Merridan, and Lord Dasen.

Jaden, with Loraeoth and Sarrine, marched at a measured distance from their leaders, same with the other Ashblades. Presently, their hoods and veils were down, letting the sun beat down whatever heat it could in these frozen lands, yet it left their cheeks all a rosey and their noses like icicles. Sarrine had already returned her veil, if not her hood.

Licking his lips, Jaden asked, "Have anymore chap-sap, Lor? These winds will do me in long before the cold does."

The spiky haired blond man passed a crystal vial, and Jaden gladly smeared some of the clear sap onto a finger to rub over his lips. The sun's blessing on whomever reminded the Exilee to stock up on it before they reached the arctic Northrend.

As Loraeoth accepted the vial back, he asked them, "We reach the first fight tonight, right? In the canyon, and then we'll push through to Wintergarde around Witching Hour?"

Jaden nodded. "Excited?"

"I'm not," Sarrine complained from the side. Of them, she had the most cover, with fur lining for her gloves, boots, and now a thick cloak gifted from the paladins of New Hearthglen. "Any march after a battle is brutal, and... something is different about Thomas."

"So he's 'Thomas' now?" Loraeoth teased, and both he and Jaden laughed as Sarrine turned away from them, her ears drooping in her embarrassment.

Jaden kept her words in mind, however, and he asked, "So what's up with our Deliverer? Is he still angry that the men never had their arms enchanted?"

Sarrine's ears bounced with her quick, slight nods. "He feels responsible. Last night, he asked to see the face – or remains – of each of the thirty that died in the attack. I fear he may become even more reckless in the coming days in his pursuit of preserving us at the cost of himself."

"That's what we're here for, isn't it?" Loraeoth pressed, and he dropped his bow from his shoulder to his hand, then tested its draw. Not the best move in the cold, Jaden noted, yet his friend was smart enough to send a stream of mana into the wood first to keep its integrity. Jerath had sent the reminder of the necessity of that through all of the archers in their force, rangers included. Aiming with no arrow, Loraeoth added, "We watch his back while he plays hero."

"Put your bow down, oaf," Sarrine remarked, slapping his shoulder, and Loraeoth carefully eased tension off the bow with a cheeky grin. "Still, we can't be everywhere and do everything. Caution is necessary, and I believe Elder Meyanna is right in that the Shadow can no longer think like a human."

"Back to "the Shadow," I see," Jaden hummed, and he laughed when Sarrine shot him a glare. Her green eyes, narrowed above her dark veil, were pretty, he noticed not for the first time. The Shadow was a lucky man to have her, but by the sun, he better take care of their little Sarrine.

Loraeoth scoffed then as he still sought to set his bow back over his shoulder. "I'm just going to say it once: if you turn out in any part like Meyanna, Sarrine, then so help me, I'll..."

He paused there, but it was far too late. From behind, a cold, womanly voice insisted, "You'll what, young Loraeoth?"

Jaden shared a grin with Sarrine – at least, he could see it in the twinkle of her eyes – while Loraeoth fought to find his voice. "N-Nothing, Elder Meyanna."

Using an eyeless perception, from sound and other factors, Jaden realized that Meyanna was without her warden Farron. That was enough to give even him concern.

"You three," she started, drawing closer, and Jaden sighed, "need to sober up your games quickly. You each are highly capable rangers, but there are more forces at work than what we encounter in the field. The Shadow is our highest priority, but we also hold obligations to our race, especially those of the Exilee. You must keep everything in regard when addressing our duties, and it appears only young Sarrine understands that."

Sarrine shot a gloating look at the two of them, which withered immediately as the fierce redhead continued, "And you specifically, young Sarrine, need to realize the very precarious place you hold between us and the Shadow. The liaisons between you and he are no secret, but if you compromise-"

"Liaisons?!" The yelped interruption sounded strangled. "By the sun, don't pretend you know what him and I are even..." The sharp gaze of the redhead, once Sarrine turned back to face her, had her words trail off. She gulped and finished, "Elder Meyanna, relations between Thom- the Shadow and I are far more innocent than you are suggesting."

One crimson eyebrow rose up and fell at the choice of words. Jaden faced forward again, away from that intense look, but he did notice Meyanna was just as veiled as Sarrine. The traditional girl returned, "He is a human in chase with elven tail, Sarrine. The same story has repeated a thousand times in history. He is and will enthrall himself in you, and whether you use that to control him, support him, or else wise, the truth remains that you are in a position of greater influence and importance than any of us – and if you hurt him for it, you may very well condemn our entire body. Even something as simple as falling in battle can-"

"Simple!" Loraeoth huffed quietly.

"-leave him, and by proxy us, in ruins," Meyanna finished unhindered, but a peak showed her glaring at Loraeoth's spiky head.

Taking a breath, Jaden decided to involve himself in the exchange. He faced Meyanna again. "Elder Meyanna, we understand the state of things and the subtle world outside of the field of battle. We did not swear into the Ashblades lightly, or because we think to becomes heroes of legend, like the Shadow. We did it to preserve him, because he is crucial to the survival of all our people. Because he is more important than any of us.

"And Sarrine, she's a big girl – bigger than I think you give her credit for. Sure, we're all a little young by your standards, but we are each older than the Shadow himself, and we have lived through the fall of our people and the entire journeys under Prince Kael'thas following. If we act out of line, call us out on it, but do not treat us as floundering children to be lorded over by the hall's matron."

Light, but that steely gaze was nerve-wracking to pinned under. The moment soon passed, and the elder ranger nodded slowly at him. "Your words are fair, young Jaden, but so is my warning. If you cannot stomach my presence – Loraeoth – then seek out Farron in free hours and hear from him the importance of the political world, even in this campaign. In addition, there are plans in motion it is best if all are aware, if not apart, of."

"Yes, Elder," they all chimed, and Meyanna retreated back to her place, stooping into a conversation with Jerath.

Once she was out of earshot – her earshot, at least – Loraeoth glared at Sarrine and repeat, "I swear, Sarrine, don't you dare end up like her!"

XxX

"Archers, ready," Thomas called softly. He and the rangers raised their bows, prompting the entire line of archers to follow. They pulled back on their arrows, then collectively aimed downwards, into the bowels of the icy crevice below. Not a single bow held did not skitter with runes, thrumming with its own arcane power now.

"Fire."

