1

Dark clouds hung low above the vast plains of Anorl, veiling sunrise and the tallest peaks of the Abserim in the east. There was no rain, fortunately, at least not yet. Tufts of short, wet grass peeked through the shallow layer of melting snow, a narrow, muddy road curving between them, and such was the view from one edge of the earth to the next, as far as the eye could tell.

Along the footpath northward passed two riders with their horses.

“Mmm…” Izumi stared at a weather-worn map of the region, spread wide open between her outreached hands. Though she had found a visual guide, she had no idea how to even begin her search for the missing warrior. Going by the message, the target was somewhere in the land called Dharva, but the Dharva on the map was a big round spot between small black squiggles, and she had no idea where that put the place in the physical reality, or how far.

Were they even going the right way?

“Isn’t this quaint?” Waramoti observed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were looking for a specific place, instead of merely admiring the lines on the paper. But, in case you’ve developed a sudden fascination for what ink and pen can do, have a look at my handwriting instead. You wouldn’t believe cursive this consistent could come off the hand of a warrior, would you?”

Waramoti lifted his notebook, to display the spread he was working on.

Izumi didn’t look at the pages, but irritably replied,

“The way you so readily assume I’m looking at a map like it’s a cheap replacement for manga, instead of for any real practical purpose, is just a bit annoying. Exactly how big of an idiot do you take me for? Ride a little closer, so that I can smack you overhead, please.”

“Am I wrong then?” the bard replied.

“Well...”

As things stood, the map might as well have been a page of 4-koma to Izumi, and of just as much navigational aid. The maps of this world were more products of human imagination and hearsay, than they were of geographic study, and a far cry from the precise satellite imagery of Earth.

There was no getting around it.

Two heads were surely better than one, and not asking for Waramoti’s opinion was only an unnecessary handicap. Therefore, Izumi swallowed her pride, and went on to briefly summarize her conversation with the imperial messenger, as well as the contents of the letter. The bard listened quietly until the story’s conclusion, before giving his reaction together with a heavy sigh.

“That it took you this long to ask for my counsel is more than a little disheartening, to be honest,” he said. “I can only wonder for how many miles we would have roamed here and there across the continent in vain, had not some Divine inspiration made you see the light of wisdom.”

“In my defense,” Izumi said, “depending on a kid at every turn is a little embarrassing for someone of my age. Besides, didn’t you insist that you were only a neutral observer and would take no sides? Wouldn’t it go against the spirit of the Art or whatever, if you started steering the course of your own epic?”

“I’m not a kid!” Waramoti answered. “And I know the land well, having been born and raised in these parts, so not taking advantage of my knowledge would be foolish indeed! And when it comes to my grand epic, don’t you think it’s a little too late to worry about impartiality? You wouldn’t have ever made it to Alderia without my help either, and what can be done about that? No, rest assured; I am your ally, Izumi, from beginning to end. You may depend on me without needless restraint, and there’s no harm done.”

Izumi looked back at the man, surprised.

“Could it be, you’re actually a really nice person?” she asked.

“What are you asking!” the bard cried, his shoulders drooping. “In all my life, I have only ever aspired to be a nice person! My previous occupation notwithstanding.”

“My, my. If only Lia had turned you into a cute girl too, things would be perfect.”

“I am perfectly content with my maleness, thank you!” he retorted with a shudder.

Izumi folded the map and stuffed it back in her coat pocket, returning to the task at hand.

“So. How are we to find one person in a land this huge?” she pondered. “I must say, any practical advice is dearly welcome.”

“Truthfully, it’s not much of a challenge at all,” Waramoti unexpectedly replied. “Our quarry was last spied in the territory of the Dharves, yes? There is only one city worth mentioning in there.”

“Dwarves?” Izumi repeated, tilting her head.

“Dharves,” the bard corrected her pronunciation.

“The short guys with beards?”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but no!” he replied with a heavy frown. “Dharves are the people of Dharva, the fabled warriors of the north! They are a tribal folk closely related to common people, but differ slightly from us in constitution.”

“Like, they’re abnormally short and grow long beards?”

“Not at all!” Waramoti was growing frustrated with Izumi’s odd fixation. “I should have known that you don’t know! Listen to me now. A long time ago, the Dharves were ordinary inhabitants of these parts, nomads roaming the tundra, rearing horses and cows for their livelihood. It is said that their ancestors were kidnapped and enslaved by a mysterious race from the mountains, known as the Precursors. Over many generations, the Precursors shaped the Dharves into tough, tireless workers, and forced them to labor for their lost dominion of Eylia in the mountains.”

