two_Demons

Thane

\\

The air leaves an unsettling taste in your mouth. Standing at your post on the battlement, your eyes strain for the hint of wolves. It's a good night for another attack, the dim sliver of a moon providing more than enough light for the giant beasts to see by.

Moro and her sons have been attacking Iron Town nearly every fortnight, and sinking their fangs into your caravans on top of it. Her pack, though small, has grown steadily smarter in the past months- Wes had deftly scaled the palisade with such ease last time, eager to wreck as much of the forge as he could before your riflemen had forced him to flee.

You glance once more to the hairline shimmer of the moon, and a vague sense of having been in this exact moment before settles in your bones. The dread squeezing your lungs is painfully familiar, and that's when the blast of heat plows into you, the curtain wall of the fortress igniting as easily as kindling.

You're choking, the flames greedily stealing the air before you can breathe it in. The bellows girls are screaming as the forge roof, alight from the outside, begins to cave. The battlements are crumbling out from under you, and you're astonished to find yourself floating high above everything, watching as a great salamander, its body consumed by flame, rips the town apart before your eyes.

It's then you realize your chest is aching. You scream, or try to- you're being constricted, crushed; with horror, your hands find the fiery whip-tail of the Salamander God tight around you, searing through your clothes and flesh and blood as it squeezes the life from your body.

He destroys both you and your home, taking from you what had been stolen from him.

\\

Your chest burns. You wake with frantic, pained gasps, hands clawing at the bandages compressing your ribs. Pain shouts too loudly along your nerves for you to form a proper thought, so you struggle madly, wrenching and shredding gauze away to the frantic thudding of your heart.

When you touch the hot, cakey salve glued to your skin, rational thought returns in an instant. It is Medusa's poultice that burns you, inspiring your nightmares. You should be used to this by now- you've been applying it to your bruises since your run-in with Moro nearly two weeks ago.

There's a gray tint to the sky telling of the coming dawn. With a sigh, you roll out of your furs and shuffle across the room to stoke the dying fire. Flashes of the salamander flicker behind your eyes, redder than the embers you stir.

As the fire catches, you make use of the light to evaluate the state of your ribs, brushing off dried salve. The bruising is horrendous underneath, yellow-green and purple haloing a startling black. The healer had told you things must become worse before they grow better, and it certainly both looks and feels worse.

You may as well start your day early, as you won't be sleeping anytime soon after that dream. You wash off the remains of the salve, cringing as you cinch your sash around your midsection when you dress. Out of habit, you walk to your father's quarters, only to belatedly remember he has not been well enough for your usual briefing the past four days. Poking your head in the doorway, you see him sleeping peacefully, and quietly pad away to find something quick to eat.

After a trek to the kitchens, you jump nearly out of your skin when you find Harvar at the hearth, warming his hands at a bubbling cookpot. "You dreamed of the water beast again," he says without turning around. Still in his cloak and dark boots, he is a shadow at midnight even in front of the fire.

Your mouth pulls into a thin line. Where Ox is your right hand, Harvar is your eyes, though he has a tendency to see into darknesses you haven't asked him to look. "I still think there is farseer blood in you," you say, hunting for a plate and last night's bread rolls.

"Intuition and observation, that's all," he denies, as usual. "Was it different this time? The dream."

It hadn't been, so the question isn't worth answering. Finding a stale roll, you meticulously split it down the center to fill it with steaming porridge from the cookpot. You do not meet Harvar's gaze. "What news of the caravan?"

The man pulls his hands into his cloak. "Making good time. They'll be at the cliffs by dawn."

"So soon?" That explains his presence this early in the morning. "And Star Clan?"

"Appears they're busy licking their wounds after their bout with the Imperials on the eastern border. We should only have the wolves to worry over."

You nod, your left hand touching your ribs absently at the thought of Moro. "Ox," you call out quietly, and the man pokes his head around the doorway, though you hadn't actually been certain he would be there. You're not sure how he does that.

"Sir," he replies before taking a sip of steaming coffee.

"Rouse the riflemen. We're to be at the cliffs by dawn. Bring the hand cannons."

The chief of Iron Town's guard grimaces a bit. Stepping into the room and striding to the fire, he downs the rest of his brew and hurriedly refills his personal cup with porridge. "You're staying here, I hope."

"Of course I'm not staying here," you say, indignant. Both Ox and Harvar sigh in unison. "It is too early in the morning to lecture me-"

Ox waves a hand in mild irritation, turning on a heel back out the way he came. "Understood. I'll save it for later, after you've broken your legs doing something imbecilic and can't run from my lecture."

You open your mouth to retort, but you have nothing to say prepared, and he's already too far away to hear you by the time you do. Your jaw grudgingly shuts. In the silence, Harvar quietly clears his throat.

"One more thing," he says cautiously, choosing his own stale bread and picking at its dry edge. "I realize it was not by your orders, but I… took the liberty of squaring the debts of two more brothel girls."

You look to the man in surprise. "You know I have no objection. But that is unlike you, to not contact me first."

Harvar head tilts down as he thoughtfully chews, the shadows under his hood erasing his face from the firelight. "It was a sensitive situation. They're sisters, both skilled with firearms."

