"...regarding Manesque: low support overall, with weak private forces...alliance with Godwin troubling, but expected to self-resolve...Godwin will likely not tolerate his presence much longer...regardless recommend an agent be dispatched to House Manesque, as one has been with Peixit...even the weakest contender for the throne can be crafty and dangerous...pre-emptive elimination remains preferred solution..."

(from an Imperial Hand report delivered to Vincent Abellux, ~390 After Calamity)

Chapter 7: To Make a Killing

There was one cardinal rule every criminal in Vollachia soon learned: smugglers were not to be harmed.

The youngest bandits, those who had just begun their careers, scoffed at such an arbitrary stricture. This was Vollachia, the land of wolves, where the weak died and the strong lived. Some cheap smuggler who only knew how to run through the border certainly belonged in the former group.

Thankfully, there were a few bandits smart enough to realize why the rule was put in place. Vollachia, for all its grandeur and majesty, was far from welcoming to foreigners. Goods produced in other nations often remained there, unless sheer luck played a hand in delivering them to the good people of the Empire.

In the isolated Vollachian Empire, smugglers were the only ones who could — or would — cross the borders and come back with cargo worth an emperor's ransom. For the criminal society, for every gang in the Empire, the smugglers were the backbone of civilization.

Of course, there were a few imbeciles who said things like, "Oh, but why should we care about Lugnican weapons? We've got our own, and they're much better!" or "Kararagian chainmail? Who would ever buy armor from those avaricious pigs?"

Lugnican swords, it turned out, could be used to focus magic to a certain extent, like a low-quality wand. Kararagian chainmail could be used to protect against said magic, which Vollachian armor was not accustomed to. For the lucky few who knew how to instinctively channel sufficient mana to be classified as mages, there were few items of greater quality than Gustekan-made tools. Those snow-munchers sure knew how to make magical devices, though that was just about their only redeeming quality.

Vollachian smugglers threaded the line between life and death every day. If too many smuggled goods wound up in the hands of bandits, or the wrong dimwit got hold of a terrible weapon by "coincidence," the smuggler responsible for such a mistake would probably earn a visit from the Imperial Hand and end up tied to rocks at the bottom of the nearest body of water. Au contraire, the smuggler who cozied up to His or Her Excellency a bit too much would find their fellow criminals just as bad as the Emperor's personal killers, if not worse.

Of course, playing both sides had its disadvantages too. Some bigshot on either team might decide that a double agent was too big a risk to let loose and take matters into their own hands.

To put it simply: the life of a smuggler was very dangerous.

As one smuggler in particular finished this tirade, simmering pride on his square face, his demi-human companion sipped her tea and sighed.

He, the smuggler, was an average human man, if slightly more "handsome" — by his own unbiased standards — than the typical Vollachian. His tan skin turned darker still around the three diagonal scars on his face, which resembled those made by a bear's claws. The scar tissue had not yet fully healed, yet the smuggler paid it no heed. His gray eyes, with odd triangular-shaped pupils, were windows to no soul, and hinted only at a heart darker than his night-black garments.

She, the demi-human, was his exact opposite. Slender and graceful, her demi-human heritage was obvious in her sharp bat-like claws and pointed fangs. A colorful sun hat with various mismatched splotches of color covered her short hair and partially obscured her lean face.

After a few seconds of quietly sipping her tea, the demi-human placed her now-empty cup on the table, the sound drowned out by the clamor of the crowded bar around them. As soon as she left the cup alone, the entire room trembled for a couple moments, and once it ended the entire bar cheered.

"Someone out there," she commented, raising a finger, "is getting the beatdown of their life. I'm thinking quite a few broken bones, maybe a lost limb or two." A minuscule smirk formed on her lips. "I appreciate your story, but if you are here to ask for hazard pay, you can expect a similar response."

Tracing a line along the middle scar on his face with his index finger, the smuggler responded, "We're all a little low on funds right now, I get it. Not here to ask for a donation. Not like you have a heart to appeal to."

"Guilty as charged, I fear. Nonetheless, I can scarcely imagine a man of your…priorities coming out here just to sell a few borrowed goods."

"Times are tough," the smuggler shrugged. "That goes for both of us." He leaned in closer to her, ignoring his companion subtly moving away from him. "Rumors are flying, somethin' about kind Miss Godwin finally getting put in the ground. The Ceremony is coming to an end. Who knows what barbaric acts these savages would carry out against the fair maidens of Vollachia? You might not fit in that group, but surely you feel some pity for them?"

She pretended to think about it. "Oh, how tragic, indeed. And who shall save these fair maidens?"

"Well, it'd be myself."

"And who would save them from you?"

"I suppose," the square-faced man guffawed, "that such an honor falls to you!"

Nodding, the demi-human lady added, "It would be an honor indeed. My, I can already hear the news-criers: 'The heroic Lady Stryzga, savior of the downtrodden.'" Tapping her fingers against the wooden table, she asked, "Do you think such a feat would earn me some reward? Nothing grand, of course. A city like this one would do just fine." A pause. "Why, I might just ask for it. No use building from the ground up."

