The city of Bridgeport wasn’t quite as grand or large as the Riverlands Capital, but it was beautiful nonetheless. The streets were clean, the buildings tall and angular, with high, large windows and archways, unlike the architecture Dean was used to.

  He stared up at a stained glass mosaic as they passed, noting the depiction of the gods as the sun glinted off the glass in a colorful array.

  “First time here?” asked Tasha, her lips curving upward as she caught him staring. Dean nodded.

  “I’ve traveled a lot of places in the empire,” he admitted. “But never this far south.”

  “Have you?” Her delicate brow curved upwards. “Forgive me for saying, but you seem so young. I’m surprised to hear you had the chance to travel.”

  Dean blinked, only just now remembering that in this body, he was just now a month shy of his eighteenth birthday. “Ah,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I had some opportunities to travel when I was little. Nothing significant, but” he glanced around the buildings. “Enough to appreciate good architecture.”

  “I see.” Luckily for him, Tasha didn’t press the issue.

  “We’re almost there,” said Osric, gesturing up the paved hill towards the rot iron gates that stood at the top. The Rellar estate and gardens are just up this way. I think you’ll find that Master Rellar’s father is exceedingly grateful for his son's rescue. And he tends to show his gratitude in the language most men can universally agree on.” The man patted his coin purse, making Shawn scowl.

  In fact Shawn had been doing a great deal of scowling, most of which was directed at Dean. When he was first rescued he’d tried to maintain an air of haughtiness, which fell apart when it became apparent that he needed a change of underclothes due to the fact that he’d pissed himself.

  Tasha had found this immensely funny, and Shawn had been sulking at the back of the group ever since. Osric had clapped Dean on the shoulder and told him not to worry. It had taken them only a day of travel to reach the city, and in that time, Dean had come to like the bodyguard. He was a calm man, soft-spoken and deliberate.

  He had asked Dean to spar while Shawn’s newly washed underclothes had dried over the campfire, and Dean had obliged him. They had used whittled down wooden branches rather than swords, and Dean had refrained from tapping into his essence at all. Instead, the two of them had exchanged a series of parries and blows, each one getting more creative than the last. Osric was a good swordsman, found the exercise reminded him of his sparring sessions with Captain Ripley and Charlotte. Though he recalled, sparring an elf, especially an elven Adventurer, was a far more difficult task than one might expect. Elves were naturally stronger and faster than humans, and when they manifested that difference was often amplified. Something to do with the way they processed natural essence. Magic was a part of them. A part of their blood, in a way, it often wasn’t with humans.

  “Are you alright?” Tasha touched his arm, and Dean glanced at her, plastering a smile on his face.

  “I’m fine, sorry. Most of my essence fatigue has worn off, but there’s a penalty for overdoing it. I’ll need to rest for a day or two at an inn. Eat, refrain from training, and meditate. That will restore some of my strength.”

  “Refrain from training,” Tasha jostled his arm. “That sounds like torture for you.”

  Shawn glared at the two of them and made a noise that sounded a lot like “Teh.”

  “You needn’t worry about paying for lodgings,” said Osric as they rounded the hill. “The Master will no doubt want to provide that himself. The estate has seventeen rooms and ten members of staff on call twenty four hours. Should you have any needs, I don’t doubt they’ll be taken care of.”

  Tasha gaped at the estate as it came into view, and Dean could hardly blame her. The building itself was a large affair. It was tall, equal parts stone brick and heavy wooden beams that had been stained so dark they were almost black. Several sets of polished doors stood beside large bay windows set in thick cedar frame. The manor itself gave off a very old school feeling, and not for the first time Dean found himself wondering what kind of man the Ballif was.

  “So, Mr. Rellar,” he said, nodding to the house and all its fancy entrapping’s. “Is it he who runs the city? I would have assumed a magistrate or lord would have been assigned. Or even a Garrison Paladin. How is it the Ballif came to wield so much…?”

  “Influence?” Osric finished, following Dean’s gaze. He smiled uncomfortably, rubbing at the back of his neck. There was visible beneath the color of his armor and Dean know the man had been wounded during his attempt to rescue his charge. Despite the evident discomfort Osric had carried himself well, both in the duel and during travel.

  “You’re right to wonder. I did too when I first arrived here. As you might have guessed, the Rellar family us old. They and their progeny have lived in these parts for generations.”

  “Before the Empire saw fit to invade our lands and claim the Riverlands as it’s own province,” Said Shawn, his tone clipped. “You’d do well to remember that, Thompson. When you address me you address the heir to a lineage as old as the divine family.”

  “And twice as pompus,” muttered Tasha. Dean’s lips twitched as the young master shot her a glare. Osric seemed unperturbed by the interruption.

  “It is as the young master says. The Rellar family has been a cornerstone of the south for many years. Ours is a proud land. Proud of our heritage, proud to be a part of the Empire and of the making of history itself. The Ballif is a great man. It was his great grandfather that signed the empire’s treaty nearly a hundred years ago.”