This makes you pause- very few in the Territories had experience with rifles of any sort, as you are very careful to keep the weapons your father created in the hands of Iron Town alone. "And how did you learn of them?"

"Well, the elder robbed me of mine and nearly shot my hand off, while the younger pulled this on me-" and he pulls a hefty, compact device from under his cloak, setting it heavily on a table.

You attempt to not choke on your food. "Hells, that's not one of ours." You'd believed you had created the smallest wheellock pistol in the Territories, but this weapon's size and craftsmanship- despite using crude materials- makes yours pale by comparison.

This isn't good news, but the gun's clever design leaves you excited nonetheless. You set down your forgotten meal, and carefully pick up the pistol. "Who is making these? The Clan? If it's Arachne, we are in for a great amount of hurt-"

"That is the only one. The little sister made it," says Harvar.

You raise your head slowly to see if you've misheard him. "Say again?"

"She's fourteen."

"What?"

Harvar bows slightly before walking to the nearest window and unlatching the casement. "I'll leave the rest in your hands. Shall I return to the caravan?"

You nod, dumbstruck. "We'll meet you there. I must visit the forge before I leave."

The other man seems amused, which is yet another bizarre thing to add to the pile. "Best of luck with that," he says, his cloak already smoking around the edges. His stature shrinks and bleeds into the darkest parts of the room, growing smaller and smaller until he is able to perch on the window sill, his black cloak melding to him and sprouting feathers.

The kindred crow looks back at you and gives the smallest little bird-laugh.

You shake your head with a wry twist of your mouth. "Get going or I'll use you for target practice," you threaten, waving the pistol in his direction.

Harvar stretches out his wings and says, "You're welcome," before flying out into the dark.

\\

Before your father was cursed by Asura, he had a habit of buying up brothel ladies looking for other forms of employment. Some have become fine gardeners, others skilled cooks or bootmenders, but the majority of them ended up at the bellows.

Iron Town's forge is easily the largest building your father has designed, its ever-smoking peak dominating the sky. Inside, two dozen or so workers rotate in shifts to man the massive smelting bellows, keeping the heart of the town lit for days on end. The ladies are rambunctious at any time of day, but they take their work seriously and are loyal in their service to your father and, by extension, you.

"The kid's shown up!" someone calls out before you've made it all the way through the massive doorway. The heat is stifling even through the chill of the night, drier than sunburned sands. Near the oversized forge, two groups of women keep up a sturdy rhythm at the bellows, working to feed the fire with massive amounts of air. Several look at you over their shoulders, grinning widely and hooting without a single pause in their work.

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that," you reply, loosening your tunic in the heat. "I'll be twenty-two by first snowfall." A chorus of giggles sounds from a group of women resting from bellows duty, as if you've told a joke.

The de-facto leader of the workers stands and saunters over while mopping sweat from her brow. She wears little more than some thin undergarments and a short robe that could use a great deal of straightening. Though she has no lack of feminine wiles, Blair has been with Iron Town since its construction, and even before then has been the singular female presence in your life for the past thirteen years. No state of undress of a woman's body fazes you anymore. "You will always be a bumbling kitten to me, no matter your age," she says. You make a face, but do not comment when she fusses with your bed hair.

More quietly, she asks, "What's got you up so early, then?"

You consider telling her the dream, but you are on a time schedule so it will have to wait. "Harv dropped in. The caravan is early, and I'm told there will be two new girls joining us. Sisters." The woman is already smiling before you can finish speaking. "I know you have a lot on your hands," you say, glancing over at the dozens of women working hard for your father, "but if you could, I would-"

"Yes," Blair grins, nearly dancing with excitement. "Yes, I'll gladly show 'em the ropes." She shouts a few orders to the resting group to have arrangements made. "I'm surprised, this is the first time we've had new girls since- ah- since Sephtis became ill…" She sobers a little, placing a hand on your shoulder. "How is your father doing? That woman won't let any of us visit."

"He was sleeping well when I checked earlier." You place a hand over hers in an attempt to placate Blair's ever-stewing dislike for your father's healer. "I'm sure Medusa is keeping his health a priority. She isn't trying to spurn you."

The woman sneers. "She can spurn me all she likes- I worry for the master. I have no trust for her and you shouldn't either."

You've heard this sentiment more times than you can count. "And for what reason do you distrust someone who has only healed countless wounds?" Gently taking her hand off your shoulder, you turn over her wrist, where a fresh scar glistens in the orange forgelight. "And burns?"

Blair slides her arm from your grip, shoulders hitching higher as she pouts. "Call it intuition," she says loftily, sounding a bit like Harvar. "Always keep one eye open, kitten. Not everyone is what they-"

"Sir."

You and Blair both turn towards the open doorway, and you notice small flurries of snow have begun to fall. Ox is there, quick breaths frosting in the chill air. He's brought horses with him. "Watchtower says there's been a flare. Near the cliffs."

"I need my armor," you say without hesitation.

Ox gestures to your horse with a fierce smile- he's brought your gear along as well. "The riflemen are nearly ready-"

"Thane!"

An ebony blur materializes from the dark sky, colliding sloppily into Ox's shoulder and tumbling. The guard and Blair both make an effort to catch the crow before he hits the ground. Harvar smokes and shifts to his human form, his dark cloak slick with ice from his quick return.