They loosed, ending a fierce hail down into the snowy canyon. The nights in Northrend remained bright from the strange wave of flashing lights above them, changing colors of greens, golds, and pinks, and it illuminated the bottom of the den. The bright snow floor contrasted the dark shapes lurking about, which the light could not touch.

The arrows struck those dark shapes, sending up a sudden roar of fury from inhuman voices. Thomas and the blood elves nocked new arrows and drew, then loosed a second volley down. The daemons began to jump about, seeking the source of the attack, and they found it upon the third volley, where several snapped apart in their weird explosive death. Thomas felt the magnitude of that explosion was telling of the creature's power.

The daemons turned their heads up to spot the dark outline of his men against the bright night sky, and their monstrous forms, each different from the rest, leapt upon the snow wall, beginning to climb with claws. Nearly twenty of them began to ascend, from this pocket of hell spawn.

"Captain Maloree," Thomas called out while he drew another arrow. He loosed it into the face of a climber, to little visible effect. "I believe this is your cue."

"Magisters!" a strong, clear voice called over the sound of the bows and snarling daemons. "Light them up!"

With the call, a second line of elves stepped beside the rangers, and they raised staffs, wands, and other assorted trinkets – customized to each individual caster – as they called upon themselves their magic. The first daemon went up in a violent combustion, throwing its smoldering form off of the ice wall, and shortly after its body finished the damage in its own acidic end.

Yet as the climbing daemons began to find themselves torn into pieces from the spell work, Thomas noticed the tensing preparations of some, and he called without worry, "Shields!"

A faint blue wall appeared between the elves and the daemons, and they watched fire, darts, and other projectiles glance off it as the daemons returned fire. It was nearly textbook, Thomas felt, as the wall dropped and they continued their hail of arrows and spells. So he thought, until one of the larger daemons shot off a black... he wanted to say hook, but he knew better.

The claw grasped the edge of their snowy ledge, connected to the daemon by its long chord, and then it contracted, yanking up the entire fiend to the edge. Sightless, Thomas already knew.

Nearby archers retreated behind shielding magisters, bows ready, but plans were already in place. Testing the efficiency of his forces, he called, "Donvorei!"

Hardly a second later, there was a boom and a rush of wind past him. Thomas caught the glint of the massive spear as it took the Sightless daemon in the chest, propelling it back into the canyon, roaring as it fell. The bloody ballista could aim fast!

Despite their preparations, Thomas did not much like that one had gotten that far up the wall. Pacing the line now, where he could see inside the canyon, he announced, "Magisters, I don't want to see another tentacle leave more than five feet from a body! If they try, take the blighted limb!"

The resulting wave of spells was brutal. Taking the hint from his words, they began to explode limbs from the daemon's bodies as they climbed, but they did not stop it at tentacles. Arms, legs, even heads were claimed at the joints or neck, dropping them like flies.

When only five Sightless remained climbing, he called, "Halt! Retreat! Commander!"

The archers and magisters began to back away from the ledge, keeping their faces forward and motions careful. From behind, a gruff voice shouted back, "Time to get your hands bloody, men! Don't let them woods boys claim all the meat tonight! Rank and wall- tighter, burn you!"

Thomas stopped beside Commander Raeloth, watching the lines of swordsmen waiting for the next. Behind them was a mob of healers, keeping the melee shielded and blessed, but Thomas was hoping that would not be necessary. Former Bloodwarders, a pair of blood knights, and a solid body of elven warriors. Perhaps not all weapon masters or blade mistresses, but men and women who had trained for more years than humans even lived, given steel and elvish enchantments.

Of his five hundred warriors, nearly three-fourths worked as spell-swords, comfortable fighting with blades as often as magic. The rest were those who specialized in their fields – the rangers, the magisters, the rogues and assassins, the warlocks, the blood knights, and men like Raeloth, whom devoted their lives to the way of steel. Those men stood stood at the front line with the commander, nearly evenly split between genders.

The Sightless finished their ascent, and they stopped at the edge, assessing their foe. An entire army, against just them. They realized their doom, yet in the hanging moment, Thomas noticed through their disorienting veils the way maws dropped open in grisly grins.

One beast flung an arm, and Thomas watched coldly as a dozen black thorns were hurled their way. The tightly packed line of elves raised their shields and stopped them easily, unshaken. By the stretching lips of the daemons, Thomas felt the first hint of unease. They needed this assessment of this foe... but Light, men were going to die here, he realized.

The same Sightless remained in place, abruptly flinging both arms, throwing volley after volley of those dark spines. The other four began to rush forward, some on four legs, others on two, while Raeloth and his men prepared for the impact. Shield before him, the Commander roared, "Break that momentum!"

The trademark sound of the paladin Hammer of Justice stopped two of the four cold, freezing just before the line, while two other spell-swords blast the others with some ensnaring arcane that tied up their legs and sent them tumbling into the snow for a painful moment – even while still holding their shields against the torrent of missiles.

Watching with his immense vision, Thomas could see the places where the shields did not cover the men fully, and he watched black thorns deflect off the golden shells of the priests and priestesses, burying into the snow behind them. Lives saved, with each thorn turned aside. Faults that needed improvement too.

In the hanging moment, as the Sightless still staggered, Raeloth hollered, "Advance!"

He was first to move, lunging to embedded his sword in the side of an ensnared daemon, quickly flicking it out to similarly strike one still stunned from the Hammer of Justice. His shield and attention remained fixed on the one hanging in the back, however, which proved his mistake.

Thomas watched the grounded Sightless strike without moving. From its back, three tentacles snapped out for him, one aimed to pierce and two to grab. The commander seemed to sense it coming, darting aside and turning with his shield up. He severed the first appengade, but the second bashed him aside, hurling him into the air. Raeloth lost no poise even then, remaining faced with his opponent and landing on his feet, but two thorn strikes broke his golden shield, and three more claimed his arm and hip.

A different Sightless rose up in a fury, chasing the separated Raeloth, while the line of elves had only advanced enough to engage the other three.

"I have a shot, Shadow," the masculine voice of Jerath drawled from the side, and Thomas could see the charge of power condensed at the head of his arrow, already in full draw. "Just that one in the back?"

"Let the commander fight," Thomas returned, indifferent. Raeloth knew what he was doing, by leading the strike. He wanted this. Light, but Thomas himself could have that same determined look as the elf did now, the one of challenge and defiance. Raeloth wanted to test himself in combat again.

