If Vaelar could see the vibrant and rich cache of colors scattered across the dusk sky, he would have cried. This pinkish-orange spectacle, after what he went through, would have been like drinking a glass of milk after cookies. Sternus had the pleasure of laying eyes on it. If he wanted to, of course. For he chose to focus on the road ahead. Leading them to the mighty, ballooning establishment of Camp Entlig. The camp meant a new light. A breath of fresh air. Every kind of hope, all at once.

  “Bihcdus.” Sternus gurgled. “Weh maed ih ta kahnp.”

  “Wonderful, my best friend! I always believed in you. Even when Chripar and… the other ones made fun of you.”

  “Dey maed phun ov me?”

  Before they entered the haven of whiteish-green cloth and bouquet symboled banners, a watchman appeared with four lackeys. He tipped his halberd at their horse’s neck. The beast panicked. Nearly tumbling over. Although Sternus was well enough bonded with the horse now. Calming her down.

  “Stop right there!” the watchman barked. “State your name and purpose for being here.”

  “Wehr’e Onsholien zulthers. Ey’m Shdirnus aen th’s iz—”

  The watchman held his halberd to Sternus’ throat instead. “He’s got mushjaw!”

  His lackeys trembled. Arming themselves in a despaired fervor. One of them said, “He must have been sent by dwarves to infect us.”

  Another chanted, “Kill him. Kill him!!”

  Before the two were sliced to stringy, meat ribbons, Vaelar threw out his arms. “Wait!! I’m a Victus. My name is Vaelar. My charge and I were tasked with clearing out the bodies at Fort Blavim. We were attacked.”

  “Attacked how?” The watchman prodded.

  This was where Vaelar had to think. If he told them the truth—with a horse chase and his men’s horrible aim and getting blinded by… whatever that was—he’d look like a complete failure. The absolute worst. The bottom of the barrel—no, not just that. Under the barrel itself. Possibly the most terrible Victus to ever Victus. What a disaster that would be.

  Now Vaelar knew he was an excellent Victus. He only had a bad stroke of luck. His charge was full of incompetent idiots slobbering on themselves. Except for Sternus. Well, maybe him too—Vaelar wasn’t entirely certain. Deep in the Victus’ heart, without any of a million doubts that might taint it, Vaelar understood that he wasn’t at fault. Unfortunately, he predicted that the watchmen would stick him with blame like a scorpion would stick a beetle with its stinger. Therefore, he lied. Only because these buffoons couldn’t be trusted with truth.

  “A blue dracokin. He obliterated over fifty soldiers with his sorcery! Had to be an Ul-Baqshan mercenary. We barely escaped with our lives, as you can see.”

  Sternus tilted his head. “Buhd weh tid’t—”

  “The horror!” Vaelar interrupted him. He crocodiled some tears. “I’ll never sleep soundly again.”

  All of the watchmen gave each other puzzled looks. Before their leader hmm’d and said, “The Antarchon needs to hear this. His tent is in the center of the camp. Don’t dally.”

  The unit waved them through, allowing them full access to Camp Entlig. Sternus nearly said a few words, until he recalled what Vaelar did to the hands of chatty subordinates. He decided to keep his mouth shut. Worked out for him too—Talking hurt his swollen and bleeding cheeks.

  However, his heart could beat a little slower knowing they were safe here. They observed the marching rows of elves. Their silver plates and helmets gleaming. They trained and talked. Sparred and gossiped. Yelled and were yelled at. All as the intricate garden of beautiful tents swayed. A gargantuan flag saluted everyone below it—a bouquet of white roses slabbed on a solid green background. The emblem of Antarchon Gauid’s clan, or ‘order’ as the Legus called them. The Order of Sanctitude.

  Vaelar had visited here once. Only to discuss matters of patrol and unit sizing with an Optio. His name? Well, who cares. Vaelar would soon surpass him. After dealing with the blindness. Obviously.