"What's happened," you demand.

Steadied by Ox and Blair, the kindred rips his cowl back and simply snarls, "Moro."

Maka

\\

Claire and Castor emerge from the woods when the moon is high and bright. You are summoned to the weather-worn shrine perched in the tallest tree in the village, and you sit before the twin farseers, the fate they've divined for you to be witnessed by the tribe's council and your father, the chief.

The twins are less than six winters old, but their ears have been touched by the gods, and through them they hear the absolute. In the shrine, they dance, grasping blindly at things unseen. They whisper and chant and growl, swirling around their caretaker and envoy, Kilik, who is seated across from you. When the twins dance, his eyes cloud over, seeing only what they desire him to see.

Kilik looks through you with such pitying sadness on his face that your blood stirs with a rage that is not your own. He folds his dark hands, fingers intertwined as he listens to the whisper-talk from the farseers. You watch as Castor twists his body, posture mimicking the sinuous form of the salamander. When Claire curls her tiny fingers into claws, face ugly with fury, you know she is you, jumping into the air to rend open the demon's face like a beast.

As they dance, they hum and click little clipped pieces of the old Songs, taught to them by forest spirits because the village knows very few anymore. They whisper in Kilik's ears until his eyes are milky white, tugging at his ceremony robes and prying open his hands to place there a coal-black stone carefully nested in cloth.

Then, abruptly, the farseers are children once more, complaining of sleepiness and hunger. Castor drapes himself over Kilik's back with a whine while Claire climbs into his lap and tries to settle for a warm nap. Kilik gradually blinks away his blindness, hushing them. He looks at the stone in his hand, then looks at you with a knowledge behind his eyes that makes you helpless.

He holds up the stone nestled in the cloth for the council to witness. "This is what turned the Great Salamander Asura into a demon. Both this and his eventual madness came from the hands of men."

You have never seen such a perfectly rounded thing before, but hatred instantly wells up in you at the sight of it, the voices in you hissing stories you don't want to hear.

Kilik bows his head. "Though your actions have saved us, the gods have told of your exile."

You are not surprised. You had already steeled your heart for this all afternoon. It still wounds you, though, piercing and acidic like betrayal. Spirit says nothing, as he can speak only for the tribe and not for himself, and you dare not look at him, lest you see him trying not to weep and end up weeping yourself.

Thickly, you ask, "What of the curse?"

Kilik's eyebrows furrow, but he does not look away from you. "Asura's mark will spread, consuming you, destroying both the body and mind."

Ah- the anger you now feel is wholly yours.

"But," Kilik says, holding out the stone to you, candlelight glinting off its midnight shine, "the gods have offered a path to you that few may ever travel: go to the Westlands. Learn what has birthed this disaster and, in seeing the truth, you may find a way to contain the demon's madness.

"Maka, tribe-daughter and first born of Spirit and Suzume, you are hereby exiled," Kilik says quietly. "May the Brightwinged guide you when you need it most."

\\

You cut your hair and leave it on your father's doorstep. Seeing the bundle of tarnished gold heaped lifelessly on the ground is not something you had ever imagined you would see again.

No one is permitted to watch you go. You are already dead to them, a ghost who has inherited the unfinished tasks of a ruined and vengeful god. Packing up supplies and leaving behind anything that would remind you of home, you don your riding clothes and lead your elk from the stables. He leans a long antler to you to help you climb on his back, and you take one last look at the village you've known all your life, eyes falling on the central fire-pit which still glows with faint embers in the night's breeze.

Someone will come in the morning and stoke it back to life. It won't be you.

"Maka!"

You could recognize that voice anywhere. Tsugumi breaks tradition- a habit she had doubtlessly picked up from you- limping conspicuously behind the stables to catch you before you leave. Seeing her pains you, though the thought of what might have happened had you not thrown yourself at Asura pains you more.

"What are you doing?" you hiss, yanking the riding cloth that covers your mouth down to your chin. "They'll have you on fishing duty for months if they see you with me."

"Then I will catch fish," she replies, taut, coming up alongside your elk and stroking his side with familiarity. She pulls something from her sash, carefully wrapped in stiff leather. "It's a sacred thing," she says, handing the parcel up to you. "Do not look at it here."

You nod in thanks, tucking the leather carefully into your cloak. You do not trust your voice.

"Stay strong," Tsugumi urges.

"You as well," you manage to say, and then, suddenly, "Please look after Papa. We- I've left him all alone!"

She sniffles loudly, but her face is determined for you, and you try your best to memorize it. She says, "I will. Just remember: no matter what happens, you protected life. No god or curse will ever change that in you." She reaches for your hand, and though it is tainted and black like the stone that had driven Asura mad, she takes it in her own.

"I would have joined you without complaint," she says, and lets you go.

Mifune

\\

The stone only cools when you step foot inside the palace gates.

Angela refuses to show herself. Her scales are a perfect imitation of the worn, corded leather that wraps the hilt of your sword. As you wait to be seen by the Empress, you can faintly see the outline of the little chameleon's body as she sways gently, like a leaf blown by a breeze. You wonder where she picked that up from, because you hadn't taught her that.