Seeing the oozing wounds afflicting the commander of their army, Thomas knew he would have to reprimand Raeloth, much as he did to the Ranger-General. By the grin on his hard face, despite the pain he must be in, Raeloth likely knew it too, and he did not care.

The advance of the elves was an organized and impressive thing, working at the Sightless nearly systematically despite the strangeness and unexpectedness of their attacks. Shields up, harry, block and strike. It could have been a routine drill, as far as those men were concerned. At the first signs of the Sightless death-throes, they quickly retreated and hid behind shielding spells.

For Raeloth, it was a show of grace and skill. An elven blade master, restricted by the bulk of steel armor and commanding leathers. Yet his motions were powerful, swift, and just as deadly. Come at him, the commander's presence seemed to say, and anything that reached lost a finger for it. Even the pin between pursuing Sightless and the thorn-thrower hardly seemed a trap, as he danced between missile and strike, unleashing a storm of sword forms and precise strikes. Blood was splashing around the dueling pair, and not a drop touched the elf.

As the third of the Sightless began its fall, one of the men broke from the ranks. Thomas recognized him by the set of his shoulders and the color of his armor – black steel with red highlights, the armor of a blood knight. Only two of those remained of Kael'thas' old armies, and this one was very clearly Flenadar.

The man had a clear death wish for the thorn-thrower. He commanded one of the indestructible divine shields around him during his charge, sword at the ready, while the small spines splashed off his golden shell like a fierce torrent of rain. Thomas had a bad suspicion about how that one would die, as its corpse exploded into bits. He hoped the reckless Flenadar would foresee the same.

For the next moment, the scene became two shows under the bright night sky. Two elves, beautiful and graceful in their motions, battling horrors untold, of dark, nightmarish shape and ruthless intent and method. Light and steel reflected the sickly and dark, as the Sightless returned spells of their own.

It was then Thomas realized Commander Raeloth was more than a blade master. As he cut through an oily wave of shadow magic, then clamped a bright chain around the Sightless with a close of his fist, Thomas realized Raeloth was also a spell-breaker. Light, but how had that man remained hidden as a captain during the war between the Sunfury and the Scryers? His offensive spells proved weak, inefficient compared to what he could manage with his sword, but his defensive spells...

The bubble of epic dueling, of the material songs were drawn upon, popped in the next instant, as the other swordsmen reached the Sightless and assisted with the same ardor the commander and blood knight were displaying. Thomas nodded to himself, knowing the battle finished, and he turned from the final moments of the show to assess the field of battle.

Two bodies remained prone and unmoving on the snow, but they appeared wholesome. Already, the priests were rushing to tend for the several wounded, and a few broke off to assess the fallen, if they could be returned to the living. Thomas took heart in the ring of brilliant light that erupted around them, clearly beginning the rituals for it.

It was still another twelve miles to the hills that Wintergarde was nestled upon. The wounded and weary who fought here were welcome to ride the wagons. The archers and magisters he had led were looking to him now, and he picked out from them the same blond woman and man he had addressed upon the wall.

"You fought well, like the elves I grew hearing stories of. Now we each have had a taste of what we will be fighting, a weak taste of daemon froth outside their realm of horrors, and we will employ against them every trick and strategy we can conjure in our campaign following. We will not engage them like this again, if it can be helped, but all must be prepared for when it cannot be."

They would not be so fortunate as to face thirty daemons and six Sightless like this each time, where the Exilee have the first strike and bleed them good before even fighting on even ground. These Sightless were weak, too. Just what was the "Singing Blade" that had claimed the King of Stormwind? What unbelievable skill and power did it have to achieve that through a whole capital city?

"Ranger-General," Raeloth greeted as he approached from the side. A glance showed him sweating and bloodied, but his chin was high and his eyes still burned with the fight.

"Commander," Thomas returned. He drawled, "You were reckless."

Those radiant eyes glowered, but his lips twitched towards a smile. "I was routed, sir. A tragedy, but my men fought bravely and rescued me from my entrapped position."

Thomas kept his own smirk from his face, but he knew his eyes betrayed him. "Get yourself to a bloody healer. We march for Wintergarde."

"Aye, Ranger-General."

XxX

"In hindsight, we should have seen this coming," Merridan mentioned to Thomas' collection of officers. He preferred the Common speak, as the world had long since moved from the days of isolated races and their private languages. Plus, Lord Dasen was present, so it was only polite.

Raeloth shook his head, still tense in his bearing. "This city was better fortified, manned, and employed more troops than New Hearthglen, Lord Goutsting had said. They had received a messenger only two days before our arrival, and the city was holding strong."

"Forces can move quickly," Merridan reminded. His ears listened to the wind, following its long run from their position to the east, through the city called Wintergarde. The wind touched nothing moving, it mingled with no sounds but creaking door hinges and dripping water. The entire city had been consumed.

Again, the elven commander shook his head, as if Merridan could see him. Could the fool not appreciate another man's blindness? "Not like this. Something is off here. Rangers, can you see anything out of sort? Any Sightless Eye flags? The city wasn't taken from the outside, not with the walls and gates in pristine condition."

"None, sir," the deep voice of Jerath replied, rather quickly. Merridan shifted his focus upon Thomas, noticing the man also watching the city. For kicks, he cast the spell again to blind his protegee. Thomas was improving, now only giving a brief sigh and turning away from use of his eyes. Should anything take his eyes in battle, it would be a little handicap.

Cupping his hand before his lips, Merridan formed a flimsy tunnel and breathed through it, with a spark of magic, "Listen..."

Only Thomas heard the sound, and listen he did. Merridan smiled at it. Young Jack, without a lick of magic, likely one of the greatest rangers beside the Windrunner sisters.

"There's a flag, about a quarter mile in," Thomas remarked with his eyes closed. "It's larger, rustles different in the wind. That's frostweave, not the linen of Wintergarde's flags. It's south-east from here, behind what should be the keep, by size."

Jerath took off, his footfalls entire silent, heard only by the wake of his body through the air. Everyone was looking at the blinded Thomas, their confusion evident. It was Raeloth who barked, "I know you rangers have your tricks, but that's just downright silly now. Are you having on us, Ranger-General?"