  Dean whistled softly as they came to a halt before the tall iron gates. A guard stood behind the bars. He was dressed in a neat uniform, with a plumed hat and a ceremonial sword at his side. A bit frilly for Dean’s taste, but to each their own.

  “Young Master Rellar,” said the guard, bowing deeply at the waist. “Your father will be pleased to hear of your safe return. I shall inform him at once.” His mustache wilted slightly as his smile faded. His gaze landed on Dean and a small frown creased his brow. Subtle, but still noticeable.

  “And who are your companions?”

  Another guard in a similar uniform stepped forward, opening the gate and stepping aside. Shawn strolled in without hesitation, yanking off his gloves and tossing them to a nearby servant.

  “Oh,” he said. “Them. This is Adventuerer Dean and his companion, Tasha. I believe they sought an audience with my father.” He gave Dean a withering look which his guard didn’t seem to miss.

  “I see,” the man sniffed, looking down his exceptionally crooked nose at Dean’s worn travel clothes and armor. “I shall of course see to it that accommodations are made in the local inn.”

  “Come now,” said a voice from the doorway of the manor.

  “You would insult the man who saved my son’s life by putting him up in some second rate flea infested inn? Is that how we show southern hospitality to our southern guests these days?”

  A man strode from the doorway, followed closely by several alarmed looking servants. He was tall, his snow colored hair and beard trimmed short and neat. His eyes were a pale blue, the color of the sky on a clear day. But all of that paled in comparison to his aura.

  He’s an Adevtuerer Realized Dean as the man came to a halt several paces away. And a powerful one.

  . The man’s blue eyes glimmered in knowing amusement.

  “You must be the Adventuerer my scouts informed me of. It’s Dean, is it not?”

  “Yes your lordship,” said Dean, stepping forward and thrusting out a hand. The Ballifs’ guards reacted, tensing as hands dropped to weapons. The Ballif himself waved a hand.

  “Relax,” he told his men. “If Dean here wished me harm, I doubt he’d have strolled in the front door. And there’s no need to call me lordship. My family hasn’t held a proper title in at least three generations.”

  And he took Dean’s hand in his, pumping it several times with a warm enthusiasm that surprised him.

  “I cannot tell you how much I want to hear your story, Mr. Thompson. That I and my household owe you thanks is without doubt. You are most welcome here. Most welcome. I hope you’ll join us for dinner tonight.”

  Shawn was practically glowering, pushing through his household guards and shoving his spear into the hands of Osric.

  “He hardly needs to stay for a meal. I am of course grateful for your assistance Adventurer, but I no longer require anything of you or your..” his lips twisted in a sneer. “Companion. Father if-“

  “Be silent.” The words were said calmly, and yet the aura that surged from the man was unmistakable in its anger.

  The Ballifs aura surged suddenly and even his guards took a step back as he turned towards his son.

  “But father-“

  “I told you to hold your fucking tongue, boy.” The coldness in his voice seemed to penetrate his son’s bravado and Shawn had the good sense to clamp his mouth shut. “This family hails from a long line of Adventurers. Men and women who devoted their lives to service of the empire and duty. As my only son and heir, I expected you to follow the same path.”

  For a moment the man seemed to struggle with the words, his jaw working.

  “I thought… I thought that perhaps when you finally earned your badge that you’d turned over a new leaf. That you might for once hold some sense of personal responsibility. But I see now, after years of reports of your behavior, that you have not matured.”

  Shawn’s throat bobbed.

  “Father if I may..”

  “You may not. I am disappointed in you, son. Had we not been on the cusp of a civil war, I might have mind to deal with your actions myself. But as it is now,” he sighed, rubbing at his temples. “We have far more pressing matters on our plates.”

  At the Ballif’s words Dean had tensed and Tasha glanced at him.

  “War?” He asked, his voice strained. Rellar glanced at him and sighed, dropping his hand to his side.

  “Ah yes,” he said. “I suppose I’d better bring you up to speed.”

  ***

  Growing up in the slums certainly had its perks. For one Dean’s senses were more honed than most. Moving about the world with one eye open lest you be either robbed or stabbed in the back teaches a man something.

  But one thing the lower city didn’t have in abundance was good food. Dean realized that now as a row of servants in the uniform of the Rellar household swept in carrying an array of platters, plates, and bowls filled to the brim with every food he could imagine.

  There was roast chicken, roast duck, scallops, fish, and several soups several of which Dean couldn’t pronounce the name of. Baskets of different breads were placed before them, topped with cheese, herb butters, and fragrant oils that made his stomach rumble.

  What was perhaps most egregious however was the simple fact that Dean’s goblet never seemed to reach anywhere approaching empty. Every time he’d take a sip of the red wine placed before him, a servant would swoop down to pour him more.

  “I think,” said Tasha, leaning towards him on the pretense of helping herself to more herb butter. “That the food Ballif might be trying to get you drunk. In fact, the only one not drinking like it’s their last day in this world is that woman.”