She does not want to be here. Neither do you, but you've run out of options. You were hoping to make it to the Eastlands before winter, but you're out of supplies and have even less in the way of allies. You can't feed a growing girl, and neither can you leave her on her own long enough to find work- not that anyone hires a mercenary who fought on both sides of the war.

You've heard talk of the Empress welcoming and granting sanctuary to kindred folk after she had secured the better part of the Territories, but you've worked with the Imperials before, and it was under Arachne's banner that you helped conquer the Saltkin Islands and found Angela in the first place. You have little trust in anything the woman claims, but you have little trust in anyone this side of the mountains, and it's been several days since Angela has had a true meal in her stomach.

So you followed the lure of that spirit-bird, the stone bringing you to Aranei Palace. You are grateful that the guards hadn't asked where you got it from- lying isn't one of your skills, and you feel the truth would be too outrageous to do you any favors. You and Angela wait in a plush room lit by countless oil lamps, a faint murmur of voices in the next room bouncing off tall, granite pillars.

There is something about the palace that is vaguely offensive, something that puts you on edge and makes you habitually check the shadows that dance in the flickering lamplight. As you eye the cold granite, a lifelessness seems to echo back from it, and you question how a supposed ally of the nature-hearted kindred could have a palace so devoid of life.

"Do not come out until I say," you murmur.

"Mm."

"Even if she agrees, do not come out."

"I know."

"We can not tru-"

"We can't trust anyone," she finishes for you. "Men in the ugly masks're gonna think you're talking to yourself."

She has a point, even if she's giggling about it. A stretch of time slinks by, and you do your best not to doze in the warmth of the room. Though you are alert when a footman silently enters to fetch you for the Empress, you discover with a poorly-hidden start of panic that Angela has truly disappeared when your eyes flit to the hilt of your sword.

If she were to roam the endless halls of this shadowy palace, you're likely to never see her again-

"I am here," she whispers, her clawed foot grasping faintly at your shoulder. You hadn't felt her climb up there at all. Quiet pride streaks through you at that, but you would like to scold her for worrying you more than anything. You hold your tongue as you follow the footman into what is presumably the throne room. Angela stifles another tiny giggle, her tail curling against the folds of your cloak, but she falls silent as you come to kneel before the Empress.

You are not a small man, but you feel diminished and vulnerable before the throne. There are dangers in every corner, attendants and guards all poised to act on a single gesture from the woman in front of you. Though she wears no crown, her hair is intricately styled, adorned with tiny cabochons like dew on a spider's web. The Empress gazes upon you for a long moment and then stands from her throne, stepping off the dais to approach. Dark robes drape across her shoulders in a river of pitch, streams of fabric parting as her hands reach for your cowl. You feel Angela's little feet travel down your back as Arachne pushes the hood off your head.

Her voice simmers, rich. "I have heard of you," she says, a finger under your chin to tilt your face. "The swordsman with hair the color of straw, loyal to the largest purse. Mercenary."

You say nothing, as there is nothing to say. Arachne pulls her hand away, moving to glide around you like a predator as you suffer the weight of her examination. You feel Angela on your back like a brand.

"I am told you showed the guards a trinket of mine. This is a troubling thing to me, because I was certain the item in question was in my possession." She stands before you once more. "Giriko," she calls, and a man with hair nearly as light as yours strides out of the dark, wearing a perpetually satisfied smirk on his face. He carries a wooden reliquary the color of blood, which he opens at Arachne's behest.

The Empress plucks a small stone from the reliquary, creamy white polished to a seamless sheen. She presents this to you, so you cannot mistake the symbol of her empire so delicately carved into its face. "It was a gift, you see. Blessed by Maaba herself, it grants me certain… privileges." Arachne strokes the stone fondly before replacing it in the red box. "So I am curious, mercenary, as to how two of my Imperial Guard, who have never seen this trinket, could describe it so accurately. Show me."

You slowly reach inside your cloak, the guards in the room only relaxing when you present the Empress with the stone's twin in the center of your open palm. From her own robes, she pulls a silken handkerchief and picks up the orb in fascination.

Her voice is warm, though her gaze is pure, bone-breaking winter, pinning you to the granite floor. "Where did this come from, swordsman?"

"A bird came to me in a dream, Empress. When I woke, the stone was in my hand."

The man with the reliquary audibly scoffs. Arachne arches a brow, but despite any skepticism, there is genuine interest in her words. "If this is true, tell me: what bird is able to do such magic?"

"It was the Brightwinged!"

You tiredly close your eyes. The familiar smell of smoke reaches you as Angela becomes human, still clinging to your back with a hand on either of your shoulders. Defiantly, she says, "She came to Mifune and guided him, just like in the Songs."

After a murmuring of shock from the guards around the room, you open your eyes to a sight that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably: the corners of the Empress's mouth turning up in a self-indulgent smile.

Arachne looks down at the duplicate stone in her handkerchief for a moment before gazing at Angela, the gleam in her eyes making your hand itch for your sword. Then she turns that gaze on you, chin raised as she replies, "Did she, now? How very kind of her."

\\

"You would be warmer inside the cloak," you say, but Angela only curls her spiral of a tail around the horn of the saddle. She hasn't spoken much to you since your most recent lecture, prompted by having found her stowed away in a damned saddlebag three days into the march.