"I wasn't the one who noticed it first," Thomas admitted, and he glanced with sightless eyes to Merridan. The others followed his attention, though Merridan himself only smiled.

"Well then, Ranger Lord," Raeloth pressed, his suspicion still obvious. "What else can you tell us about this city? Do you know what happened here?"

Merridan lost his smile as he turned his head towards the empty city of Wintergarde. "I can tell you that very recently, a vast number of good men and innocent women were killed here, commander. By what, I only have my suspicions."

"Then suspect for me. How did this nearly impregnable fortress have her legs wedged open like academ on her twenty-seventh naming day? There's no forced entry here."

"I take so much offense to that," Deynora grumbled beneath her breath with the Arch-Mage Captain Maloree beside her nodding agreement. The whispered remark left only the rangers amused. Those who could still smile, at least. Merridan would bet ten gold pieces that that traditional redhead wouldn't smile on her own wedding day.

"I suspect that we are safe to hole up here for the night," Merridan suspected aloud. "I suspect that whom did this is gone now, moving for their next target, and I suspect that New Hearthglen would be next to go. And I also suspect that the same flaw that allowed this city to fall will not be found in the paladin city."

"So out with it," Raeloth demanded, not sharp but clearly impatient. He added, "Sir. Who did it?"

"Cultists," another voice answered, heralding Jerath's return. That one likely could have been listening to this conversation from here to the flag, perhaps even Deynora's mutter, if he played his tricks right.

The collection looked to the gold bearded ranger, as he showed them the flag of Thomas' finding. Merridan unveiled Thomas' eyes to allow him sight of it. That lad was considerate enough to describe it for him. "That's the Sightless Eye alright... but that hammer in the center, that's right up the Twilight's Hammer's alley. Damned nihilists, they've already rallied to the Sightless master."

It was as Merridan suspected. He kept his opinion to himself, merely listening to the words of the assembly. That Raeloth had a good head on him though, proven again as he said, "So they opened the gates for the daemons, condemning the city. The question is why: were the daemons growing frustrated at lack of progress, when we know the nightly incursions are far from any sign of their power, or do the cultists merely have something to prove?"

The answer was so painfully clear to him. The cultists sought to ascend, to prove themselves worthy and cast their eyes upon the beast, to be made Sightless. Could they not realize that whatever sieged mortal walls in the south were only those who tested their worth? Even the Sightless who fought here were to prove their place among their brethren – the newly turned, the broodlings, hardly worth comment or effort.

The Always Watching acted patiently, knowing the world could not stand to his might. How could they stand a chance here? How could they do anything but submit to the beast and strive to also cast their eyes upon it? How? Just how?

"Buck?" Thomas questioned quietly. "Are you alright, old friend?"

"I'm fine," Merridan answered coarsely. His eyes burned, but he could do nothing with the blindfold. "Just a bad memory. Keep on; I'm listening."

"No, we'll continue this later," Thomas interjected. "Captain, bring the rest of the Exilee in and have them set up camp. We'll get these gates closed and use the walls to our advantage tonight."

"Sir!" the officers saluted.

XxX

She moved through the city. The blood elves had taken to occupying buildings at their choosing, but the tension and indifference made it so clearly not a home, even to her foreign eyes. How far the exiles have come – the Exilee. She could be proud of them... or more specifically Thomas, the one called the Deliverer.

A smile came to her full lips at the memory of that man. If only all men were as simple as that one. No, only humans were so susceptible, and only humans did she find so agreeable. Blighted, awful memories with the blood elves. So proud, vindictive, and vicious to one of her sort. But not dear little Thomas.

She found his tent as she always did, seeming to know on instinct. Genveera, Genveera... Not a bell was rung in her head, but that could be expected. Perhaps this Genveera knew of her. Perhaps it all stemmed back to the same source. Was Genveera the fighter? That sickly, frail thing consumed in her own lust and addiction?

Snow shrugged mentally at the question, veiling herself in an intricate spell and then slipping inside Thomas' tent. Not even her best efforts could fool this one, she knew – and grumbled over – and the man looked up sharply at her entrance. Ah, but he was not alone this time. Sweet little Sarrine, she presumed, rested upon his cot with such a dreamy smile for Thomas as she waited for him.

With a snap of her fingers, Snow put that young girl to sleep. Sarrine's innocent green eyes fell closed, and her head rested against the pillow in a dreamless sleep. Thomas noticed, of course, and after checking that the girl wasn't dead, he set eyes aflame upon her.

Such passion. Snow felt herself smile wide at the look, but she schooled herself just before she let the veil drop. "Deliverer."

"Snow," he growled. Mmm, that was a familiar sound. He'd made it while atop her before. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I was hoping on you before the night is through, but it seems that young girl put an interruption on that plan," she replied honestly, flicking an annoyed hand towards Sarrine.

Her body washed with sudden cold when she abruptly sensed his presence right before her, and strong fingers gripped her jaw and turned it towards him. Snow nearly struck the aggressor dead, but as she stared into the intense eyes of Thomas, she kept herself controlled. He would be ready for that anyways.

He grunted finally and released her. "No bloodgem this time. That's a first."

Snow's jaw flexed briefly, but she evaporated her frustration and disdain before throwing in sweet and sultry: "You didn't think my lust was solely bloodgems, did you?"

"You're cute, girl, both as Snow and in your real face. That's all you have going for you." Snow nearly cursed herself at the reminder, for her weakness in agreeing to stay the night with him when she knew what would happen by morning. Yet, he had needed the comfort. That she would not deny, nor regret. His attention remained sharp on her. "Do you think I didn't realize the spell you wrapped over my mind the last time? You still owe me an answer too."

Ah, so he had noticed. A simple little compulsion, to make him a tad more agreeable to her advances. The fool likely wouldn't realize how badly he needed the physical comfort then – too brash to even thank her. Snow considered carefully her next actions. Worried, she was not. Not even the Deliverer of the Exilee could hope to match her, nor beat her, nor escape her if aggressions were made.

"You still owe me a question," she said, and she slid around him to approach the cot. She did not tense when she noticed him moving behind her, knowing his body ready to react swiftly, but he let her sit down and face him again, with her only inches from the sleeping Sarrine.

As their eyes met again, she waited patiently for his question. She agreed to answer with full honesty, but he would not like her answers. As the moment stretched, she flicked her fingers towards Sarrine. "Shall I wake her, Deliverer? I can make her as agreeable as me in service, and together we can help you forget all the stress of your position."