  Dean grunted his agreement as he reached for another perfectly cooked leglet of exotic bird. She was right, of course. The table was filled with people, some of which Dean had been given the opportunity to meet and shake hands with. There were policy makers, industry leaders, and one robust man that who’s only point of interest seemed to be his enormous wealth, of which he boasted of quite loudly. The most notable however was the city’s Garrison Commander.

  Bridgeport, it seemed, had more than a designated watch. It also boasted a garrison of over a score of armed soldiers, most of which had been trained on the forts of the plains themselves. The Garrison commanded herself was an impressively tall woman, with shrewd eyes and an apparent aversion to wine. Every time a servant swooped down on her the Garrison Commander would place a hand over her glass, preventing more wine from being poured without saying as much as a word.

  Dean was beginning to suspect it was a social move but the nuances of southern politics weren’t exactly something he was versed in.

  The servant came around again, wine bottle poised and at the ready. Dean swallowed his mouthful of succulent meat and tried giving the man his best polite smile. Then he put a hand over his glass.

  “Thank you, but I’m fine.” He said. The servant hesitated his eyes flicking towards the butler who waited by the door. There was some sort of exchange between them before the Servant plastered on a smile.

  “Of course, my apologies. Perhaps a spiced wine might better suit you? Or a vintage? The Ballif Rellar is known for his wine collection. Wine from every part of the world, including the exotic notes of the elves, some of which you might find to your taste.”

  Dean’s face fell and Tasha concealed a snort by dabbing at her lips with a napkin. He cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps another time.”

  The servant hesitated a little too long behind Dean’s chair before eventually wandering away.

  A hand fell on his shoulder and he glanced over to see the Garrison commander leaning in, laughing at a joke he’d never said.

  “You handled that well. It’s a bit of a social trap, isn’t it?” she muttered into his ear. “Refuse and it looks bad, but if you don’t well. Sometimes that’s worse, isn’t it?”

  “Oh?” Dean speared a roast potato. “And you suppose their trying to ply me with wine to… what? Soften me up?”

  The Garrison Commander’s eyes flashed with amusement and she shrugged.

  “I don’t it’s so dramatic as that. But I wouldn’t let your guard down if I were you. Ballif Rellar isn’t a bad man but he rarely invites others into his household, especially to share a meal. You’ll notice all who sit at this table are valuable to him in some way or another.”

  “So you think he wants something from me?”

  The commander gave him a pitying smile.

  “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

  Dean was spared having to answer when the doors of hall opened and a man walked in. Tasha’s reaction was subtle but Dean saw her stiffen, her expression going blank at the sight of him.

  He was cleanly dressed, with long dark hair and neatly trimmed stubble. His coat was long but as he moved Dean could see the slight bulge of a weapon concealed at his waist. But it was his eyes that were most striking. They were two different colors. One was a deep bright emerald and the other was a stark hazel.

  “What is it?” Dean asked, inclining his head towards were Tasha sat. She swallowed her bite, picking up her goblet in an attempt to conceal her expression.

  “That’s him,” she whispered. “That’s Elise’s husband.”

  “Ah, there you are Declan, I was beginning to think you hadn’t received my invitation,” said the Ballif, rising from his chair to greet him.

  “My apologies your lordship,” said Declan. His voice was deep and strangely pleasant in a way that tickled at Dean’s senses. “I was detained. These recent events have impacted business in a way I could not have anticipated. But those are the times.”

  Almost without meaning too Dean’s mana sense extended, probing towards the stranger. What he found was… puzzling. The man’s essence signature was there but it was… strange. It seemed to ebb and flow in a way Dean could only describe as sporadic. As he crossed the room the man glanced at him, almost as if he’d sensed Dean’s attempt to probe him. Dean’s lips turned downward in a frown.

  “What?” asked Tasha, glancing between them.

  Dean shook his head.

  “It’s… nothing.”

  “I see you’ve returned from your mission master Shawn,” said Declan fondly, toasting the young Adventuerer with a wine glass that a servant had offered him. He came to stand beside the open seat next to the Ballif.

  “Still in one piece after encountering a horde of goblins? I must say I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have had the stones myself.”

  Shawn’s sour expression didn’t shift but Dean noticed him sit straighter in his chair at the compliment.

  So, he cares about what this man thinks of him. Just how much influence does this Declan hold in this city?

  “Yes, well, we can thank the Gods for that.” Said the Ballif grimly, setting down his wine glass with a thud.

  “That anyone survived that massacre is a blessing in and of itself. Goblins in my territory? A decade ago this never would have stood. If I were half the man I were then…” his grip on the stem of his glass tightened and for the first time Dean saw the signs of age in the man.

  “It’s the last thing any of us expected, Rellar,” said the Garrison Commander. “You can hardly be blamed for all the recent unrest in the south. When the empire allows lawlessness to go unanswered it sets a precedent.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Said Declan, lowering himself to into his seat and grabbing up a platter of marinated carrots. He was halfway through cutting his steak when his gaze finally snagged on Tasha and Dean. Something flashed in his eye, but the expression was smoothed away so quickly that Dena couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

  “Guests,” he said, arching a brow. “Forgive me, I wasn’t told anyone new would be joining us. And you are?”