The lengthy reprimand may have been harsher than she was used to, but a little girl shouldn't be sneaking away to battle- especially when the opposing faction actively hunts her kind and eats them for dessert. You had no choice but to keep her with you, unable to turn back this far away from the palace, and you'd prefer her to at least hide in your pocket and out of the biting wind and snow.

You grumble, "Chameleons are not meant for this weather," but she continues to ignore you, attention caught by whatever is beyond the thick swarm of Imperial soldiers on horseback ahead of you.

There is an inherent mockery, you think, in that the first task Arachne has given you takes you to the far northeast, right at the doorstep to the Eastlands. You can see the low clouds blurring the jagged peaks of the tall mountain pass, dusting everything with a clean layer of snow. Through them is safety; you had originally planned to take Angela there, where the free peoples live on the other side of the mountain range, but now you are bound to the Empire. Again.

The company makes a slow banking turn to the north, riding off the main road and up a well-worn path over a frosted hill. Your mouth settles into a deep frown as Angela unwinds from the saddle and inches her way up the back of your horse's neck for a better view. You want to lecture her about that as well, but you're certain it would fall on deaf ears.

Then you and the rest of the company crest the hill, and your breath stills in your chest. Something black as pitch comes into view, marring the horizon. It's as if a giant hand had simply ripped a strip of the world away. After a long moment, you realize the black scar on the earth is the Dead Path. You had overheard Arachne's soldiers gossiping about it, but you know with a hollow sickness in your throat that there aren't any words they could have said to fully prepare you.

A demon has passed through here. You're told the decay stretches well beyond your sight, from the far western shore to over the eastern mountains. The wind carries the smell of devastation even from this distance, the scent fetid and impure in a way that makes you wince to your bones. As the company approaches, you find the earth scorched to brittle uselessness, trees twisted and skeletal. Even the snow refuses to fall there.

You feel the chameleon crawling up your chest to burrow in your cloak. "It's cold," she says plaintively. You grunt in agreement.

During the war, you've seen a number of atrocities. As amazed and uneasy the Path makes you, it's impossible to imagine what it must seem to the young girl. You wonder what kind of horror could spawn a demon capable of this- how far must a creature be pushed to retaliate with such ruthless destruction, leaving behind only death in its wake?

But you already know, don't you? The distance for you is hardly any- it trembles in your cloak pocket, only just shy of the length of your hand.

Black Star

\\

You hadn't fully realized what a pain in the ass this mission would be.

'No eyes but yours' has created a constraint of massive proportions- you can't ask anyone in the Clan what they might know about this mystery book White Star is after. Neither can you ask the common folk in the Clan's remaining territories, who only turn around and report anything having to do with beastlings directly to your sire. And with your own star on your shoulder, you can't exactly walk up to the first kindred you come across and expect to get any reliable information, as a mouse will never agree to have a chat with a hawk.

And while you may be on your own for this task, you're never, unfortunately, alone. There's always a brother or sister breathing down your neck, or an initiate eager to dig up dirt to gain favor with a superior. The best you can manage is to dig around for clues whenever you have a spare minute while your squadmates are occupied.

"The fuck're you doing in here?"

Your hands pause only briefly before you continue pushing over the remains of a bookcase. Moldy dust swirls from the wreckage, clouding the floor of the littered ivonhall. "Looking for beast trash, what the hell else would I be doing," you spit back, annoyed that someone as disappointing as Jasper had managed to catch you unawares.

Lurking in the entryway, Carmine's son flings blood off his shortsword. He's taller than you by at least three hands, and thoroughly enjoys looking down his beak of a nose at you. "Slinking around more than usual," he accuses, casually twirling the sword with a whirl of his wrist. He smiles eagerly, lips stained a glossy red-black. "Suspicious."

You curse under your breath, kicking aside a sloppy pile of rubble and old, unreadable texts. You're sure he would jump to the moon for the chance to incriminate you in any way possible, always hunting for an opportunity to snap your spine without consequence. It's a shame you can't simply tell him about this secret assignment so you'd have the excuse to gut him like a fish, because Carmine would likely notice his only son missing.

And as the son of the second in command, Jasper is outranked by very few- even if the kid makes a fool look like a scholar. Presently, he's more than a little wild-eyed, that smile of his more crazed than you'd prefer to deal with in tight quarters. He has taken to eating kindred raw lately, before they've even gone cold. There's a still-steaming spill of blood across his chest.

You gesture to your own face while saying, "You left some on your chin, genius. We're supposed to bring them back alive this time."

Jasper pays his mess no heed and steps through the doorway into the ruins, eyes burning with sickening starlight. "I needed somethin' to tide me over. This pit is nowhere as fun as it used to be- why're we tryin' to hold this place anyway?"

Plainly because, even after being halfway demolished by that salamander demon, Riohdr sits before the only pass through the Spectre Mountains, and whoever held the town reaped the benefits of trade with the Eastlands.

You don't waste your breath trying to explain this to someone with blood still dripping from his mouth- you need to find a way to get Jasper out of your hair so you can keep looking for some gods-forsaken book. The other assassin has you on edge, though, still stalking closer through the rubble of the hall and barring your exit. Your hands hover near your sheathed knives. "Does Carmine's precious son question the will of the Warbringer?"