"Don't dig your own grave," he remarked, sounding serious even. Snow smiled at him. His eyes lingered towards the wall of his tent for a moment, then snapped back to her. He asked, "What do you intend by me? Answer in full, Snow."

Unexpected. Snow had been anticipating questions of origins, of her state within the camp, or even just who she was. But no, this one needed to look forward, not back, and he wished to better assess her threat to him and his purposes. How very elven of him.

"My returns are multi-purposed." Like everything else with her. "The simplest of which is the thanks you deserve for what you've done. You saved my life, the significance of which you may never know, and I have no qualms with expressing the thanks of the hundreds through myself and my body for our mutual pleasure. The two others reasons are because of your importance to the Exilee and my interest in you."

"In full."

Her smile spread. "You lead these people, and so all eyes turn your way, including mine. Your preservation and your decisions are of the utmost importance... and interest to myself. As a human who banded the children of blood to a real banner, you've interested me – the kind of interest I am not afraid to pursue."

"And if you have your way, what do you intend by me, Snow?" he pressed, keeping his expression stern. His green eyes were pretty. Very different from the blood elves, with black pupils, but pretty still.

In full and with all honesty. So be it. "I would continue the fulfillment of my desires and yours, and be your support from the shadows, the words in your mouth when you have none."

Thomas shook his head. "Strings I don't need." He insisted on Common still, she noticed. Likely to be frustrating, or perhaps to urge her away from the seductive Thalassian tongue. For shame. With his hand raised, Thomas looked to Sarrine and snapped his fingers.

Snow blinked at the action in confusion at first, then jumped at the stir of the sleeping girl behind her. Thomas did not have have mana!

He looked to her again with his steady eyes, and he said, "Run while you can, Snow. Sarrine is my intended, and you have no claim to it. Begone."

"Mmm, Thomas?" Sarrine questioned groggily. Snow crept away from the cot, glancing between Thomas and the waking girl warily. "Is that Genveera?"

"No, my sweet. Just a familiar face." He glanced back at Snow as her back touched the tent flap. He could not see the swell of rage and frustration within her bosom. "One I owe much thanks to."

Snow canceled the spell building in the back of her throat, and she darted out the tent. The first tears spilled from her eyes, even with a snarl still showing her teeth.

XxX

"Commander, Ranger-General!" the scout greeted upon his arrival. For his long runs, he did not seem much winded, which proved a promising return of the resilience of the sin'dorei.

"Report," Raeloth commanded, while Thomas, Genveera, and Merridan gathered to listen.

The man nodded and pointed towards the direction he had came. "A human army approaches from the far north-west of our position. They seem bound for New Hearthglen and fly both Argent Crusade banners and a set I haven't seen. White, with a red flame?"

Thomas grunted. "Sounds like Scarlets to me. I'm not surprised to see them this far north, but I wouldn't expect them to work with Argent Crusaders. The war here must have been truly terrible to renew those bonds. What is their distance from us?"

"Around twenty miles, sir, but they will swing to under five in passing us if they keep up their current coarse."

"Ranger-General?" Commander Raeloth questioned, waiting for his word.

Thomas nodded. "We'll meet them. If they have been marching long, they will know the land better than those at New Hearthglen, and perhaps they have come from another pocket of resistance. Perhaps that of even Lord Eyenhart, whom Lord Goutsting waits upon."

"Let's move then!" Raeloth ordered, and he turned them towards the north-west, beginning the march again.

The Exilee moved quickly in their marches. Warmth enchantments had been worked into their uniforms buffer out the cold, and with their light elven shoes and boots, they could work to a slow run even in their whole. The wagons were spelled to keep pace, and the elder Lord Dasen rode those. Usually Buck remained with him, yet of late, the Ranger Lord had remained in the political and military scene.

"Deynora," Thomas called as they ran. "Jerath, Genveera, Meyanna, Sarrine. And Buck, if you please."

The rangers closed in upon him, while the others pressed closer to listen. Thomas did not know how private he wished for the topic to be, but the Ashblades must be allowed to hear – half of them were directly involved as it was.

"Ranger-General?" Raeloth questioned.

Thomas waved him back. "Ranger concerns, Commander. I'll detail you in later." Raeloth did not appear pleased by the exclusion, but he kept focused on the terrain before him. How much that one had changed, since his days as a lone captain humbled by the offer of commanding the Exilee.

Looking to the magister-ranger, Thomas started by saying, "I have thanks to give for your ingenuity. Your enchantment works with great success."

Deynora's bright eyes widened, and she even started a smile before her lips moved for words: "More than works, you can already manipulate it?"

"Through necessity, I might say," Thomas answered, and his distaste was obvious. "But the truth is Buck taught me theory and application as he raised me, and I do not forget his lessons easy. Years of fighting with and against mages makes it easier too."

A simple mage enchantment called Arcane Intellect. Once applied to someone, it expanded their mana reserves proportional to the power of the caster. Thomas, who was born with such baleful little mana in him, was given a substantial groundwork to play around with. He wouldn't find his next field of mastery as a magister for it, but the suddenly available options were useful, to say the least.

Sarrine opened her mouth to speak, but Thomas quickly quieted her with a look and a sound. Reciting the details of the previous night would bring unwanted attention without proper breaching. He decided to open it with a question.

"There is an issue of some secrecy and importance, that if any of you possess information for, I'd ask that you pass on." All eyes turned his way, somber in bearing. Thomas flexed his jaw in hesitation, then said, "Within our camp, there is a woman of unknown threat and unknown purpose. The name she hides herself under is Snow, and though I've seen both her glamor and her true face, I do not recognize her among us. She fancies herself a courtesan, yet her hands are shaped like ours, for bow and sword hilt, and her skills and motions are that of a master ranger or assassin."

Looking to those around him, he asked finally, "Do any of you know of whom I speak?" His eyes settled upon a particular blond. "Swan, if you have a confession to make, this is the time. She moves at your height, with your frame, with your perfume. I have seen her real face and know the difference, but she molds herself in your image."

The short, golden haired Genveera did not meet his eyes, but Jerath asked, "These topics are related?"