  After some missteps from Sternus directional ability, they found the central tent. Larger than the others. Crafted from a fine silk, with Gauid’s emblem plastered on every side. A muted argument went on inside. A fevered voice fragmenting their thoughts. Another voice responded to them in brief, articulated replies. Still, they couldn’t actually hear the contents of the back and forth.

  They hopped down from the horse, as Sternus led his Victus to the opening flaps of the tent. Vaelar felt around. He knew his future treasures laid beyond those two silk folds. “Ey dhinc wuh thoud weid.” Sternus garbled.

  Ignoring manners and what Sternus said (because he could barely understand him), Vaelar pushed his way past the folds. He worked all of his other senses one hundred times harder. Just to avoid making himself a jester.

  There, continuing their argument, was the overseer of Entlig. Antarchon Gauid himself, standing across from an old, irrational Commander. Gauid’s presence alone felt like a wave of dysphoria. Vaelar, as blind as a bat, had his nerves tingled by just being in the room. It threw off his speaking skills. Yet the commander kept yammering.

  “An Ultin has been captured and it has still scarcely diminished their morale! Their soldiers aren’t inspired by the Kabihras! Their inspiration comes from the Zatwaris.”

  Gauid scanned Vaelar, up and down. Then, focused on the blood-red, foggy eyes he had. “Why are you in my tent, Victus?"

  ?

  In the grossly lavish halls of Lord Palmgrease, Arnzos sat upon a cushioned red chair, still in shock from what he witnessed. Even as Palmgrease directed him to tasteless paintings on his walls or sculptures made in his image, Arnzos couldn’t forget. All this revolting wealth—checkered carpets, painted columns, glass chandeliers, and murals throughout. They pushed one Lord. One story. They spun tales to make him a legend. A legend that Arnzos would never believe in.

  It was true that Arnzos was never interested in the job. He only wanted to seem that way to have an opportunity—any opportunity—to get the coat. But now, his mischievous indifference turned into attentive fury. He assumed they were road bandits. And Palmgrease was nowhere near an actual lord. How wrong he was. The question in his mind still lingered. What happened, that turned him from renowned adventurer into a cruel monarch?

  Palmgrease yapped about whatever painting he was proud of. Modra at his side. Arnzos wasn’t listening before, but decided to now. “...and this piece was from a Vrestatifian paintress. The colors, the composition. Mmm! Her composition wasn’t bad either.” He chuckled, nudging Modra. The rodinkin didn’t react. “It was a shame minidrakes were not her cup of tea.”

  Arnzos had nothing to say. Palmgrease leered at him. As if he wanted to crack open his skull and read the writing within. Arnzos’ face was too blank. Too expressionless. The Lord couldn’t read him. He shrugged it off and said, “Modra. Get us cigars please.”

  Modra bowed and left. Only the two were there together. Arnzos thought of grabbing him and snapping his neck, but he would be killed by the guards outside. Escaping the manor in that moment was impossible. Bandits everywhere. Oh, Arnzos was so tempted to bash Palmgrease’s head into the floor. Over and over. However, it could only remain a fantasy. For now.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “How do you feel about working with a group?” Palmgrease said.

  “I’ve done it before. It’s no issue.” Arnzos hid his frothing bile, eager to spit.

  “Really? You didn’t seem like the type. If I may ask…?”

  “When I was a teenager, I did little jobs for the Many Destitute. Back in Day’s Sunder. Father couldn’t provide and mother was… um.” He imitated drinking a bottle. Palmgrease hmm’d, shaking his head.

  “Mommy problems. We all got ‘em. I killed mine after all.” Arnzos gulped. Was this another joke? Palmgrease snickered. “Ahah! I jest, my draeken. Your faces. They always take me out. Good physical actor. You might do well in theatre.”

  “Thanks.” Thanks? Just… thanks? Arnzos’ talons couldn’t stop twitching.

  “In all seriousness, my mother was wonderful. She was an actress. Which was unheard of, really. I mean—most people don’t like looking at us. Minidrakes, lyzanites, dracokin. By human standards, which Hylverea practically runs on, we are disgusting. We’re monsters. But she had such a charisma on stage. Imagine being so enthralling that you make humans lay aside their prejudice.”