Jasper gives no indication of hearing you. Without warning, he takes his sword and thoughtlessly slashes through faded, moth-hole-ridden curtains, as if he searches for something in here, too. "I know you think it's a cheap substitute, but the power is real, Black," he says, words on the edge of a laugh. Then, with a smile that nearly splits his face apart, he shoves the sword into a heap of crumpled tapestries and garbage. He slowly lifts the point of the blade up and out, falling debris revealing a squirming, tiny creature caught by the neck of its ragged cape. With pleased arrogance, Jasper says, "One taste and nothing can hide from you."

You almost don't believe your eyes. It's a grizzled kindred hare, half transformed, the feathery fur lining the edges of its face going white for the change of seasons. You hadn't realized its presence at all. The kindred smokes as it shapeshifts, stubby paw-hands growing into human fingers to unlatch its cloak and fall free of the sword. It scurries out of reach, scooping up a ragged bag of belongings in a panic and fleeing for the doorway.

Jasper bounces on his heels, a rumbling chuckle bubbling through his chest as he gives the thing a head start- he likes to play with his food and give it a sporting chance- and it's as you're sighing in relief to soon have the assassin out of your way that your eyes fall on something familiar bouncing around that half-open sack on the kindred's back. You recognize the swirling, arcing lines stamped into the black leather cover.

That damned kindred has the book your father wants, and Jasper has just darted after it with a howl of blood-soaked joy. You scramble after both of them, desperate to save the book before Jasper's sword spills the hare's blood all over its mysterious pages.

The cold wind bites your eyes, the smell of blood and smoke stronger outside the ivonhall. You see Jasper disappear around the corner of one of a dozen merchant alleys, and you struggle too much to find your footing in the slog of slush and mud of the street to give chase. Leaping to a vendor's table, its owner wisely absent since Star Clan's arrival this morning, you scale weathered posts and icy verandas, dashing across rooflines to catch up with Jasper and his prey.

You get a glimpse of the beastling as it zigs and zags down the alley and through tightly packed wagons, but it's far easier to track Jasper, who, judging by the flying wreckage, merely plows through all obstacles in his way without a care in the world, deep in the spell of his kinflesh high. You're gaining on the pair when the kindred makes it to the end of the alleyway and into the outskirts of Riohdr, faced with a wide, open valley with no places to hide and nothing to see but snow and the black gash of the Demon Path. The hare keeps barrelling due west despite everything, Jasper hot on its heels, and that's when you see Arachne's banner flying the skies.

Scores of Imperial cavalry crest the hills of Riohdr Valley. You stop short of the alleyway, darting to the shadow of a crumbling building. There'd been no warning, no word of any Aranei movement in the past two weeks- how did they get here unnoticed? How had they known the Clan would be here in the middle of a kindred run? You try to make a quick headcount: you can't see around the entire city, but what you can see to the west already has Aranei outnumbering the Clan here six to one. Those aren't terrible odds- you aren't a clan of assassins for nothing- but caught off-guard with most of the Clan riding on wings made of raw power and bad decisions…

"Jasper!" you shout, taking a running dive off the building before you can even question your own madness, because hadn't you been in want of a reason for this moron to die a moment ago? Imperial riders are rushing into town, swords held high, and Carmine's son still has no clue, having only a hound's eyes for the hare. Still, you barrel after him, or at least the book, gaining speed and leaping for Jasper's legs as a cavalryman tries to take a swing for his neck.

The assassin gnashes his foaming teeth, aiming a perfunctory stab near your shoulders that only meets layers of your cloak. "Out of the way, kinlover," he snarls, kicking you aside with supernatural force. He's after the hare once more, his determination unyielding. Clutching at your side, you toss a set of bolas as a last resort, the weights at either end of the rope wrapping around Jasper's feet.

They won't drop him for long, and more Imperial riders are headed your way, so you push yourself after this damnably sprightly old kindred, hoping to catch it before you have to contend with more angry hooves and swinging swords.

Naturally, the beastling runs directly for the nearest soldier, screeching for help, but you're nearly upon him- you need only grab his pack and escape with the book- and then Jasper tackles both of you, bringing you down in a heap of knives, claws, and teeth in the icy muck.

In the struggle of limbs, you catch brief glimpses of the earth and sky interspersed with an Imperial horse rapidly approaching with a dark-cloaked rider. You need to get out of here, but you have your hands full trying to both grab the kindred and fend off your Clan brother, who has resorted to attacking you and beastling alike.

Though Jasper's sweeping sword strikes are exaggerated enough to easily deflect with your dagger, the sheer force behind each blow threatens to crumple the bones in your arm. You land a decent knee under his ribs, hissing, "I'm not stealing your kill, you sard!"

On a normal day, Jasper would wheeze and search for his breath with a move like that, but he is back in your face faster than you can blink, blood and stars in his smile. He catches you in that briefest opening when your hand twists in the kindred's ratty tunic, and makes a sword-swing that will take your head off if you don't throw yourself out of the way. He still manages to land a cut from your ear to your jaw, the razor kiss of it almost unnoticeable until a split-second later, when the wound turns to ice and then fire within the same breath.