Thomas gave a curt nod, eyes still fixed upon the hesitant blond, while Sarrine admitted weakly, "She spelled me to sleep while I watched Thomas, and it was his hand that undid the spell. My eyes were not clear then, but this Snow certainly has the appearance of the Swan."

More eyes turned towards Genveera. Noticing the heavy attention, she quickly shook her head. "No, I do not know her, nor have I met with one like her."

"But it seems you know something of her," Merridan mentioned, not unkindly.

After another moment of hesitation, Genveera said, "I know enough to tell our Deliverer to run from their next encounter, and I know enough to beg that he not use that name aloud, for it may draw her attention."

"A little difficult, considering we are in a land of snow, running over snow, with snow falling from the sky, and snow in every distance," Meyanna remarked coolly, but she added deliberate emphasis on each use of the word. Genveera's eyes closed, and Thomas noticed a small shake run over her body at it.

"Enough," he told the redhead, and he looked around, "None other knows of this person? She lived among you in Netherstorm, likely serving Kael'thas as an elite. She was a promiscuous bloodgem addict too, though her self seems to not have diminished in the absence of her addiction."

"I know another wrought of similar depravity, leaving another mark to her name," Meyanna added, giving Genveera a deliberate, distasteful look.

The shorter ranger was not one to be walked over, and Genveera met Meyanna's look. "If you have an issue with me, Meyanna, lay it out now. We cannot function with childish animosity."

The redhead seized advantage of the moment to exclaim, "You are a loathsome excuse for a ranger and a leader, reeking of drink, of sex, and of mindless addiction to opiates. You do not deserve your rank or position, and every last man and woman in the Exilee would benefit from discarding you and having Ranger Lord Merridan counsel the Shadow instead."

"Meyanna!" Jerath chided sharply, sounding disturbed, but Genveera held up her palm his way, saying, "No, I asked to hear it."

Genveera turned her eyes back upon Meyanna. In the midst of the matter, the group of them – all of the Ashblades – had stopped their run aside from the body of their force. "And I'm sure Meyanna is not alone in these thoughts. Frankly, your concerns are right. The Ranger Lord is better suited to lead, to counsel, and he indeed demonstrates less faults. For that, I am glad we have retrieved him. I can only offer the Exilee what my experience and training have bestowed upon me, and I promise you that I try to my utmost, but if it is agreed that that is not enough for my position – Thomas Swiftblade, if I am not proving myself capable, I request that you remove my authority among the Exilee and position me where my skills are more appropriately used."

"You martyr yourself, you-" Meyanna began, sounding furious, but Thomas stopped her with his own raised hand. He turned his attention to Buck, then Genveera.

"I am familiar with rhetoric and speech, Meyanna," he said sternly. "Now, if I may have a voice here..." He cast a look to make sure there would be no opposition. He felt, in that look, he could see the varying stances of the Ashblades. Light, but the tension was still so real between them and Genveera.

"You all served under the Swan during our Games of Foxes, back in the forest upon Jagged Ridge. She served as my rival in strategy and leadership, earned through her skill and expertise. Those traits have not diminished, and as such, the Swan will continue her place as my lieutenant, reporting directly to me alone. If you hold issues of what is done privately, then address it privately, rather than allow it to disrupt our active duties out here, on a war frontier no less!"

Taking a breath, Thomas turned from them both to look out to the snowy terrain. Buck too had been addressed, so he added, "And only a fool believes that Merridan and I are not in close collaboration over our actions. I told you at the Dark Portal, he is better suited for leadership than I. If he weren't already sworn to Lord Dasen, I'd have him take my place, as it should be."

Outside their circle, a womanly voice mentioned in Common, "We don't follow the Ranger-General, Shadow. We follow you."

He turned back to see Velanee there, and she looked at him with the same eyes she had whenever they spoke. She'd become more distant since the Dark Portal, however. Noticing Sarrine also looking at Velanee, he turned his attention to Buck, who stood before Velanee. His old friend had no expression over his pale face, and the blindfold removed whatever sign he might be able to pick up.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Thomas said finally, turning away from Buck. "Keep your focus, friends. Do not let personal feelings interfere with what you know of the capabilities of your comrades, and trust... Light, trust each other, for we are all we have right now."

Shaking his head, Thomas grew stern again, forcing authority into himself. "Now cease this dallying and run. We have work to do."

XxX

He is poised to get hurt.

The thought still haunted Merridan. Jack was a strong man, robust and able, yet for all his bravado and his experiences, certainly the underhand methods and lifestyle, he still acted in faith and altruism. Thomas was a good man – not innocent, but good. It was as Merridan had foreseen in that rebellious youth who wandered into his forest years ago, but Thomas placed faith in places that will come to betray him.

He trusted Merridan, didn't he? That was perhaps the first worry. The Light knew Merridan would travel to hell and back for Thomas, and bite any bullet for him, but people changed. Could Thomas not see that? Not everyone could follow the path Merridan set Thomas on. Could Thomas not see that?

These Exilee, they placed trust and responsibility in Thomas, and he accepted the burden with a serious heart. A sincere one. Yet these Exilee, they were going to tear him apart for it. That is what men did. These weren't adventurers who fought for good; they were elves, manipulative and desperate, and they would not see the damage they commit to Thomas in their machinations.

Humans were such a young race, Merridan still bemoaned. In their short lives they could be as destructive and cruel, or kind and heroic, as any elf, but they did not live long enough to fully encounter every end of the spectrum. Thomas was going to need his help still, but Merridan knew he was torn, for the one calling himself Lord Dasen needed more too.

Two lads in need of his guidance, and one Merridan too broken to offer it to either. He could not play this game while mixed in lies. Lord Dasen needed to give him an inch to work with, to enlighten Thomas to the truth. Perhaps that betrayal would disillusion Thomas enough to harden him to the next.

The human force had long since seen them coming now, and Merridan noticed that these men and women were not warriors, instead wearing rags or simple garb. Their arms were single swords or not at all, with perhaps five true warriors present total. One of them as a death knight, Merridan noticed with some caution, while three others were righteous paladins. The last was a plain warrior, appropriately armed and dressed, and he suspected the man as a warrior by class, one who possessed the supernatural rage and ability of a fighter many times his size. He moved with the characteristic confidence of one.

In their approach, Merridan turned to those called the Ashblades in consideration. If he could not provide the necessary warning for Thomas, one of them could. That Genveera was a broken girl. Strong, able, but something dark lurked within her, something that tightened her every motion and word with a hidden desperation. That Jerath had a good head for these things, but what Thomas needed was perhaps a woman's touch.