“Lost?” Izumi asked.

“That’s right,” the bard nodded. “Somewhere around a thousand years ago, some manner of a cataclysm wiped out all of the Precursors. By the buildings and other things they left behind, we can tell for certain that these people did once exist, but no trace of the Precursors themselves has ever been found. No corpses, not one bone, no images, no records, nothing at all. Even their actual name was forgotten by all, including their close neighbors who should have rightfully known them.”

“Huh?” The woman frowned. “How is that possible?”

“Who knows?” Waramoti shrugged. “At any rate, though the Precursors disappeared from the face of the earth, their servants did not. This tribe of men, estranged from their kindred, found themselves abruptly freed and without a purpose. So they left the mountains and built a new home for themselves closer to other people, in the vast basin below the ranges of Kashyk, known as Dharva. Thus begins the history of the Dharvic Kingdom. For a long time, they lived in peace, immersed in mining and metallurgy, quietly searching for their place in the civilized world. However, over the later centuries, discovering that the average human population was quite feeble compared to them, the Dharves began to harbor some exceedingly dangerous dreams about world conquest. They started to subjugate their smaller neighbors, one by one, and their hunger grew together with success. This unhealthy ambition ultimately led them on a crash course with the Empire. Of this, you must have heard before, yes?”

“Uhum...” Izumi thought, rubbing her chin. “Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t…?”

“Damn it, woman, where are your eyes and ears?” Waramoti lamented. “The Guild! The Guild of Heroes, which you challenged in Bhastifal! The very group where I was a member! It was the Dharvic War that brought them together and made them the heroes they claimed to be! And without the Guild’s contributions, we’d likely live in the Great Empire of Dharva now.”

“Really?” She was a bit surprised. “They’re that tough then? The not-dwarves?”

“They were formidable indeed,” the ex-warrior grimly nodded. “The Precursors had shaped the Dharves’ bodies with their abominable science, giving these men hands to move stone, bones to withstand fierce pressures, flesh to tolerate both ravaging heat and crippling cold, and focused minds that know no fatigue. With a direct access to the mountains’ resources and the know-how to make the most of it, the Dharves forged themselves mighty weapons that no average mortal could even lift, with which to rend armies asunder. Their great tower shields would receive cannonballs without cracking, their armors laughed at our arrows, and their ranks were like the raging waters of the Numénn sea, unstoppable. But we gave them Hel. By the Lords, that we did.”

The bard closed his eyes, as if lost in recollection.

“There’s your story material then,” Izumi listlessly mumbled, the amount of manly bragging growing a tad too dense to her liking.

“Ah, many are the songs I could write about those days,” Waramoti replied. “But, unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one there, and the others have already said all there is to say about that brief campaign. Lords damn the spread of literacy! Not only bards and professional authors, even random foot soldiers would compose and sell their memoirs! People whose stubby fingers were never made to hold a pen! There is very little left I can add to the picture at this point, in spite of my overwhelming talent, though I was there to live through the times myself. That topic is simply done to death.”

“How did you beat the Dharves then, if they were so strong?” Izumi asked, half to humor him, half out of genuine interest. “The Empire won in the end, didn’t they?”

“Oh, we beat them,” the bard recalled in a fond tone, as if it were a pleasant memory instead of something horrible and traumatic. “In one battle of epic proportions. It was truly a showdown for the ages. There has never been another battle like it before in this cycle, and I doubt there will be another either.”

The young man’s voice suddenly grew firmer, his tone more formal, and Izumi knew by experience that there was no stopping him anymore. He’d gone on full storyteller mode, like a rambling old man, and all she could do now was listen, wondering if she hadn’t unwittingly opened the Pandora’s box.

Not that she hated his voice so much. It helped time pass.