That same sweep that grazed you lands more solidly across the kindred hare, Jasper's sword leaving its own Dead Path through the thing's midsection. Nothing can live very long with a wound like that, though the wretch still tries to escape, a hand pressed to his red-blooming gut.

Arm raised for the finishing blow, Jasper stands over his prize, steam curling off the ground from the hare's blood. You think you may have shouted something, your hand poised to throw your dagger, but then the Imperial rider with a cloak like a breathing shadow smoothly glides off his horse and neatly removes Jasper's sword arm before his feet touch the ground.

Howling like the northern winds, your Clan brother spins away. The rider strides to the fallen kindred, guarding him as he poises his sword for you.

Before you can finish cursing every god in the heavens, the cloaked figure advances. He is swift, far more disciplined than any of the Clan save, perhaps, your sire, and under other circumstances you would enjoy having such an opponent.

No, that's a lie. Even now your blood is singing, a grin steadily growing across your face wide enough to rival even Jasper's.

This is the strength you desire, this pinpointed, precise show of skill in which every strike is meant for death. "Who are you, Imperial?" you find yourself asking, throwing caltrops at his feet and dancing away from another whistle-quick slash from his sword. "Arachne has never sent talented minions before!"

The soldier's voice is toneless and, maddeningly, not short of breath whatsoever. "I am no Imperial," he says, easily strafing around the spikes underfoot. "Lay down your weapons and you will be spared."

You laugh outright at that. "It's true you're not one of that wench's soldiers- they never let the enemy live." You make a swipe at his cowl, desiring to see the face of one who can spout such ridiculousness and expect you to believe it. You get a healthy cut across your shoulder for the effort, but you manage to reveal him, straw hair spilling off the man's head and thin, unwavering eyes reading your next move.

He dashes forward, a flurry of strikes keeping you on defense. Distantly, you hear the high squeal of clashing swords from the city behind you, your squad caught between struggling prisoners and mounted cavalry. You need to end this bout quickly while you still can.

"Are you sure you're not Arachne's concubine?" you taunt, edging closer to the bleeding kindred when the swordsman frowns. "I hear she fancies blondes-" you smile and turn out your last set of bolas. Though he sees it coming, catching them with the tip of his sword and tossing them away, it buys you the barest moment to dash for the book.

Except Jasper is already there, one-armed and ridden with madness. He has the hare by the neck, holding it like a trophy and crushing the thing's throat in his remaining hand. You do not have time for this insanity- he can have the wretch for all you care- so before the warrior can run you through with his sword, you reach out for the kindred's bloodstained bag.

Like a hawk, something flies before your eyes too quickly for you to truly see. Suddenly the hare is on the ground, sprawled in the muck among what had formerly been Jasper's limbs until a moment ago. The rest of the assassin is a dozen paces away, torso smoking from ...whatever the hell just happened.

Dumbstruck, you pull back your outstretched hand. There's a glimmer of metal in the corner of your vision; the straw-haired swordsman is there. You whip up your dagger to meet his strike, but you realize it's not coming for you- the man attempts to fend off a twisting, chittering thing of red and black, a half-moon of magic shrieking against the man's sword. Teeth grit, he only just manages to deflect the shadowy blade, sending it off at a terrifying angle a hair's breadth from your face. As you somersault away, you catch a glimpse of what had thrown the magic in the first place.

Truthfully, your first thought is 'demon'.

A strange warrior astride a black beast with long, pointed horns rides out of Riohdr. Imperials fall at his feet as he passes, their heads rolling across the ground. He howls in a tongue you don't know, his cry so massive it nearly shakes the eyes from your sockets. Shadows curl along the warrior's arms, twisting and growing into more of those red and black sickles, and then those blades leave his hands, spinning towards you.

The first one shears one of your daggers cleanly from its hilt. The second blade you dodge, the din of a hundred birds screeching past and rendering the bottom third of your cloak to nothing as you attempt to put as much distance between you and that galloping beast as possible. You manage to deflect the third blade with your remaining dagger, but not without the metal melting and twisting as if crushed by the hand of a god.

Forget the book- you need cover. You hear another blood-boiling roar as you sprint around, giving the warrior a massive berth to flee back into Riohdr. Smokey sickles fly by, but you manage to hurdle over the bodies lining the street and slip into a narrow alcove of magic-scorched buildings.

When the attacks sound like they're being directed elsewhere, you risk a quick glance around the corner of the building. You see the warrior leap off his mount and decimate a dozen Imperial riders in a blink. Only the blonde swordsman remains standing, but he's down on one knee, weary and at odds with a tumult of those nightmarish scythe blades. It's a pity to see him go. He was strong- stronger than you, even- and now you'll never know how he gained such skill. You carefully lean out of the alcove to watch the killing blow, the warrior conjuring a blade so filled with darkness it seems to eat the very sky.

The swordsman does not attempt to block the demon warrior when he rears the blade down in a mighty arc. Yet, at the last moment, the warrior hesitates. You nearly fall from your hiding place to see what has saved the blonde man's life, but you are too far away to see anything save how the rampaging warrior seems to diminish, his phantom blades disappearing with a loud thunderclap.

Surveying the carnage around him, the warrior stumbles backward, tripping over scattered limbs. And then, to your supreme chagrin, that blasted asshole gathers the dying kindred hare with him up on the back of his horned mount and flees.