  “My family could never afford going to plays.”

  “Ah. Shame.”

  Modra returned, cigars in hand. He left one for his Lord and another for the blue dracokin. Palmgrease’s right hand man snapped three fingers together. Above those, he held a cute flame. First, lighting his Lord’s cigar. Then, Arnzos’. Modra crushed the toy fire between his palm.

  It seemed odd that the rodinkin was a pyromancer. Magic like that is much more deadly than conventional weaponry. Yet, during the ambush, Modra used a crossbow. Was he just not well-versed enough in it to confidently damage Arnzos? He thought it sad that Modra’s only application of pyromancy would be lighting his boss’ cigars. Learning such powerful sorcery, just to use it as the lowliest of servants would use any other common item.

  Palmgrease took his first puff. Modra stared at Arnzos. Oh, he so desired to ram the cigar into Modra’s eye. “Thank you.” Arnzos said. He huffed. Smoke conquered his lungs. He smoked once before. Didn’t like it then either.

  Arnzos coughed, as the puffy tobacco clouds exited as quickly as they came. The Lord raised a clawed thumb. Winking at Arnzos. “Lungs of an infant.” he said.

  “Whatever you say.” Arnzos hacked, some fumes still trapped in his throat. “So what’s my team going to look like?”

  “You’ll love them. Quite the gallery of weirdos. Lady Jane Waterfowl—bored human girl. Daughter of a baron. Aipo Illorin. A lyzanite assassin all the way from Gottyarz. There’s also Miss Ungrette. An old cerulian hermit. She’s lived in the Scrupled Lands her entire life. Fascinating people.”

  “What’s our assignment then?”

  Palmgrease let out a fat miasma of cigar guff. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow, when you’re together. But to keep you anticipated…” He leaned in. “House Butcherie will know real sovereignty.”

  He couldn’t decode the riddle. Not entirely. After all, Arnzos wasn’t sure of what the Lord’s position was like in this bandit group. Of course, Palmgrease was a leader, but were there others too? Was it a council? A feudal arrangement? He didn’t know how much land was in their grasp. He guessed who their enemies were—for many of them lived in the village outside. But who was an ally in this conflict? Besides the team just mentioned. Well, it didn’t concern Arnzos.

  He nodded his head and pretended to care. The Lord could chew his fat all day long. Palmgrease ran his tongue, jabbering, and it kept him pacified.

  He jabbered in that upstairs lounge. In the dining room too, when their supper was served hours later. A meaty wedge of cooked goose with oltaragus stalks. Its savory aroma tickled the nose. Breads served on platters and fine wine complemented their packed meal. Gelatins loaded with fruit and white puddings laid for dessert. For Arnzos’ first feast, he was sated, but a pungent aftertaste wouldn’t leave him. Those at the table—Palmgrease, Modra, and a few other unknowns—ate without sin. Tomorrow’s team seemed to be missing. Otherwise Arnzos would have been introduced by now.

  The pungent aftertaste rested not on Arnzos’ tongue, but in his chest. A fathomless void with the flavor of poison. He wasn’t choking or sputtering—yet all this food at the table was so vile. Like he was drinking a person’s blood. The feast pleased his tastebuds, but soured his soul. How could this fine meal be so delicious and so nauseating at the same time? He shivered. As if roaches crawled under his scales.

  Maybe he was being poisoned. Though, no one else was. He saw the bolt enter that grayhaired felinian. A quick flash between blinks. Smothered out in less than a snap. He’d seen so much death before. Why did that engrain into his consciousness? He took a few more bites—watching Palmgrease babble. Whatever the subject, he overlooked it. As again, in Arnzos’ mind, the words ‘steal the coat and leave’ cycled through.

  Modra beheld Arnzos in his sight. They noticed each other. While Arnzos looked away, Modra kept his gut-churning gaze. He had no issue with disquieting the dracokin.

  Arnzos was done with tasting bitterness. With being studied like an undiscovered creature. That night, he would carry out the theft. A swipe of the Lord’s favorite wool attire. If Modra had the intuition to stop him—and followed it—then he would die on Roxbane’s steel.