  Tasha set down her fork with a bang that made everyone look around. She was staring at Declan, her fists balled near her plate. Dean put a hand out to steady her but she ignored him, instead focusing her attention on the man before her.

  “You have some balls, Declan Fane. Swaggering in here like everything is fine while your wife has gone missing.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Declan’s smile was still on, but his eyes had shifted. “Forgive me your lordship but who is this woman?”

  “I’m her bloody sister, you asshole. And you should remember that given I’m the one who gave her away on her wedding day years ago.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Well now young lady,” said the Ballif, his brows drawing together. “There’s no need for that kind of language. Declan what’s she talking about? This is Elise’s sister?”

  Declan set down his fork and knife, rubbing a hand across his face.

  “My apologies, I didn’t recognize her. This is Tasha, Ivan’s eldest daughter and my wife’s sister. I think there is some sort of misunderstanding-“

  “Misunderstanding?” Tasha’s eyes flashed with anger. “My sister has written to me in months. I’ve sent letters to her, to friends and locals I have in the area and they tell me they haven’t heard from her or seen her. And when I wrote to you my letters were returned.”

  Declan cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps we should speak in private.”

  “Why? So that you can threaten me? Or lie to me about her whereabouts perhaps? No, I have no interest In that sir. I came here to find Elise, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”

  “Enough!” the word rang out into the air, causing several of the guests to flinch. The Ballif was on his feet, his pale eyes brimming with anger. His aura pulsed from him and Dean felt his own swell, itching to respond. Noting the man’s anger he chose to force it back down.

  “I have tolerated this little tirade for long enough. I understand that you are Elise’s sister and for that reason, and the fact that you are the companion of an esteemed guest I will choose to let this insult slide. Mr. Declan Fane has been in my employ for over a decade. He is an honest man who has always doted on his wife. And her illness has been harder on him than you can imagine.”

  “Sir, you don’t have to-“ started Declan but the Ballif waved him off.

  “No, no. I understand your passions young lady and the concern for your sister. But I will not allow a friend to be spoken too in such a manner in my household.”

  Dean sighed internally when he saw Tasha’s swallow.

  “Illness?” she said, her voice suddenly sounding very small.

  “That’s correct.”

  Declan smiled sadly, his eyes dropping to his plate.

  “It came on suddenly at the end of spring. We thought it might be a simple head cold but… then the fever began. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how strong my wife is. Some call her delicate, but she’s far from weak. Being sick has been hard on her. And harder still on the baby. I blame myself for not catching this sooner. There were signs but I…” he shook his head. “I didn’t see them.”

  Tasha lowered herself back into her seat, her cheeks heating with shame. The mood around the table shifted to sympathy, and Osric reached out to pat the man on the back.

  “It’s not your fault, man. Even Bridgeport’s finest healers are at a loss of what to do.”

  “I know, I know,” Declan swallowed hard and finally raised his gaze to meet Tasha’s. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should have wrote you back, of course. But I’m afraid I received no letters from you. With all that’s been going on,” he glanced at the Ballif who subtly shook his head. “We’ll address that another time. For now, a toast to my wife’s health.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Ballif Rellar enthusiastically. Glasses were raised around the table. Dean slowly rose his own goblet, taking a sizable swig before placing it back down. Tasha looked defeated, her shoulders slumped as she looked at her plate. Conversation resumed around them.

  “I made a fool out of myself, didn’t I?”

  Dean shrugged.

  “I would have counseled a more subtle approach but I don’t think that’s really your thing.”

  “I should apologize.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  Tasha glanced at him and Dean finally took his eyes off of Declan to look at her.

  “Why?”

  Dean opened his mouth to answer but the Ballif’s voice interrupted him.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said, raising his glass in the air. “But despite the pleasant company I must bid most of you goodnight. Osric, Commander, will you join me in my study. Oh, and Mr. Thompson, if you’d be so inclined. I want a word.”

  The effect was instantaneous. As if the Ballif’s words had been some sort of que the upper echelon of Bridgeport began saying their goodbyes. There were shaken hands, loud promises to visit one another, of which Dean assumed from body language were merely polite lies, and an attempt by one older man to steal a meat tart by tucking it into his embroidered coat pocket.

  Declan lingered for a while, laughing and making jests with some of the guests before they began filing for the door. Tasha rose, tossing her napkin down on the table. She’d been silent since Declan’s speech, and Dean could hardly blame her.

  The Ballif’s disapproving scowl was still affixed to his face as they headed for the door.

  “I’m sorry for ruining the night,” said Tasha, her eyes downcast. “I just thought…hey!”

  Dean gripped Tasha’s upper arm, steering her into an alcove. He waited until one of the merchants had wandered by, whistling a tune under his breath before he spoke.

  “I agree you could have handled things differently,” he said. “In fact it would have been my preference if you’d have let me do the talking. But your instincts… your suspicions about this man. They might not be far off.”

  Tasha’s brows drew together in confusion.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Dean smiled tightly.