\\

A few miles outside of Riohdr, the hare finally bleeds out. You watch (from a safe distance, you hope), as the strange warrior reverently dismounts his even stranger beast and begins digging a grave off the side of the Old Eibon Road. You have never known anyone who would take the time to bury a kindred- carrion birds and other things exist for that- and especially not with the soil nearly frozen over. The warrior murmurs something that might be a prayer in that language you've never heard.

As soon as he rides away, you hurriedly dig up the grave, fingers going numb until you find the book. It's still warm from body heat as you brush clay from its cover. The spine cracks as you take a peek inside, and it is as you'd suspected: it's an old tome filled to the brim with kindred lore and Songs in a script you can't read. Knowing White Star, he doubtlessly has some plan to use this to further strengthen and control his hold around the Clan and their addiction, but you can't fathom what it might be. Maybe a better way to cook them.

With the book finally in your possession, you now have a moment to tend to your own wounds. The blood down the side of your face has begun to itch, and when you check your warped reflection in your remaining dagger, you can already tell the top of your left ear is hanging on only as a formality. You'll have to remove it later. For now, you need to address the arm that the swordsman carved up.

Neatly bisected across the middle, the Clan tattoo on your right shoulder is gaping open enough that you should attempt to stitch it up with your meager supplies. You pack it with snow to numb it before doing a shoddy job sewing it shut. It's not the worst wound you've ever received, though it doesn't feel great, either. You wrap it up and leave it be.

Now you can fully address your present dilemma: Star Clan has suddenly and abruptly lost its hold on Riohdr, and you have no idea if any others of your squad made it out alive. Carmine's son is dead, but you are not, and the Warbringer's right hand is not going to enjoy your return whatsoever - especially when all you have to show for your survival is a book which you can't show in the first place. Not to mention White Star's general fury at having lost the city, a score of his contingent, and dessert.

You think, perhaps, that you should take the long way home. You're low on supplies, and walking into the arms of the Clan unprepared is foolish on a good day. That demon warrior had continued west on the road, and you decide following him to town is as good a diversion as any- he has strength that you're certain no one living has ever seen, and that is worth some investigating. You want to know how a man can become so powerful, how to move quickly enough to be a mere blur, how to throw one's manifest rage and harvest your enemies like wheat.

It's a task to keep up with him over an extended distance, though. You're on foot and he's on that bizarre elk with legs and horns both as long as you are tall. Luckily the beast is easy to track, as no horse has a print like a deer, and the warrior himself occasionally leaves behind mutilated traces of his passing, such as a pair of highwaymen who had clearly attempted to rob the wrong man.

Three days of travel and depleting your supplies finds you in the heart of the Western Territories, and you catch sight of the warrior again in the crossroads town of Kiarr.

Though the town is caught equally between Clan and Aranei territories, Kiarr has a tendency to remain more or less at peace out of sheer force of will. Disrupting its ever-shifting flux of trade would be detrimental to both sides. It's not a friendly environment by any means, but heads typically don't roll between vendor carts here like they do in other contested areas.

That being said, you're a lot closer to Empress's dominion than you'd like. Word of the latest slaughter at Riodhr doesn't appear to have reached here yet, and you feel it wise to not be around when it does. As neutral as Kiarr is, it's still crawling with Imperials who guard the fancy goods out of the Arachne's southern cities. With your right arm still injured and most of your weapons lost in the bloody muck back east, you do not wish to be caught with your pants down.

Thanks to Jasper, your shredded cloak doesn't do much in the way of covering your head, so you glide past a shop stall and relieve the vendor of one of his darker cloaks, fur-lined and with a woolen weft. Now as common as anyone else in town (which you are unaccustomed to- normally you would announce your presence proudly and press for discounted goods with a flash of your tattoo), you resume your hunt for the warrior. He's easy enough to pick out of the crowd- no one wears fabrics that hue this side of the mountains- and you find the man attempting to purchase a small roll of linen bandaging along with a stout stack of other provisions, though the shop vendor is making a noisy fuss about it.

"Shiri, not having," the warrior says, stumbling over the pronunciation of the copper coin. His voice is disarmingly mild and nothing like the hoarse roar you heard back in Riohdr when he butchered Jasper. "Having-" and he says a twisting word you've never heard, casually gesturing to a walnut-sized cluster of translucent quartz laced with ribbons of raw gold like it is only vaguely as valuable as a handful of chicken eggs.

Your mouth falls open. Both of these people must be fools. As you try to stifle your first instinct, which is to snatch the gold and run, you watch as the vendor picks up the cluster with a frown that clearly speaks of her ignorance of the bauble's worth. "What kinshit is this?" she complains, voice like a shrill rooster. You somewhat hope the warrior loses his temper and levels the stall just so you can see those phantom blades again, but he is as stoic as the dead behind his mask and cowl. "If you don't have the money, we don't have a deal."

The shopkeeper continues ranting with increasing volume, gathering a nosey audience, and the warrior takes an awkward step back, hands held up in harmlessness. Then you watch him do something that nearly makes you choke: in the middle of crowded Kiarr, he flips his gloved palms face up in offering, performing the sweeping bow of the kindred.

\\