“The Dharvic host was vast, led by the legendary King Hreymand, the Axhand himself,” Waramoti told her. “Twenty-four thousand men—give or take—marched under his banner. All the major clans of united Dharva were represented. They had chased back the cavalry of Melgier earlier in the spring, suffering virtually no losses, and next turned their eyes south with a carnivorous gleam. Their confidence had grown into something terrible, and no other prize could satisfy their bottomless greed but the majestic Bhastifal itself. The Dharves marched practically uncontested to the Empire’s northern border, crushing the isolated outposts one after another, sowing chaos and unrest before them. No aid would come to the resistance. The previous Emperor had died only a few weeks prior, and the resulting power struggle at the capital left the Imperials much too slow in their response. Barely had the new sovereign claimed the Onyx Throne for himself, when his land faced an existential crisis unprecedented in the Empire’s history. Seemingly unstoppable invaders were crossing his lands, burning down every town and village they came across, raping and pillaging! A nation-wide draft was issued at once to bolster the declining military. New legions were assembled in haste, the armories emptied down to the last pitchfork and butter knife. All industries were made to serve the war machine, and blacksmiths’ hammers toiled day and night throughout the land. His majesty went as far as to unlock the Forbidden Treasury, and distributed ancient Celestial Relics to his men, as if the end of the world were at hand. The risks of this gamble were dire, anyone could see as much, but it had to be done. Looking back, we really were close to annihilation those days. And then...”

The Empire attained war readiness barely in time to confront the advancing host of Dharva at the fields of Sernanno, only three hundred and forty miles north of Bhastifal.

Reaching the battlefield first could be considered a major victory of its own. Without the bottleneck formed by the red cliffs at southern Sernanno, the imperials couldn’t have hoped to stop such a force, and the fighting would have inadvertently spilled over to the capital. The legions were ordered to hold that pass at all costs and set camp at its base.

Securing this strategic location gave Tratovia a distinct advantage for the coming conflict, but the battle itself remained to be fought. With close to fifty thousand men assembled, the imperials also had the enemy outnumbered more than two to one, but the fact meant precious little, and they knew it.

It would take a full platoon of these hurriedly trained peasants to bring down one well-geared warrior of Dharva. Numbers wouldn’t win this war—not if meaninglessly splurged. Cunning was required, but not foolish was the enemy either.

Negotiations with the invaders ended quickly and predictably. The imperial emissary was sent back without his head. King Hreymand declared that he would only speak with the Emperor himself, whereas the Emperor—remained comfortably at home, in the safety of his walls, and laughed at the idea of negotiating.

Thanks to these two prideful men, any hope of a peaceful solution was crushed.

From thereon, only steel would speak, and thousands were doomed to perish.

Tratovia seized the first strike.

The day was bright, only slightly clouded, and not too hot. The weather conditions favored battle, and Field Marshal Lucarias ordered an offensive to be carried out immediately.

The III Imperial Army commenced attack without a separate signal shortly after noon. Five thousand men charged across the dry, sun-burned fields of Sernanno, on the northern side of which the Dharves had set their stations. The imperials hoped to surprise the defenders in their trenches and inflict as much casualties as possible before making their retreat, then to repeat the feat with fresh troops. The tactic had served well against Ofreu in the east eight years prior.

But it wasn’t silk-weavers that the legions faced that day.

The III Army was prepared to retreat from the start, but the fierceness of the resistance caught them all by surprise. The Dharves sprung up from their trenches like angry wasps and struck down the legionnaires in front of them, and the assault stopped as though to a wall. The imperial shields were virtually paper before the enemy’s heavy axes and hammers. So swiftly were they mowed down that it was beginning to seem none would get away.

The IV Imperial Magic Battalion, led by Court Wizard Thorndon, was deployed to support the retreating III Army. They commenced a bombardment of fire-based spells upon the enemy, with immediate effect. The Dharves, lacking significant magical ability or knowledge, were unprepared to receive them and withdrew, allowing the surviving imperials to escape.

Hostilities were concluded for the first day.

Though the mages had managed to inflict casualties on the enemy side, it was quite clear that Tratovia had lost this round. Over four thousand had fallen, and their severed heads, stuck on pikes, decorated the enemy trenches by nightfall.

But this staggering blow marked only the beginning.

Horror followed soon after sunset.

A lone Dharvic warrior sneaked across the field unnoticed in the dark, made his way into the imperial encampment, and managed to assassinate Court Wizard Thorndon, Brigadier General Blauden, and a number of guards. Though the assailant was shot by archers as he fled, the incident delivered a grim blow to the imperials’ morale. Roughly two hundred foot soldiers stole away and deserted before sunrise.

The rest came to wish they had followed.

On the daybreak of the second day, now with a solid grasp what the imperials were capable of, the Dharves launched their all-out offensive.