The smuggler held in another laugh, this one more mocking than the last. Stryzga was a pest with a minor case of severe delusions of grandeur, but she was far from foolish. She was envious, though. Every drop of blood in her body burned with resentment, an ailment she sought to cure by reigning over this…wasteland…that intellectuals called "a city-sized outhouse" and imbeciles called "Chaosflame."

To the smuggler, such a petty goal was below his notice. It made no difference to him if the half-bat-woman somehow took over this city or got herself killed while trying. The latter would be a shame, given she was one of his frequent customers, but he would find a new buyer. There was a rather high demand for foreign goods in Vollachia, and he was all too happy to provide to anyone willing to meet his prices.

Nonetheless, despite his lack of concern toward Stryzga, she had her uses. If she was going to end up in a nameless grave somewhere, best she do so after her usefulness ran out, no? If not…then the smuggler would have to disappoint his employer. That simply would not do. She was…a most demanding boss.

To that end, he coughed into his hand to get the bat-woman's attention. "Allow me to be the one that puts pleasantries aside, for now," he spoke, silently scoffing at his business partner's detestable fanged grin. "I recently borrowed some equipment, see? Every day it sits in my carriage is a day I lose out on profit, and this is some very valuable equipment." To accentuate his point, he tapped his left ring finger against the wooden table three times, a common code that indicated a wish for secrecy.

"Unsurprising," she commented, bringing a hand to her chin. "Who was the lender this time?"

"I forgot his name already, so he wasn't very memorable," the smuggler lied. "Some Lugnican big-name with a ridiculous mustache." For added effect, he brought a finger to his lips and pretended to be deep in thought. "Now that I think about it, he looked like you…minus the fangs, of course."

Stryzga made a half-hiss-half-laugh sound and reached out a hand. Without a word, one of the bar's patrons sitting just a few tables away stood, holding a long rolled-up parchment. In the space of a couple seconds, he brought it over, placed it in Stryzga's hand, and returned to his seat, resuming whatever conversation he was having with his companions as if nothing happened.

As the smuggler watched in awe, the bat-woman unfurled the brownish paper, revealing it to be a wanted poster, with his face on it.

"Look at that," the smuggler chuckled, a tinge of fear evident in his voice. "They got my eyes right."

Humming to herself quietly, Stryzga read out the words at the bottom of the paper, beneath the significant monetary reward. "'Under suspicion of grand theft and murder.'"

With a click of his tongue, the smuggler corrected, "It wasn't a murder, the fool girl tripped."

"Tripped and wound up hanging from a tree?"

"Lots of that going 'round these days, you know?"

Stryzga made a sound of assent. "Yes, yes, I am aware. I did not know it happened to Lugnican knights too, but we all have our unlucky days."

"She wasn't a knight by any means, please."

"Ah, yes, my mistake. That does not change the fact that you hanged her from one of Barielle's trees."

The smuggler clicked his tongue, realizing he wound up unintentionally admitting that he knew more than he let on. Stryzga, though, just kept a cool smile, like she was remembering a very funny joke she heard a while back. "You got what you wanted," the smuggler spat, crossing his arms. "It's time for what I want."

The bat wagged her finger. "No, I'm afraid not. In any other case, I'd be glad to get those weapons off your hands, but this time…do you realize the danger that such attention brings?"

"Attention from who? Lugnica? This is hardly their land! What's the point in—"

Before he could finish, the ground trembled once more. A terrifyingly common occurrence, here in Chaosflame.

Once it subsided, he resumed. "—worrying, if they can't even touch you?"

Stryzga shrugged, her damn smile growing on her face. "Of course, of course, but I am not the one in danger. Half of Vollachia is going to decide that your bounty is worth more than your wares, and the other half is going to turn a blind eye for as long as you're Lugnica's face-of-terror."

"What are you proposing, then?"

"A small, almost negligible, tithe."

He paused for a moment, considering it. "How much?"

"Depends on your borrowed goods."

The two looked at each other for a few seconds, neither breaking away or speaking. Around them, the bar's rowdy talk carried on, unaware and unaffected.

Finally, the smuggler broke his silence. "Fifty-three swords," he muttered, "six full sets of armor, a couple wands, and some…trinkets."

Stryzga took a few moments to respond. "Five swords, one wand…and a set of armor."

"You'll run me out of business with that! Why don't you ask for my soul, while you're at it!?"

"Because you've sold it already." She pushed her sunhat upward, revealing her horrific bat-like eyes. Every time, she seemed to look past him. It was like she always knew so much more than him.

He hated her for it.

Stryzga tapped her fingers on the table. "Instead of your soul, how about a trinket? I don't care which. Surprise me."

The smuggler drew his lips into a thin line. "Trinket costs extra. How about you answer a question for me, and I'll waive the fee?"

"Ask away."

Choosing his next words carefully, the square-faced smuggler asked, "Where is Guerre Halfas?"

She looked at her nails and, for the first time, dropped that mocking grin. The glare of disgust that replaced it was even more unsettling. "That old tadpole? Probably drinking himself blind somewhere around here. Killing him would be a mercy, you know."

The smuggler nodded. "I know. I don't plan to kill him."

Stryzga eyed him with hidden curiosity, and the smuggler slid his chair back as he stood from the table. "What's your goal, then?" she inquired, voice low, concealing real curiosity.