  “Because his speech was entirely too rehearsed to be natural. I can’t prove it but I don’t think he was surprised to see you. The whole thing… his shock, and the way he swept the issue under the rug. It seemed performative.”

  And then there were the matter of his strange essence signature and the way his smile never reached his eyes, but Dean decided it was better he counsel caution.

  “You think he’s lying?”

  “I don’t know, it’s too early to tell. Listen, I know if I told you to let this go you likely wouldn’t listen to me. So I can only give you this advice: be careful.”

  He released her arm and Tasha nodded, her face wrapped with thought.

  “I’ll try.”

  Dean turned his head, tracking the servant moments before she rounded the corner. The servant bowed before them, her eyes flicking between them.

  “Miss Tasha, the Ballif has had us prepare a room for you. Your bath has been drawn, and I’d be pleased to show you to your quarters.”

  “Bath?” Tasha smiled for the first time all night. “I’d be delighted. You should bathe too,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s not that the smell of goblin blood and river water isn’t endearing but..”

  And she allowed the servant to lead her away, casting a worried glance over her shoulder. Dean watched her go, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. The thought of a hot bath was a tempting one, but not nearly as tempting as the memory of the essence shard that now sat in his inventory. It was larger than the others he’d consumed, and a part of him longed to use his mediation skill and tend to his upgrades. But that would have to wait.

  The door to the Ballif’s study was made entirely of a polished red wood. Dean raised a fist to knock, but a servant pulled it open, ushering him inside. A fire burned in the grate, casting the room in a pleasant warmth.

  “Mr. Thompson,” said the Ballif warmly. “I’m glad to see you accepted my invitation. You’ve had to opportunity to meet Brenna, I presume?” He gestured towards the red haired commander who gave him a solemn nod. “She’s been promoted to commander of the local garrison, and I finer soldier you won’t meet.”

  Commander Breanna smiled sadly.

  “Yes well, I’m only Militia after all and I only came to this job after the unfortunate demise of my predecessor. Not exactly the glowing start to ones career as an officer.”

  “You’re Militia?” asked Dean, his interest Piqued. “Did you serve during the border rebellion?”

  The commander’s brows shot up in surprise.

  “I did in fact. Five years, during the end of the rebellion. I was stationed at Fort Kane. I wasn’t… that is you seem so young I’m surprised the border rebellion is even a topic of conversation among young people.”

  She was right of course, but during his campaign Dean had met his share of grizzled veteran soldiers. They were the best to learn from, and often the most competent his experience. They may not receive the same fanfare and laurels as those academy program officers, but in his experience they were far better leaders.

  “I was lucky enough to meet a few soldiers during my time training. It’s one of the things that motivated me to become an Adventuerer.”

  “Really?” Commander Brenna smiled. “I wasn’t aware Adventuerer’s held us in high regard, but I’m certainly glad to hear it. We rely on essence users, especially in times like these. It will be good to have you on our side, Mr. Thompson.”

  The Ballif cleared his throat.

  “Yes well, I did intend this to be a softer pitch. One easier made when you were drunk off of the finest wine in the southern vineyards.” The man sighed.

  “And yet, I have no desire to waste your time.”

  The door opened, and Osric and Shawn stepped in. The latter flicked a glance at Dean, his expression sullen. The last to enter was Declan, who shut the door behind himself. He was still holding a goblet of wine as he through himself down in a chair beside the fire.

  “Poor news, Rufus?” he asked, eyeing the Ballif’s as he slid into a leather chair behind his cluttered desk. It was awfully familiar, Dean thought, for a simple businessman to call nobility by their first name. Indeed Osric seemed to wince, and even the commander looked slightly uncomfortable. But for whatever reason the Ballif seemed not to have noticed.

  “Yes, yes, it’s always bad news these days,” the man said, reaching for a desk drawer. He with drew a piece of parchment which he passed across the desk to the bodyguard without a word. Osric took it, his gaze sliding from side to side as he read. As he read his face paled.

  “This can’t be,” he said, shaking his head as he lowered the paper. “There must be some sort of mistake.”

  “What is it?” Shawn’s customary scowl was back, and he leaned forward in his seat to snatch the page from his bodyguard. After a moment the blood from his face drained as well.

  Only Commander Brenna seemed uninterested in the missive.

  “It arrived this morning,” she said, standing straight in her uniform with her arms behind her back. It was a pose Dean had adopted more than once when addressing higher ups.

  “The Governor has heard our cries for help, and decided that it’s not in his best interest to involve Haven’s military garrison in what he considers a ‘Southern Matter.’ It is my understanding that we can expect no provincial intervention, at least not for a good while.”

  “You’re joking,” the paper crinkled in Shawn’s hand as his knuckles turned white. “This is… father he oversteps. The Emperor would never allow-“

  “The Emperor has other matters currently occupying his attention. A dispute on the borders, a beast loose in the northern lands, and of course, the threat of secession from the barbarian tribes of the west certainly doesn’t help.”