Sarrine, his current court. She was young and honest as Thomas was, which would serve him little good but faithful arms always open. That too was perhaps enough to see him through his trials, and its singular good was better than most alternatives. But no, something more. Meyanna, should she relax her unyielding resolve, could assist Thomas, yet that was one built upon her honor and traditions.

No, she would not be shaken. There was another, one who possessed a level head but a kind heart. Deynora, Flaerie, they weren't up for the task. But the one there, with silver hair. He could see within her a shining presence, one that sought the same good Thomas did but remained tempered by age and experience. Her name, he recalled, was Velanee. In hindsight, he had caught the wistful gazes she had for Thomas, always masked behind elven facades.

The instant the match was realized, a bright enlightening consumed Merridan – and in its aftermath, he felt very foolish for not seeing this sooner. So much more of the machinations of the Ashblades made sense, and he realized that perhaps the plight of Thomas was not so baleful and the iron fist of Meyanna was not so strangling.

The senior rangers had also seen the advantages in a relationship between Velanee and Thomas. Not in control, not in personal gain, but in the support and wizened counsel that the elder ranger could offer Thomas. That Velanee was also attracted to Thomas for his ideals and way of life only sweetened the match. That Sarrine had gotten her claim in first frustrated their hopes, though Meyanna displayed it most clearly.

Blighted, sun-struck fools! Of all the harebrained ideas that elves could have...! Merridan managed to take the frown from his face just as their escort met with the heralds of the human force. A man did not need to have his pecker in a woman for her to benefit him. Velanee, as a close friend and confident of Thomas, would be equally beneficial, if young Sarrine did not grow insecure and jealous of such bonds.

And if the relationship had been the surest course, then Merridan would be the best blighted wing-man in history and get Thomas both of them. There were no women more proud, vain, and promiscuous than elves, and he'd play the cards to see Thomas into threesomes meant for stories. Young Sarrine and honest Velanee, for their Deliverer? It'd be like working butter into bread.

He very deliberately removed the odd expression that was either a scowl or a smile that tried forming on his face as Thomas made his introductions to the humans.

"Can't say I've heard of the Exilee before, friend," the paladin returned, scratching his beard. "But we are the refugees of the north, returning home after a long season in hell. King Malthon has ordered their escort back to New Hearthglen."

"Light, so you're the ones they were waiting for," Thomas remarked. "I see your Lord Eyenhart is not present. I assume you have more men to the north?"

Merridan noted, with neither praise nor concern, the probing use of Lord when the paladin had clearly addressed the man Malthon Eyenhart as King.

The paladin nodded. "An army, Ranger-General. We number about what you do here, but I tell you now, it is one this world has not ever seen before. Over two hundred full paladins, flanked by Knights of the Ebon Blade and the hardest 7th Legion veterans ever produced. They say raids of only forty could topple Illidan, old gods, and the Lich King... and we have gathered hundreds."

An army of adventurers, the man was suggesting. Merridan took the word with a grain of salt, but he did appreciate the mental image and the sureness of the news. Regardless of the implications, that was indeed a solid core of troops, one not ready to fall apart against the Beast.

"I dare suggest we are not far from that mark," Thomas admitted with some pension. He cast a deliberate eye towards Raeloth as he mentioned, "My own men surprise me every day. Alas, let us not fall off course. I would like to meet with this Lord Eyenhart and work with him in an offensive against daemons that scour this land."

"He stands as King Malthon now," the paladin addressed finally, with no small amount of satisfaction in his voice. "King Malthon Eyenhart of Northrend, whom has banded together the last of the small ones to remain this far north. Lordaeron's remnants live on through his rule."

A curious choice of word, picked from the announcement. Thomas heard it too. "Small ones? I see mostly humans here, not many dwarf or smaller – excepting you, friend." The last was said with a nod to a dwarf paladin, mounted beside the one who spoke for them.

The dwarf only laughed. "Oh, by the Light. These boys are fresh off the boat, thinking us dwarves as small. Ranger-General, you will soon come to realize how out of perspective we've all lived, as soon as you meet only a single vrykul." His rumbling laugh ended shortly, as he added, "I mean no offense by this, friend. The shock is bigger to my kind than yours, and we all go through it. The vrykuls live up in Northrend by the thousands, and each of them stands as giants – ten feet tall are the short ones. I've seen some scraping the clouds at fifteen or so feet."

Thomas glanced at the Ashblades around him, who only shrugged at the mention. Vrykul were news to even the elves. Certainly Merridan had never heard of this race in his lessons of the arctic continent.

Finally, Thomas looked back to the first paladin. "To keep on theme of sharing news, you should also be aware of the dark tidings of the south. In only the last few days, the fortified city of Wintergarde was betrayed and consumed by the daemons. A foul cult has arisen and seeks to infiltrate whatever bastions still hold."

The death knight and warrior both swore, as the paladins turned grave. The lead one gave a curt nod of understanding. "Their hands reach far, I see. We were ambushed several days back, at the division of Borean Tundra and the Great Dragonblight. We hoped to have stymied their formation by burning their base of operations, but it seems the implications of a larger body in the forest holds merit."

"We do well in forests. Which and where?"

The smile was wry. "That you may, elves and Sir Thomas, but the forest of Crystalsong can consume even the hardiest of travelers, elves included."

"My rangers have trained for this. We will flush them out, no matter how dark or corrupted the woods seem. I thank you for the target, but do you have more news to share? The march from Icecrown to here is long, and you must have seen much of the land."

"A few native villages still stand, oblivious to the Skinless hordes but not the changing world. We've encouraged them to prepare for the looming axe-drop of the Skinless. Those, and their master, you will find in Storm Peaks, if Lady Crowngarde's reconnaissance is to be believed. Which it is, friend. Of no particular note, we saw even the chill nymphs of these lands arming themselves to war, rallying to their battle-worn hero of a leader. I did not know the gentle fae to be so savage, though after the Worldtree, I feel I should have."

"All useful information, friend, and I thank you for it. Will you be stationing yourselves behind the walls of New Hearthglen? Lord Goutsting said he would not budge until he received word from the then-Lord Eyenhart."