"My goal," he replied, smiling, "is to make a killing."

Subaru had thought Japanese summers were hot, but they had nothing on the average Vollachian day.

It had to be a few hours before midday, probably around ten am EST (Earthen Standard Time), but it felt like the sun had taken out a magnifying glass and singled him out with it. He had never been to a desert, but he imagined that it would be like an arctic paradise compared to this oppressive heat.

As Subaru sat down, his back against one of Faradar's many wooden houses, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve, sighing in despair when he noticed it did nothing to alleviate the suffocating heat. In the town square in front of him, about a dozen children played around, some pretending to fight with sticks, others chasing each other in what had to be this world's version of tag, and — last yet most definitely least — the glaring teen with the bandaged hands that Tiga had mentioned earlier who looked on from the other side of the square.

The teen still looked like someone had spoon fed him ceramic as a child, but at least he wasn't staring at Subaru as if trying to psychically evaporate him or…something like that. Maybe he was just irritated by the sweltering, torturous temperature. That would make a bit more sense than the ceramic diet.

Who knew, though? Maybe the people of Faradar enjoyed a bit of ceramic every once in a while, as a treat.

A couple of footsteps to his left caught Subaru's attention, and he looked to find Tiga standing there, holding the same branch from earlier against his shoulder. It had snapped in two during a mock duel, but the green-haired boy still held onto it. "You certainly are new to Vollachia," Tiga chuckled, squatting down next to him. "It takes a bit of getting used to."

"Just a bit?"

"Just a bit."

The two shared a laugh. Subaru was starting to prefer Faradar to the rest of Vollachia, from what little he'd seen of it. At least it wasn't a battlefield or a stuffy manor. He had to admit that the quaint village had a certain charm to it.

"Did it take you long to get used to it?" Subaru asked.

Tiga shook his head. "This place is hot, you know, but Kararagi is hot." With his free hand, he mimed a person walking. "You can walk for hours in any direction and only see sand. Besides…" He looked at Subaru with a tiny smile, as if he knew something no one else knew. "Besides, every second grain of sand's already been bought by someone!"

Tiga laughed heartily at his own joke, and Subaru joined in as best he could, mostly to be polite. He wasn't about to look like an idiot in front of his only friend on this side of the "Great Cascade" (or whatever it was called). For all he knew, Tiga was the only good person in this entire country. He didn't feel like looking for friends in a country full of Criffs…or Palladios…

The thought itself was terrifying enough. No world — fantasy or otherwise — could handle a single Palladio. Two of them would be an international emergency. Any more than that, and the world would be in grave danger.

Speaking of…

"Tiga," Subaru said, catching the other boy's attention. "Do you know about Palladio Manesque?" When Tiga didn't respond, he continued, "Tall man? Looks really mean? Sounds like he has a cold when he talks?"

Tiga scratched his head. After a few seconds of thinking, he answered, "Sorry, don't know him. From what you said, doesn't sound like I'd want to meet him." He paused for a moment. "But…if anything, I think I know someone who can help!" Chuckling, he added, "I don't know how reliable she'll be though…and her help comes at a price…"

"Wait, why do you make it sound so shady!?"

"Ha, well…this person is…never mind." He gave Subaru a thumbs up and smiled. "It should be fine to ask her, so long as it's not much of a hassle."

"Who are you talking about?" Subaru asked.

Tiga responded with a shrug, then sighed, "It's a long story. I mean, she doesn't like visitors too much, and she already finds me annoying…but it's no big deal!" Seeing that Subaru was still confused, he chuckled and said, "Have you heard of the Witch of Faradar?"

Subaru shook his head. He knew about the Witch…vaguely. Criff's lecture hadn't been very educational, but Subaru at least understood that everyone in this world feared the Witch. If there were others like her…well, surely that couldn't be good.

"A long time ago," Tiga began, "Faradar was destroyed. For some reason, the Emperor chose to kill everyone in the city." He stopped for a second, waving his hand back and forth, as if clearing the air. "What a crazy thing, right? Anyways, so the whole town got burned down, but when the Emperor's people left, the townspeople found a girl that got buried in the rubble, and she was completely unscathed."

Subaru waited for him to continue, and when he didn't, said, "That's it?"

Tiga brought a finger to his chin. "I mean, kinda? She's still around. Talks to herself, never leaves her house, says she sees hollows…"

It took Subaru a couple seconds to understand the implications of Tiga's statement: the feared Witch of Faradar was a shut-in. Sure, a magical one at that, but a shut-in nonetheless.

Well, it was poetic, in a way: his only lead home was a possibly-evil wizard shut-in. He wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't living through it.

Just as he was about to press Tiga for more details, a shadow loomed over him. Subaru hardly even needed to look up to realize that he was about to suffer through yet another Vollachian tirade, coming from the one and only…

"Mister Palladio…"

"It's 'Lord' Palladio, sniveling dog," came the tall man's reply, in his distinct nasal voice. "A dog that can't recognize his master has more worth as a carpet than as a hound." The heir's golden eyes narrowed as he noticed Tiga for — seemingly — he first time. "And this? What's with this flea-ridden mutt?" He turned to Subaru, visibly offended and disgusted. "Did you bring in your entire kennel of indigents to desecrate my home!?"