  “Those threats are always empty,” muttered Commander Brenna. “But you are, of course, right, your lordship. We should prepare the local guard and the Garrison as best we can. Restock on weapons, potions, and supplies. This matter is one that Bridgeport’s surrounding fife will have to take on alone.”

  Dena was running out of patience. He pushed off the table he’d been leaning on, striding to the center of the room.

  “Respectfully, sir, I have no idea what this council is talking about. I would assume this was in reference to the goblin problem, but judging by the reaction of your son and your men, goblins were an issue you were unaware of until a day ago. You say that the Governor himself refuses to aid you, which I find strange indeed. Now, there have been rumors about unrest in the south. Whisperings here or there, but nobody seems able to give me a straight answer. So I ask you, everyone in this room, what is going on?”

  For a moment, nothing but the crackle of the fire could be heard. Shawn cut him a glare, but at a glance from his father, the young master had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut. It was a good thing, too, because Dean was tired, and his manners were often the first to go.

  “Of course,” said the Ballif sheepishly. “Forgive me, Adventuerer I wasn’t thinking. We would have brought you up to speed earlier, but we are trying to treat the matter with some delicacy. You see, information in the wrong hands at the wrong time could cause a bit of a…” he hesitated.

  “A panic,” finished Commander Brenna. The woman sighed.

  “I’m unsure of what rumors you’ve heard about the state of things here on the other side of the river but I’m afraid there is some truth to them. Our troubles started nearly a year ago when reports of crime in the area skyrocketed. It wasn’t much at first. Petty thievery and reports of stolen goods on a smuggler's route. Hardly more than an issue for the local watch to handle.” She hooked her thumbs in her belt and shook her head.

  “At least that’s what we thought at the time. Things escalated faster than we could have anticipated, however. Petty theft turned into a broad daylight burglary. Caravans were attacked on the road, regular travelers were robbed, killed, or worse. Then there were the disappearances. They began months ago. At a small scale, but recently it’s gotten out of control. The frequency has ruled out any chance of coincidence. No, these are coordinated attacks.”

  Dean rubbed a hand over his face, his tired mind trying to keep up with the implications.

  “Do you think bandits are responsible?”

  The Ballif grimaced.

  “Petty bandits? No, be that we were so lucky. This is something far more serious.”

  At the look from the Ballif Commander Brenna gestured towards a map on the wall, and for the first time, Dean noticed the markings there. The map itself was of the lowlands, with Bridgeport and the river towns and villages as the central focus. On it were pins, strings, and ink markings which had been drawn in familiar military penmanship.

  Dean’s eyebrows ascended as he stopped before it.

  “Gods,” he said. “This looks like a war map.”

  “It might as well be,” said Commander Brenna. “What we have been plagued with is no mere bandit group, but a band of organized crime. They are well armed, well equipped, and well informed. It’s our belief that their main body is concentrated somewhere here in this cluster of forest. But we’ve been unable to corroborate that theory on account of the fact that every scout and sentry we’ve sent to investigate has failed to come back.”

  Dean lifted a hand to the map, running a finger along a red x.

  “Are these raids?”

  Commander Brenna nodded, her jaw tightening.

  “That’s correct. There have been two major attacks, one on a caravan and outpost here,” she tapped her finger to a marked point on the road. “And more recently…” she glanced at the Ballif. Rellar folded his hands, his exhale heavy.

  “If we’re going to attempt to recruit him, we might as well be honest.”

  The Commander nodded her ascent.

  “The other happened a day ago. A raid on Norhoff, the farm village about a day's ride from here. We received word just this morning.”

  The gears in Dean’s head ground to a halt as he stared at the map. Bandit’s were rare in the Empire. The penalty for theft and civil unrest was severe, and justice was often swift and non-discriminatory. But if what the Bailiff had said was true, Imperial intervention at this stage was unlikely. The Divine family had its focus on the North, and as it had been during the early days of the war, the Riverlands would be left to fend for itself. A product of being the last state to secede to Imperial control. Still, something bothered him about this whole thing.

  “These attacks,” he said, tapping at first the outpost and then the recently raided farmlands. “What is the point of them? What are they taking?”

  The Commander shook her head uneasily. “The caravan was a shipment by a blacksmith. It’s likely they wanted the arms and armor that were meant for the garrison. She grimaced. “The caravan guard were all slaughtered by the time my men arrived, so there were few to question. But it’s my understanding by the locals that they hit hard and fast.”

  “And the village?” Dean asked, rubbing a thumb over the stubble sprouting on his upper lip. “Why attack a poor farm village? There isn’t much of value there to seize in the first place.”

  Shawn scoffed.

  “Who can read into the mind of a simple bandit. Perhaps they wanted easy coin. It’s not like farm villages are particularly well guarded. At any rate, who cares why it happened? What matters is that it did, and the people look to us to bring them swift and merciless justice.”

  “Even so, I feel it is imperative that myself and my men have a chance to examine the scene of the most recent raid. This is the opportunity to gather more information, and intel is something we severely lack. We know precious little about these men other than the fact that they behave like an armed unit, and employ tactics no mere band of brigands would be capable of executing. We need intel, your lordship.”