"Fah, not if we can help it! Our king marches himself for war, and we will be there at his back. Once these refugees are secured, we will follow you north into the fray. I can feel it in my bones, this campaign will not pass before our return."

Thomas regarded his own men with a look, then the leading paladin again. "All together, that is only a thousand men. Half a legion, no matter our individual strength. Have you any projected counts of the enemy?"

The paladin's expression tightened. "None reliable, but each seemed worst than the last. Start with a million in your considerations, but be prepared to see that number bloat in the coming days."

Silence among the Exilee.

The paladin seemed to understand, for he ended their conversation there. "I wish you luck, friends. I have know elven steel and elven magic to be more valuable than Azotha gold, and my king would much appreciate the assistance. From a gut feeling, I suggest you don't consider yourselves so few. The vrykuls are quite numerous too, and they are quite angry over the Skinless. Now, we must march again, to reach New Hearthglen before night fall."

"March hard and fast," Thomas quietly advised. "The way is safe, but the miles are long. Give Lord Goutsting our thanks and regards."

"And King Malthon ours. Light's blessing, friends, for the days of peace are gone."

On a whim, Thomas saluted and performed a shallow bow. The Exilee followed suit, and the paladins tapped their fists against their chests in return. The leader waved the refugees forward, continuing the march south.

Thomas looked to Raeloth, and the commander nodded. The Exilee, with green banners still high, were rallied to march again, still at their quick pace.

XxX

For three days, the Green Army of the Exilee pushed forward. True to their course, they made time and preparations to hit the festering holes of the daemon infestation – whom the paladins had named Skinless, which Thomas agreed was less menacing and more suggesting of the foe. Skinless and Sightless, all outlining the depravity of their enemy.

Donvorei's machines annihilated Sightless with all the efficiency Thomas could hope for. Raeloth, upon accepting the task of cleansing the land, began to send all of the Exilee into training, especially those soldiers and archers who lacked the specialization of their peer blade masters and rangers. Magisters began to teach their fellows the spells of destruction and violence.

The Exilee was already a capable war machine, but Raeloth, with Thomas' backing, strove for a common excellence among them. During the strikes of festering hot spots, the commander cycled in ranks of their soldiers to fight, giving each man more experience in the field. Finally, they had begun facing their own nightly incursions, and the scouts and nightwatches were left to fend without commanding officer supervision. They proved successful.

"We cannot produce a new generation of rangers, magisters, and blade dancers in only a few months," was the caution, "but we'll get damn close to it in the time we do have."

Most fae to Thomas was the fervor the Exilee gained over their new undertaking. These men and women, once lost and damned upon the broken Netherstorm, threw themselves into the training and into the battles, desiring to expand their skill and usefulness. Already, the names of prodigies and upcoming masters was rising from the masses, of those naturally inclined for their work. Warriors out of tailors and legends out of carpenters, the Exilee was attempting to produce.

They were only a few days into the undertaking when they finally reached the border between the Great Dragonblight and Crystalsong Forest, standing upon a shattered bridge that might have once lined the sky with its majesty. A masterpiece beyond mortal innovation, Donvorei remarked in quiet during his study.

A broken relic, however, as the bridge stopped where they now stood, overlooking a golden forest that reached the horizon from their vantage point. To Thomas, their present location was the mark of a great threshold – of an intersection of the moving world. To the north, beyond them, was the Storm Peaks and the seat of the terrible Skinless master who uprooted the world. To the west was King Malthon, marching to battle the enemy. To the east was the corrupted span of the forest, and therein awaited the cultist menace.

"Captain Maloree," Thomas addressed, still gazing into the uncharted world before them. "Do you have the material necessary for it?"

The Arch-Mage exclaimed, "We do indeed, sir. Linen is in overabundance, and the flimsy material is good for such a minor enchantment. I will have the tailors begin dyeing the material and spelling it immediately. Shall I set the quota to tonight?"

"Yes. We will not enter the forest until each man and woman has one. If the rumors hold any truth, I will not allow us to be deceived by illusion or befuddled by loyalty. It will be a tool for discipline, confidence, and pride, if I have read our people correctly."

Merridan shook his head, laughing softly. "Green armbands enchanted so that we may know its wearer is one of us. So simple, yet by taking up the green band, it brings us a sense of unity, does it not?"

Thomas sniffed. "I don't care how much dust we scavenged; I am not keen on having us produce new, enchanted uniforms for every single one of us. The band will be our mark. Now, you have your work cut out, Captain. We will camp here at the rim of the world. I will assist in forming our perimeter, but the rest of the setup is your decision."

"Sir!" Maloree saluted, and she turned to make her way down the broken bridge back to the waiting army. It wasn't long before they could hear her curt orders floating up against their backs.

"Genveera," Thomas called next, "find two others you trust to take into the forest while we camp here. I want details of what to expect within."

"Jerath, Velanee," she announced without hesitation, turning to the two in question. Both former Bloodwarders nodded at once – Thomas did not miss that those two held the least animosity for her – but before any of them could continue, Merridan interjected with, "Ah, if you don't mind, Swan, I have words to share with Velanee before the night is through."

A curious exchange, Thomas noted, but he saw that Velanee expected such a request, for she was hardly phased by it and merely nodded to the Ranger Lord. Genveera granted his request, listing instead, "Jerath and Flaerie, then."

The reserved brunette nodded. Another very capable team. Thomas trusted any of his Ashblades, but there were always individuals who exceeded the bar. On that, he wondered why Flaerie had never been promoted to Bloodwarder, in the days of Kael'thas. Though not one to speak much, she at least had the skill set of Meyanna.

"Jumping Jack, of hearth's crack, into the pail of embers," Buck mentioned from his place, drawing the surprised attention of the assemblage. Thomas recognized the string of words. "You will recite those words upon your return, or you will find arrows through both eyes. Again: Jumping Jack, of hearth's crack, into the pail of embers."

A fair idea, before the three could be given the Exilee bands. The three rangers accepted the order, and with Genveera's command, they also left the bridge to enter Crystalsong Forest. Thomas watched them pass under the tree line, then allowed them to vanish from his perception. That is what rangers did in forests.

"To the camp, men. Our trials begin with sun up."


AN: I'll get around to slotting the full dedications for this story into the first chapter before long... And the reposts of chapters that cleaned dozens of typos. And I'll get around to rewriting the prologues and other scenes. Eventually.