Subaru looked at Tiga, who just shook his head with a disappointed expression, and both sighed in unison, earning a derisive scoff from the insufferable prince. "I'm starting to feel like I should've left earlier," was Tiga's sole contribution to the conversation, which — thankfully — Palladio ignored.

Crossing his arms, the nobleman put his foot on Subaru's knee, a sneer on his face. "I can count on one hand the number of reasons you should be in this town and have five fingers left over, so why don't we work together and find something useful for you to do?" His tone made it less of a question and more of a command, if anything. "And you," he spat, pointing at Tiga, "can certainly find something useful to do. Leave us. Go yap in someone else's ear."

Tiga grinned wider than ever before, and his eyes betrayed a hint of mischief. "I can think of something useful to do, Excellency," he said with a bow, adding a dramatic flair to his voice. "For exam—"

Palladio eyed him for an instant, and before Tiga could finish his sentence, the heir swung his hand diagonally. A diminutive flicker of wind rippled at the prince's fingertips…and vanished immediately. Whatever Tiga was going to say was lost as Palladio's eyes widened and he silently gaped in surprise, before going back to his typical sneer so quickly that Subaru wondered if he hadn't imagined the whole exchange.

"Something wrong, Excellency?" Tiga snickered, standing straight once again.

Palladio's reply was a nervous chuckle with too much false self-confidence sprinkled in. "As if! I merely realized that you are no dog; just a rat. Leave my sight! And if I catch some disease from you…no, just know that, for your own sake, that best not happen!"

With a sympathetic shrug to Subaru, the mint-haired boy turned and stepped away, back to where most of the other children were playing. Only a handful of them seemed to pay any heed to Palladio's unexpected (and unwanted) appearance, save for the teen with the bandaged hands, who's deathly glare could have erased the prince from existence by sheer willpower alone.

Paying no heed to the teen, Palladio shook his head and muttered something about indignation. "Honestly, you lot have no respect," he hissed. "The children I grew up around knew their place, and I rewarded them all for it."

"Because they groveled to you?" Subaru mumbled.

"Well," the heir chuckled, "I did say they knew their place. And don't give me that kicked-puppy look, please, it annoys me to no end." He copied Tiga's shrug. "Really, what's gotten into you all? Do you seriously need a reminder that some of us are born to lead, and the rest to serve?"

"What do you want?"

"To unravel a mystery. Have you ever heard of the Witch of Faradar? Of course not. She was a survivor o—"

"I heard about her."

Palladio stopped and looked him dead in the eyes as Subaru smiled. The heir didn't speak — or blink — for an absurdly long time, before continuing, "—of the Imperial massacre of Faradar. Long story, and I don't care one whit about re-telling it. She's still around here, somewhere, and you are going to find her for me."

Subaru moved his leg to get the prince's foot off it and stood, dusting himself off. "And then?"

"You're going to send her a message, of course. If she demands payment, you pay. If she asks for a sacrifice, you provide one. If she starts talking to hollows and spirits and Envy herself and then tries to maul you like a dog, you let it happen. Clear?"

The idea was far from tempting, but Subaru already knew it was an unavoidable fate. Still, he asked, "And if I refuse?"

"All those things happen, in that order," Palladio explained nonchalantly. "And if you're still alive, don't expect any remuneration from me. The only kindness I'll do you is finding someone willing to end your misery."

"Sweet."

"Really? Just wait. Prove yourself useful and I might even let you meet that rat again. I can hardly let you associate with bad influences like him."

Although Subaru was tempted to point out that Palladio himself was a bad influence, he refrained, for the sake of avoiding another tangent. "And what's the message?"

Palladio leaned down until he was really face-to-face with Subaru, an act that made him curve his back at an almost-perfect right angle. "A measly few years ago, there was a festival in this town. A handful of people there dropped dead; simply stopped breathing on their own. You will ask the Witch for information regarding those deaths, and you will tell me what she says." He pointed to himself. "Me. Me alone. Is that understood?"

"Yeah…understood."

"Splendid. I'll overlook your insolence today, but speak nothing of this mission to anyone. You are only useful as a messenger, and if I have to cut out your tongue…well, you'd be more useful as food for the crops."

Subaru nodded, and Palladio's sneer turned to a grin as he forcefully patted the boy. "Ah," he added, "and give her a little personal message from yours truly.

"Tell her Palladio intends to cleanse Melinda's sin, and asks for her help in doing so."

Chaosflame…was there anyone in the world who didn't love this city?

Sure, it was a warzone, but so was the entire Vollachian Empire. Sure, it was always under watch by the Imperial Army, but they never did anything beyond posing and talking big. Sure, the people here were as likely to stab you as they were to hug you, but that was good for you, a couple stab wounds today toughened your skin, and tomorrow you'd be sword-proof…or something like that!

Chaosflame itself was an enchanting place. The Crimson Lapis Castle in the distance cut an imposingly majestic figure, its spires cutting the sky open, towering over the city like teeth on the horizon. The Crystal Palace in Lupugana itself was a sandcastle compared to it.

And the architecture! Its beautiful buildings of marble and brick and ceramics, with their sloping tiled roofs, dominated every street like Steelfolk giants slumbering along the roads. Even the tallest citizens were gnats compared to them.