  “Will you stop calling me that?” the Ballif rubbed a hand over his face, his ring of office glinting in the firelight.

  “But you’re right, Brenna. We cannot afford to lose the opportunity to gain more knowledge of our foes. Even so, I am reluctant to leave the city without protection. You may take a contingent of ten men and ride out in a days time.”

  “A splendid idea,” said Declan, nodding enthusiastically. “Though I dare say she’ll need more than ten men. Though reports of the raid are new, the severity suggests a higher body count than we might have thought. The surrounding land might be vulnerable.”

  The Ballif’s frown creased in worry.

  Declan caught Shawn’s eye, and something passed between them.

  “Perhaps,” said Declan tentatively. “Your son might accompany her. It would be good for him to learn from strong military leadership, and the contingent could use an Adventuerer to bolster their ranks.”

  The Ballifs’ frown deepened.

  “I would be inclined to agree, but recently my son has proved he is not yet ready for leadership. I cannot in good conscience-“

  The man’s words were interrupted by a coughing fit. He cleared his throat, raising a handkerchief to his mouth as several seconds passed. Then he lowered it, and Dean could have sworn he saw several dots of blood staining the cloth.

  “Pardon the interruption. Shawn, I cannot allow such a thing. Not until such time as you’ve proved you are prepared to take on the duty and weight of responsibility. That is why I mean to request the help of young Dean here, who has proved himself more than capable. Unless of course, anyone in this room is opposed?”

  Shawn’s face went red with anger.

  “Father, I am well aware my last mission was in error, but surely this is beyond the pale. Offering to employ some unaffiliated Adventuerer with a mission of state? It’s not proper.”

  “I must disagree,” said Osric cooly, seemingly to the surprise of everyone in the room. Shawn glanced at him, his mouth falling open. Osric stepped forward, giving Dean a nod.

  “If it’s references you need, my lord, then allow me to add my praises to the pile. Adventurer Dean is responsible not just for the rescue of his Lordship's son, but of protecting the town of River’s Crossing from the horde, allowing many to escape. It is also my understanding that he was responsible for defeating the Ghost of Dutton himself. No easy feat, I’m certain.”

  All eyes turned to Dean, who shifted uncomfortably.

  “It wasn’t a ghost,” he muttered, but nobody seemed to be listening.

  “I have no issue,” said Commander Brenna warmly. “In fact, I’d be happy to have an Adventuerer along, if that is, he’s up for the task.”

  And there it was, the pitch that Dean hadn’t been expecting. The faces in the room were expectant, no doubt certain that he’d accept whatever offer the Ballif through his way. Technically, he was under no official obligation. He had no Guild to assign him places, and no oath to bind him to a particular place or person. And yet…. And yet there were two prospects that drew him. The first was the obvious promise of money and patronage. It was clear the Rellar family was as wealthy as they were old. Theirs might be a minor household, but Dean knew he could use a little goodwill in his corner. Especially with the enemies he’d managed to make in Haven. And the second..

  Dean straightened, knowing his answer even before he spoke it aloud. Whatever was going on in the south, whoever these men were, there was something about the situation that prickled at his unease. The Harvest Festival Massacre wouldn’t happen for another six months, and yet he knew better than to let his guard down. Something strange was happening here – and there was no way for him to know just how relevant it was unless he investigated it himself.

  “And your offer?” he asked, addressing the Ballif directly. The man leaned back in his chair, considering.

  “Well, I dare say I owe you for my son's rescue. The least I could do is offer to pay for any repair to your armor and equipment that might be needed, as well as replenish your supplies for your journey. After that, you are due typical compensation. I assume you accept standard Guild rates?”

  Dean nodded, and the man steepled his fingers.

  “Very well. What is your ask?”

  Dean took a moment to consider the cost of upgrades, repairs, potions, and, if he was lucky, the assistance of an artificer. Then he nodded to himself.

  “Two gold and twenty-one silver,” he said matter-of-factly. Shawn nearly choked on his own spit as he launched himself from his chair.

  “Are you bloody mad? Father, you cannot mean to entertain this. That’s an outrageous sum for a mere iron ranker.”

  “When will you learn to hold your tongue, boy,” sighed the Ballif, rubbing at his eyes. “Still, I cannot help but agree. You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Thompson. Though I’m certain you understand that we are, at least at present, low on allies.”

  Dean smiled cooly.

  “I am.”

  The Ballif’s lips twitched in a smile, and he slowly shook his head.

  “Very well. I agree to your terms.If and only if, you agree to spend the next two weeks in my service.”

  Dean arched a brow.

  “Why two weeks?”

  “Because,” said the man, his eyes twinkling. “I intend to end this conflict in one way or another.”

  Shawn made his displeasure known, but when it was clear his father wasn’t budging, he left the meeting, his fancy boots squeaking on the tiles outside. Eventually, the others began to stir. Osric was the second to go, followed closely by the Commander.