  ?

  If one listened intently to Arhuinim at night, they would hear quite the varied assemblage of sounds. For example, the purring prayers of the villagers; A doomed effort to notify anyone of their plight. Perhaps the attentive footsteps of the Lord’s sentries. They inspected every spot behind and inside and in front of his manor. Searching for any threat proud enough to face their wrath. Unlike the Ul-Baqshans, the knights rarely dulled their senses to celebrate.

  They could not. As threats to their ‘civility’ lived merely a block away. They had no anonymity to enjoy from a place like Jama Bog.

  Another sound one might hear—not native to Arhuinim—is the thoughtful pacing of Arnzos Loftclaw. He walked around, now situated in a cozy shack near the manor. A row of shanty houses decorated the outskirts of the village. Spots for the guards to sleep. The oppressors. Concocted with such a blatant disregard for care. Reflected in their attitudes towards the felinian tribesmen. The knights told campfire tales, while Arnzos paced inside his shack.

  It only allowed him five steps to take. The width and length of the interior was miniscule. One, two, three, four, five. Then, he turned around and repeated. He forged his plan while he paced. The shantytown had around sixty people. Plus the twenty fiveish knights that protected the borders and sanctum of Palmgrease’s mansion. He personally counted. If he snuck through the back, past the dining room, then up the stairs and across the hallway… he’d find the door. The door to the second floor lounge. Where Palmgrease kept his coat rack. It’d be free for the taking.

  After dealing with some of the guards, anyway. All this silence made him wonder, why wasn’t Phyletta talking? She could be mad and refusing to speak. Sure, that’s one option. Though she did say that it was hard for her to keep her material form for long periods of time. Some spiel about a spiritual barrier. He couldn’t fully recollect. So many events, so little time. It stewed like soup in his subconscious.

  He could try to reach out. With that mind voice they both used. Why not?

  [“Phyletta? You still here?”]

  [“SHE IS NOT…”] a guttural voice boomed. Arnzos stopped pacing.

  Then, a croaking reverberation stabbed at his brain. As if a bird’s humming was lowered and sharpened to violate his earholes. Ripping apart the textiles of his existence. The hum continued; Only he could hear it.

  Arnzos felt like his skull was being boiled. His pupils about to pop. The guttural mind speech continued.

  [“EMPRESS. PREOCCUPIED.”]

  Arnzos collapsed. He clutched his cranium. Dug talons into his temples. Begging for the pain to be over. [“What did you do to her!?”]

  [“SLAY. THE LORD. BURN. HIS CAVE.”]

  Arnzos invoked anything—any power beyond his own to help him. To stop the throbbing agony tearing out his eardrums from within. He cried. His neck tensed. His face felt as if it was crumbling in on itself. No words were there to describe his suffering. Only pure, unbridled torment.

  [“THESE THOUGHTS. ARE YOUR OWN. I SIMPLY… URGE YOU. FORWARD.”]

  Arnzos dry heaved… before the humming vanished! The pain with it. He could breathe again. He could think. He really thought he would die there. In that shack, all alone. Rotting away until the morning. Discovered by a bunch of ruffian bastards. It made him reflect. Who was that? The husband, Milosk? If so, then ones above, he was terrifying.

  Yet, if Arnzos’ theory was true—that being, Milosk already bonded to a different person—then how did he enter Arnzos’ mind? Maybe it wasn’t him. He wasn’t in prime shape to begin theorizing. Just… damn, was he happy to not be writhing around. Desperate to die. He slumped on the crappy bed next to him. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be a suitable time for crawling about.

  Whoever it was, why would they want Palmgrease dead? Arnzos thought many a time of slitting his throat, as he was certain the villagers thought about too. Likely even, some of his own men. Why this foreboding presence? What could it gain from his demise? Too much to ponder. He needed recovery time. He pulled a thin blanket over him. Resting his head…

  Until a knock at the door. “Blue. It’s Modra. We gotta talk.”