Oh, and the people! Not a human in sight! Steelfolk, Weaponkin, Hyenas, Dwarves, and so many more ambled along every street. They jostled and pushed and bickered and, on special occasions, tried to kill each other. Hardly anyone died, though. Thanks to that Lady Mishigure…

On some days, a little bit of death was a good thing. It kept you alive…if it didn't kill you, duh. Sometimes, a life-threatening situation was just the thing to wake up to. It cleared the mind.

Today, this very fine day, was just the perfect day for a little death, and what better way to find it by getting into a bar brawl?

The Yasui tavern was a respectable business, or as respectable as any business could be in Chaosflame. You could tell it was respectable because the barkeep hid a pair of short swords underneath her counter, and one of the two had to be fixed recently when it split in half after a fight. It was far from the only thing split in half that day, sure, but it was the most expensive to fix, which was a real pain.

On this day, this very very fine day, esteemed mercenary Guerre Halfas had but one wish: to start another bar brawl, one with real casualties this time. No more of that "Oh, we should stop, we can't let anyone get seriously hurt" nonsense. This was Vollachia, land of wolves, land of war! Land of really damn cheap inns and even cheaper tavern swill. And — with Drizen as his witness — Guerre could swear no one served better tavern swill than Yasui. Apparently the Kararagians loved it, but they'd chug down sand if it was sold in a golden chalice.

As he stopped at the entrance to the tavern, with the twin doors barring his way, Guerre brought a sharp-nailed finger to his snout, gently rubbing a few scales that got chipped earlier. He hadn't meant to skimp out and not pay the carriage driver that brought him here, but apparently he over-tipped that waiter in Guaral, and now he had a single coin to his name. It wasn't his, but he stole it from the driver, so technically it was!

He clutched the coin in his hand, puffed his chest out, and pushed open the doors, putting on his best grin as he walked into the fine establishment. It was his best grin because it showed off his fangs, and those always spooked a few people. Benefits of being a Snakefolk, and whatnot.

As if that was not enough, he made sure to put his hands behind his back like a real officer and all. The people of Chaosflame hated soldiers, and Guerre was going to do everything he could to look like one. He was one, kind of. He just fought for money instead of principles. Was that so bad?

The one thing he lacked was his spotless orange uniform, tailored for soldiers of House Godwin, but he sold that three carriage stops back, to a bunch of creepy wolf-masked fellows. He got one of the masks in return, but it didn't fit him. Shame.

Still, he was far from sad to lose that uniform. If anyone realized he was on the losing side of this civil war, he'd be hanged at the town square! Or worse…they would put him in prison 'til he paid back his debts! He might as well jump off the Great Cascade at that point.

As he sauntered over to the counter, Guerre held his head high, taking in the stares of his fellow patrons. The barkeep, a yellow-skinned six-armed hulking tower of muscle, narrowed her eyes when she saw him, stealthily reaching for her swords.

That was to be expected. Guerre loved to make a scene, and everywhere he went, he was bound to leave an impression. None could forget meeting a battle-scarred, crimson-scaled, accented Snakefolk like him. The accent was his favorite part, because it was the one he came up with on his own.

"My dear," he began with his hoarse voice, as he put his hands on the counter and looked the barkeep in the eyes, "you have certainl~y gotten tall~er. And yell~ower. Feel~ing al~right? I can take over your job today."

The barkeep's glare could have put a Jiwald spell to shame, and it lasted for all of ten seconds, after which she hissed, "What do you want?"

Guerre chuckled in response, completely missing whatever she said after that question, but her tone implied an insult, so he was fine with not hearing it. Too many of those lately. "This is a tavern. There's a wall~ of drinks behind you, and" — he put down his lone coin on the counter — "now there's your payment. What el~se do I have to do to get a drink?"

She picked up the coin and stared at it, flabbergasted. "This would get you a glass of the cheapest—"

"Fantast—"

"—but you owe fifty-six more of them, so all it will get you is a kick to the teeth."

In response, Guerre winced, though he tried not to let it show too much. He was proud of his teeth, his fangs especially, and he wasn't going to lose them to a barkeep! Not even a barkeep twice his size with four more arms than him and enough strength in each to break apart trees…

Yeah, maybe it was best to pick a fight with someone else. Someone who he could actually have a chance against.

With that in mind, he reached out his hand to recover the coin, but the barkeep took it from him before he could even graze it. He stifled a nervous chuckle and reached for it again, but the barkeep pocketed it before his very eyes, not breaking eye contact for an instant.

Guerre scratched the corner of his mouth. "That was…mine."

"I am aware," the barkeep replied.

Guerre wilted, lowering his head, and whispered, "Can I…have it back?"

The barkeep chose to remain silent and turned to serve some other patron.

Turning away in shame, Guerre scanned the tavern. It was a two-story establishment, with dozens of tables in a semi-circle around the main bar. A large set of stairs led to the second story, where patrons could enjoy longer stays. The ones here on the ground floor usually got kicked out after a half hour.

The upstairs patrons were richer, of course. More coins in Guerre's hands…and in his pocket…and hidden in his canteens. So many places to carry money, and yet, no money to carry! He would fix that soon enough.