They charged across Sernanno in one shapeless, disorderly wave, a boundless deluge, depending on no noteworthy tactic, but only their own strength, steel, and unwavering courage. They were received with a storm of arrows, pitifully feeble against their heavy shielding. The magicians did their best, but their abilities were too limited in scope to deal with a force so great and wide spread out.

The imperials were pushed back from their stations, all the way to their camp site, where they became scattered and torn apart. The battle turned into chaotic slaughter, with the Dharves hunting down the fleeing imperial soldiers left and right, drunk of bloodlust and their blatant superiority. Any attempt to regroup and fight back was blown away with savage ease.

The vicious massacre went on through the whole day, and the plains became covered in blood and corpses, so that no sand or grass could be seen past them anymore.

The III, IV, and VI armies of Tratovia were annihilated down to the last man. The IV Magic Battalion had barely a handful of survivors left. V and VII Armies suffered heavy casualties, but the survivors were able to dig into position at the base of the red cliffs, guarding the pass together with the remaining mages, and were left to wait for their turn.

None who witnessed this one-sided carnage could doubt that the Empire’s end was at hand. And under different circumstances, so it might have been.

But not this time.

Though no one could recognize, let alone accept it, the campaign proceeded exactly according to calculations. In any war, casualties were only par for the course. Sacrifices, noble and less so, were unavoidable. As much went without saying.

Yet——what manner of a monster would throw away entire armies only for a distraction?

A madman or a genius, the architect of this operation was better than aware that winners wrote history, that the end justified the means, and he had bet the fate of his nation on this principle.

Night fell. The Dharves, sitting on fifty thousand dead, believed the war to be over, and the road to Bhastifal clear. They had split into camps by their clans, and were busy dividing the loot, burying their few dead, and celebrating victory. But while their strength and skill in arms could not be disputed, the men of Dharva had nevertheless committed a critical mistake.

In their arrogance, lacking real knowledge and personal experience of the life outside their northern realm, they had failed to grasp just how many people there were in the world. They might have heard some vague figures be mentioned, yet their minds could not comprehend the reality those numbers represented. They saw an army more than twice the size of their own and were convinced they had cut down half of mankind that day. But while it was a staggering count indeed, it was not the end of it. And the Empire was not called the greatest nation on the continent for only the size of her map.

Under the cover of the night arrived reinforcements and Tratovia’s counter-offensive.

It started with a bang.

Positioned atop the red cliffs themselves, the I and II Magic Battalions, coordinated by Court Wizards Carmelia, Yornwhal, Laukan, and Henden, unleashed upon the unsuspecting foes rites of unbridled evil from the ancient times, previously unknown to men.

It was as if the earth and the firmament themselves had turned against the invaders. Celestial lights and horrible cries filled the dark, striking soul together with body, and very few on either side would dare to later speak of the horrors they witnessed. Numerous Dharves perished within the hour, without leaving even a body to be buried, disintegrated completely, or snatched from this world by the beckoned haunters of the unseen realm.

Barely had the deadly barrage of curses and explosions ceased, when the survivors were flanked by the Imperial Elite Legion, the Stohenkartes, directed by the young and rising Colonel Marafel. With their enchanted stealth armors and arrows of instant death, these phantom knights blended into the night, striking quickly and quietly like vipers, felling the previously untouchable men of Dharva like hay.

King Hreymand struggled to regroup the clans and fight back, and barely had he achieved this when the final round of devastation met them.

There, through the pass, arrived the VII, VIII, and IX Imperial Armies, held a day’s march behind the others, rested and ready. They were no drafted peasants, but professional soldiers, fearless and robust, and equipped with state of the art gear.

And the legions’ advance was spearheaded by an assembly of legendary warriors, the Guild of Heroes, and all who saw those valorous figures became filled with either dread and disbelief, or joyful awe, depending on the side. After that night, their names became forever preserved in the chronicles of the Empire, and in the songs of poets around the world.

There was Bramms of the Grand Shield, who shattered and drove apart the previously unbreakable Dharvic ranks with the might of a raging bull, and none could endure before his armament.

There was Waramoti, Heaven’s Hand, dyed all over in blue warpaint, impervious to injury, and he went on to mow down foes with his trusted blades like a living hurricane of muscle and steel.

There was Raleigh, the masked Executioner, who he kept rising to rejoin the battle no matter how many times he was struck down, as if he were indeed undying and beyond pain.