  “You’ll have a day to rest and tend to your affairs. We’ll leave the following morning just before noon. Meet us in the courtyard by the fountain, we’ll have a horse for you.”

  Dean nodded, watching as the door shut behind her. Only he and Declan remained.

  “Leave us,” said the Ballif, gesturing towards the businessman. Declan’s eyes flashed with irritation.

  “If I may, your lordship, I think it prudent if I remain. To leave you unprotected…”

  The Ballif’s face hardened.

  “I am not without protection,” he said, his eyes glowing with an aura. “Do you think me helpless as a newborn babe? Or perhaps you assume my old age has made me weak?”

  Declan’s face paled.

  “No, forgive me. Of course not I merely…” he trailed off and the Ballif sighed. “Then go. I will speak to you in the morning.”

  Declan hesitated for a moment, and Dean saw something unpleasant lurking in the man’s eyes. Then at last he left, shutting the door to the study behind him. Dean waited until the man’s footsteps faded before leaning back against the table, his arms folded across his chest.

  “You're dying,” he said without preamble. It wasn’t a question, and the Ballif didn’t bother to deny it.

  “My, you’re bold,” he grumbled, reaching for a crystal decanter on his desk and tossing down a glass. “But you aren’t wrong. Nightcap?”

  “Wouldn’t say no to whiskey from the Iron Hills.”

  The Ballif raised an eyebrow.

  “A man of taste, I see.”

  He poured two fingers of the dark amber liquid into a glass and slid one across the table. Dean took the glass in his hand, and the Ballif raised his own.

  “To action,” he said. “And putting down illegal insurrectionists one way or another.”

  Dean tapped his glass to the lord’s and took a swig of the liquid. The whiskey was exactly as he remembered. Sharp up front, with a softer woody aftertaste that lingered on the tongue.

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for the type to appreciate good whiskey,” said the Ballif, swirling the liquid in his glass. “But it’s good to know I’m among equal company. In more ways than one.”

  The man’s gaze went distant, and he sighed.

  “You’re right, of course. I’ve been ill for some time. I took an arrow to the lung many years ago, and things never seemed to fully heal. It’s an infection, the healers say. At a far enough stage that treating it is a slow process. At this rate, it’s… unclear that I will fully recover.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dean, staring into the liquid in his glass. “That must be difficult.”

  “Aye. But all men must die. It’s the one thing we have in common to the exclusion of all else. My illness is often unpredictable. I used to be an Adventurer. Silver rank, in fact. I might have joined the commander myself if it wasn’t for, well.”

  And the man lowered his hands, moving his embroidered coat aside and lifting his shirt. Dean grimaced at the motley collection of blue and yellow bruises spanning across his chest and back. The infection, if that’s what it was, seemed to have spread.

  “An unpleasant sight, isn’t it?” The Ballif replaced his shirt and nodded. “So, young Dean, I find myself in a predicament. I am in little condition to tend to these matters myself, however much I may wish to be the man from my youth. It is instead my prerogative to hire those who can. How long have you been an Adventuerer?”

  Dean hesitated.

  “Not long.”

  The Ballif grunted.

  “That surprises me, truth be told. You may be an Iron Ranker by badge, but your aura is unnaturally potent. Should you survive this grueling profession and ascend the ranks, I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to be quite formidable. It’s not for everyone, though. He tilted his head, glancing at a painting on the wall beside him.

  The frame depicted a woman with long brown hair and a heart-shaped face. She was smiling, a baby clutched in her arms.

  “My late wife,” he said, running a hand through his white hair. “I had hoped my son would turn out more like her. She was the better of us, you know. Ah, but you must forgive me. These are merely the ramblings of a drunk old man. Before I set you free of this tiresome conversation, I have something that I must ask of you. Should something happen to me….” He faltered for a moment then squared his shoulders. Steel entered his gaze, and his powerful aura flared to life. “Should something happen to me, I’d like you to pass this on. It’s for Shawn’s eyes only.”

  And he passed a folded bit of parchment to Dean. Dean hesitated, his fingers hovering over the paper.

  “Why not give it to Osric? Or to the Commander?”

  The Ballif smiled sadly.

  “Because what is contained within could be enough to cause divide in this province. It’s my hope to live long enough to tell him myself, but with a battle coming, who can say what will happen? You’re an outsider, you have no personal stakes in this. And you do not strike me as a dishonest man. Perhaps even when it suits you to be.”

  He snorted and Dean couldn’t help but smile.

  “True enough.” Dean placed the letter into his inventory and turned towards the door.

  “One last thing,” called the Ballif, bringing his stride to a halt. “These bandits or insurgents, or however it is we classify them. I have a suspicion that they have an informant of some kind. Someone is passing them information. If you find out who, there will be more gold in it for you. And perhaps something else.”

  Dean inclined his head before ducking out of the office. Outside the hall was empty leaving only a trail of mounted crystal lanterns to guide him. It was time for Dean to increase his essence threshold. And more than that, he needed time to think. Because, he realized, the Ballif was likely right. Something was off about this whole thing, and he needed to find out how and why.