As he turned his gaze from the stairs, attempting to look nonchalant — as if he wasn't the poorest man in Vollachia — the Snakefolk spotted a familiar face at the foot of the stairs. It was wrong, like someone had taken it apart and put it back together without a care as to how it previously looked.

That unsettling face belonged to a rugged human man in his forties, with a too-square head and inhuman triangular pupils within his gray eyes. The manwas dressed in plain brown garbs, the same color as his skin, pretending to be a common person. The clothes didn't draw attention away from the three diagonal scars that marred his face.

Guerre knew that man. He knew the horrific creature that hid behind his smirk. He knew…that the man was looking at him, and yet he dared not move. How could he? He was staring at the man who had tortured him for years, who had beaten him unconscious almost every night for years, who had come close to flaying him.

The man who had made him fight for his life in that wretched gladiatorial arena.

That monster in human form waved at him, beckoning him to come closer, and Guerre found himself doing the exact opposite. His body moved even as his fear-stricken mind froze, and Guerre found himself back out on the streets of Chaosflame before he even realized it. In a single breath, he made it a block away from the tavern. In the next, he slinked into an alleyway, wishing with all his heart to disappear.

He knew some of his demi-human cousins could change their skin to blend in with their surroundings, but he wasn't included among them. If anything, his blood-red scales made him stand out. In silence, he prayed to his god, that legendary figure of myth that he had chosen to follow in life. A Snakefolk like him, though one who had long surpassed him in every regard. A divine envoy of liberty: the Saving Mother, Libre Fermi.

The beaming sun above Chaosflame barely hid him, and Guerre crouched as best he could behind some crates that had been carelessly left out in the open. They were a godly aid at this moment, and he was going to take all the help he could get.

Every second he spent behind those crates dragged on for an eternity, and Guerre could feel his heartbeat slow as his breath quickened. There was no one in the alley beside him, but he could swear that every swaying shadow was the outline of that brute coming for him.

It felt like the darkness was reaching out to him…again. There was something here with him, and he could not see it. A specter out to haunt him, to mock him, to drag him to the depths of that lake until he breathed no longer. He swore he could feel its hands reaching out and—

A light tap on his shoulder made him scream like he'd been ran through with a spear, and he muttered some gibberish that sounded vaguely like "Don't take me back" for a good while before he realized the mind-numbingly horrifying "specter" was just a knee-height cat demi-human with an insufferably high-pitched voice that sounded like it went up in volume with every word out of her mouth.

"Mister, those're my boxes yer hidin' behind," she drawled, as Guerre stared at her, stupefied, feeling tears of relief well up in his eyes.

He quickly scrambled to his knees, bowing his head. "Please, please!" he muttered. "You have to help me! He's back! He'll take me back! He can't be back! I'm begging you, please!"

The cat-lady just stared at him, perplexed, a hint of pity in her eyes. She didn't understand. She didn't know. She had to! Everyone had to know! Guerre would never go back to that pit of agony, to that nightmare…he couldn't.

And yet, as the cat-lady began to respond, a new voice cut in. One Guerre knew too well. "Forgive my friend here," it said, and Guerre felt a gloved hand rest on his shoulder. "He has been through too much, lately. Some of us…leave a part of ourselves on the battlefield, you know?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," the cat-lady spoke, waving her hand. "Can yer friend get outta 'ere? Gotta business to run 'n' he's in the way."

"My apologies," the voice replied. "We won't bother you any longer, ma'am." The grip on Guerre's shoulder tightened, and he felt like he was about to faint. "Come now, Guerre. We don't want to keep this lady from her job."

Against his own wishes, Guerre allowed himself to be pulled away, unable to even say a word. His body refused to obey him, and though he was easily stronger than his captor, Guerre had long ago accepted the horrid truth that he could not resist. Defiance only brought worse punishments. Defiance only hurt him more.

He didn't even look behind him as the voice spoke again. "You've gotten faster, Guerre. I remember you using it to your advantage, back then." A pause. "Shame you weren't fast enough." The man laughed heartily. "Good for me, though! Can't go back empty-handed. Not again…or Mother…"

Guerre did not miss the fear in his captor's voice, and that terrified him further.

"Nonetheless," the man continued, "I won't fail. We won't fail." With barely any effort, he tossed Guerre against the wall and walked in front of him, squatting to be at eye-level. Guerre saw past the man's triangular pupils, and he knew they were windows to no soul. "Got a proposition for you, Red."

He had heard those words so many times in the past. He knew it was no proposition. It was a command. With grave consequences if he refused.

The man before him smiled gently, as if he hadn't been the architect of Guerre's misery for half a decade.

His name was Calliande. A despicable name, one Guerre was glad to read on a grave many, many years back. A name he was never supposed to hear again.

This unassuming man had, for many years, been a warden at the Ginunhive prison. Many of his prisoners, the ones who cost him money in lost bets or misbehaved, wound up at the bottom of the island's lake.

Calliande had met the same fate. He was supposed to. The creature in front of him should have been a hollow, not…the real monster.

"I know you're listening," Calliande chuckled. "Same deal as always. Do as you're told and you can go on pretending you're a free man." He shrugged. "I'd like to skip that part, but I can't afford to be hasty now. I have a new boss…and she'd hate it if I spoiled her fun."

The only words Guerre managed to croak out were, "How are you alive?" He didn't even put on the accent for that question.

Calliande shook his head. "Told you. New boss. Come on, Red. There's profit to be made. Someone out there needs to have their day ruined, and we're up to the task."

He turned and walked away, not even sparing a glance to the stunned Guerre behind him.

Guerre didn't make a sound as he stood and trailed behind him, genuinely regretting that he didn't get the barkeep to kill him.

Faradar was supposed to be peaceful.

It was a town in the middle of nowhere. To anyone of importance, it was just another name on reports about food and land. Faradar had nothing of interest, and save for the scant few idiots who wandered in every year trying to study the Evil Eye Tribe, it never saw any new faces.

Faradar was the very image of serenity, a shelter in the whirlwind that was Vollachia. It was a refuge. A haven. No one was supposed to upset the peace.

Sometimes, things got out of hand. That festival a few years back, when some people died? That was never supposed to happen. It was an honest mistake, and it was covered up. No one in Faradar wanted the Emperor's men poking around town, not after how they burned it to the ground the last time.

Faradar was as perfect as it could be, but there was work to be done despite that. Someone had to keep the town as a serene, forgettable backwater place. It was a thankless job. At times, it was a dirty job.

Anything to keep the peace.

It was a team effort to keep Faradar safe, and everyone played a part, but none did so with even a semblance of enthusiasm. No one save for young Salum Pristis.

Everyone in the town wanted Faradar to remain forgotten. Some did it because they liked the peace, others because they thought it profitable, a handful because they were on the run. Salum, though, did it for the simplest reason: family.

A lot of them knew. In their eyes, he was the brother of a murderer, and his own family had threatened to destroy the very same peace he now protected. It was why he took this job, why he personally acted to protect Faradar against anyone who would do it harm.

Those like him, they looked at him with pity. Poor Salum, who atones for a sin his sister committed. Poor young Salum, who was — at sixteen — like an infant to the rest, too young to remember that day when Faradar burned. Pity the child who fought for a cause he didn't understand.

He did not miss how they whispered behind his back, saying that he would be so much better off without his sister. They thought her a burden. A girl who couldn't control her power was a danger to the Tribe's secrecy.

It was why they hid her away. They hated her, and that made them fear her. Salum was permitted to visit her, and so was that loud Kararagian boy, Tiga, but that was a privilege. If the Tribe deemed it so, they would be rid of the Pristis siblings once and for all.

So Salum proved himself. He did everything in his power to show them another way. The Tribe elders didn't think highly of him, but they thought of him, and that was good enough. All he needed was one of them to argue in his favor, to show the elders that he, and his sister, could be trusted.

Now, Salum had a mission. A personal mission. One that came not from the elders, but — of all people — from Tiga. Salum barely spared a thought for the boy, but at least he helped out. That, Salum could approve of.

Tiga warned him of a few newcomers, among them a strange boy and an "obvious" noble. Normally, this wouldn't have startled him, but a merchant he knew told him that the newcomers also included a strange maid and a nervous-looking fellow who kept asking about lockpicks. Four newcomers was four too many, and Salum was determined to find out what drew them here.

He appreciated Tiga approaching the boy earlier. He said there was no cause for concern, and Salum felt comfortable knocking the boy down to the bottom of his priorities — and if the boy was really going to visit that "Witch," Spiegel, he was all but dealt with — but that nobleman was the opposite. Salum saw him strike at Tiga, and if he hadn't intervened…

The nobleman was trouble. He was sure of it.

That meant the maid was probably with him, which left the lockpicker. Everything Salum heard made him sound like a fool, so he wasn't a priority.

Now, he was focusing on that nobleman. Very few people of his rank would willingly come to Faradar, which meant he had some very special reason to be here. Was he a friend of Lord Peixit, the ruler of this land? Was he just a rich idiot trying to learn about the Evil Eyes? Or did he have some motive Salum could not yet discern?

Salum left the square shortly after the nobleman, keeping almost half a block away. The nobleman was easy to spot, at least, with that ridiculous turquoise scarf on his neck. He stood out as much as Salum did, which would have made tracking him difficult…if he wasn't as self-centered as every other noble in the Empire, barely sparing a glance to anyone around him.

People on the street paid Salum more attention than they did the nobleman, but most of them knew him well. There would always be a handful of people who thought him a thief or a thug, but he gave them a wide berth. No point arguing with them.

Ahead of him, in one of Faradar's main streets, the nobleman stopped at a shop that Salum recognized. A tailor's store, one that specialized in dyes. What could a noble want there? A disguise? A wig? A new scarf? If it was the last one, Salum would gladly give him the funds and send him on his way.

Salum chose to remain outside the store. It only had one entrance, so the nobleman would come out where Salum could see him. Now, Salum just had to wait.

After a minute or so, Salum spotted another figure leaving the store: a short woman with a maid's uniform, sporting House Peixit's insignia. Her skin was glossy, and even from afar, Salum could make out that the base of her neck seemed to be lined by a circle. Combined with her pitch-black eyes, he had no doubt she was a Woodkin, those rumored distant relatives of the Steelfolk.

She was holding onto a pile of boxes almost as tall as her, balancing them with each step. She waited at the door for a couple seconds until the nobleman exited, holding a box in his hands as well. He sized up her pile of goods and carelessly tossed his box atop the pile, walking away without a care in the world as the maid followed him.

Salum shook his head and followed them.

The sooner they were out of town, the better.

"Someone is trailing us, esteemed lord."

"Yes, Lutka, that's the seventh time you've said that."

Normally, Palladio would have paid no attention to some stranger trailing behind him. He dealt with assassins before, almost as often as he dealt with adoring subjects clamoring to get a glimpse of him. To Palladio, dealing with stalkers was about as normal as buying new clothes.

Sure, maybe it had been a while since anyone "clamored" to get to meet him…but that would change! Once he was Emperor, he would have no shortage of serfs fighting one another to meet him, and he would have no shortage of servants to stand in their way and say "His Excellency is occupied at the moment, kindly wait upon his convenience," while he was off playing Shatranj…or having someone do it in his stead. It was a boring game.

But the throne was about so much more than the prestige! It would give Palladio the power to finally make things right. He could wipe away the stain his father left on history, and usher in the era of the Evil Eyes! His people, no longer hiding like outlaws in the nooks and crannies of the Empire.

With the Tribe's power and the Emperor's influence, they could push through any challenge to his rule, and strengthen Vollachia past what any previous monarch imagined possible.

"Someone is trailing us, esteemed lord."

Palladio nodded in agreement, mumbling, "Yes, Lutka, that's eight times now."

Damn it. Who was following him now? Faradar was barely even on the Vollachian map, so unless Gaoran sent someone to trail him…

A tidbit of forgotten information resurfaced in his mind. Faradar had been the site of a land dispute a few years ago, with a House rival to Gaoran's own. That was typical in Vollachia, old petty noblemen killed each other for specks of dirt more often than not. Maybe the former owner of this town was looking to get it back.

In the worst case scenario, it could be the Imperial Hand. They were supposed to be impartial, always staying out of the Selection Ceremony under threat of death, but that threat only applied if they got caught. The Hand was brutal, but it was also brutally efficient, and if just one of their agents was after Palladio, odds were his enemies would find out things about him not even he knew.

There was little point worrying about it. He had to deal with the threat, of course, but this was Vollachia; everyone spied on everyone. If you didn't have at least four people feeding you information about your enemy, you were fifty steps behind. And now, with the throne at stake, Palladio was sure that—

"Esteemed lord—"

"Lutka, I swear by the First Emperor, if you say we're being followed—"

"—we have reached the end of the town."

Palladio snapped out of his thoughts and looked ahead. As his servant said, the town ended just a few steps away, giving way to the forest. He turned, noting that there was no one on the street anymore, and uttered a "huh" in surprise.

"Are we still being followed?" he asked, which Lutka affirmed with a nod that he barely saw behind her pile of boxes as it teetered to one side before she stabilized it. "It seems our tail doesn't know when to give up. Capture them alive. They'll know something useful."

Lutka assented with a grunt, then stepped toward him. "Hold this, esteemed lord."

Palladio barely had a moment to realize what she was talking about before she thrust the box pile onto him, knocking him off-balance. He fought bravely to keep the pile upright, but one box fell and struck him on the forehead before landing on the dirt below him.

He scoured his brain for the vilest curse he could think of, but Lutka had already vanished. Whatever. If she did her job well enough, he'd look past this insolence. He needed a source of information on Faradar, someone who knew the town well, because what he was looking for here…only very few would know about.

See, not that long ago, someone had killed several innocents with the power of an Evil Eye, compelling them to take their own lives. The incident was covered up…but nothing escaped Palladio Manesque, the Augur.

Someone in Faradar had the power to bend the minds of others to their will, and given by how much the incident was hidden, he suspected the power's owner was still alive, likely in the clutches of the Tribe's elders.

Tsk, now that just would not do.

Palladio Manesque, the Mindbender. It had a nice ring to it. With a little time and planning, he could rule an Empire where no one would even think about defying him. And now, in the short-term…

…he would test that power on his "beloved" half-siblings, and he would take a front-row seat to the glorious deaths of his rivals for the throne.

Deaths brought about by their own hands.

AN: Hello everyone! Happy holidays and happy new year! I hope 2024 is your year!

I've been absent for a long while. Things have been chaotic (but everything is fine!) and I haven't really had time to write. Truthfully, the few times I opened the doc to work on this, I just thought "It's going to take so long to get to the good part, and no one's going to sit through the build-up, so why not go do something else?" I finally got around to finishing this chapter, and I promise that, yes, the number of characters might be overwhelming right now, but I plan to give each and every one a fitting role in this story, now that the plot picks up.

Palladio is finally kicking his plan into gear, and only Salum knows enough to stand in his way. Subaru is visiting the "Witch" of Faradar, an Evil Eye who talks with ghosts. And only a few cities away, a duo of assassins is coming for them, under orders from their elusive "Mother." Meanwhile, Tiga is kicking rocks, and Criff is buying lockpicks at the Vollachian hardware store.

The next few chapters will see the first major conflict, and with so many things going on at once...can Subaru find a way through the chaos in one try?

Find out next episode, on Stars and Wolves!