There was Shivgried of the Sable Spear, whom no attack could reach, and each time he cast his irresistible nail, it claimed the life of a famous hero of Dharva.

There was Aurlemeyr of the Gilded Bow, whose dazzling bolts laid low hundreds in a flash, sparing none on the open plain, and denying the enemy’s retreat.

And there was Faalan, the Silver Saber, whose swordhand and technique knew no match in the mortal lands, and all who dared to face him were swiftly undone.

By sunrise, the Dharvic conquest had boiled down to three hundred crippled men, spared only to be paraded back to their land in chains, at the front of the victorious Empire.

From that day on, the Kingdom of Dharva was no more. King Hreymand lost his head. The subjugated territories were liberated. And the slaves who had tasted the sweet, bewildering mead of freedom found themselves once more brought under a foreign flag…

Izumi listened without a word, seeing vividly the course of the past battle before her mind’s eye, and then suddenly stirred at the coming of silence.

It appeared the story had ended.

“Wait,” she said. “Setting aside your shameless self-promotion...Was Faalan there too?”

“Indeed, he was there,” Waramoti answered. “And yes, I know the man. By his looks, at least. I spent little time in his company and we didn’t talk much, but I grew to respect his skill. He was certainly an exceptional warrior in all regards, perhaps even superior to myself—albeit also rather taciturn and unsociable. He’s no equal of mine when it comes to poetry, as much is for sure.”

“Nice, but is he really half an elf?” Izumi asked.

“So they say,” the bard replied. “His ears are a tad pointed, yes, and his complexion deathly pale, like theirs, but otherwise he appears more a man in my eyes. Not so tall or weird, a fair fellow like any other. Could be just a quirk of nature. I never heard about his parents and never asked, as I deemed it to be a sore topic, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“And now that hero has disappeared somewhere in the land he helped conquer. The odds of us finding him alive don’t look too good, do they?”

“Dead or alive, I’d say we have a good shot at finding news of him, at least. Since he kind of stands out. If anyone’s seen him, they will remember it. Moreover, we know where to get started too.”

“And that is?”

“I told you, didn’t I?” the bard replied, his lips curling into a mischievous smile.

“The only real city left in Dharva. The capital. Utenvik.”

2

The summoned champion and the bard continued to ride steadily northward through the following days. The temperatures were mellow and the weather gentle, yet the land beneath their feet remained ever cold and wet. The humidity caused by the melting snow clung to clothes, to skin, to hair, instilling a permanent chill, which only a good campfire could temporarily banish. The pair abandoned the comfort of fire time after time again, experiencing near insurmountable reluctance to do so, and after another week, they neared the southern border of the infamous Dharva.

On the way, the travelers stopped at Ingelbek, an imperial fort nestled by the west end of the modest range of Hellstrobe. There they hoped to obtain additional information before their brazen venture into the foreign territory.

Before the pair’s eyes stood a tall, sharp-looking castle, raised by a long-lost kingdom, since refitted and repurposed as the Empire’s northmost watchtower. The castle of Ingelbek would serve as the first beacon to be lit in the event that the northerners should seek a fight once again, though the fort was much too understaffed to stall any force for long. A steep mote was dug around the castle wall, quite deep, but dry to the bottom. A drawbridge led across the mote to the main gate, and in these peaceful times the bridge was never pulled up, to save the keepers’ efforts.

Sentries were posted at the gate, however, knights wearing black imperial capes, with the emblem of Ingelbek embroidered. The guards showed no surprise at the sight of visitors, and obediently—albeit with distinct unwillingness—called over the master of the castle when so requested.

The commander made his guests wait for no short while, but eventually they saw a senior knight stroll across the courtyard with his adjutant. As the code dictated, he was clad in armor while on duty, a darksteel chestplate with the Imperial emblem on it, but he wore no gauntlets or helmet. The cold armor boots and the flimsy knight cape he had also traded for thicker, warmer, and less formal local make.

By the pronounced lines on his face, the castle commander appeared to be closer to fifty years of age. His black hair he had combed back, displaying his receding hairline without shame, and his mouth was framed by a no less black, thick mustache and a matching goatee. The commander stopped stiff at four feet from the visitors and wouldn’t utter a word. His dark eyes stared at the pair—at the woman and the youth beside her—and the silence dragged on.

“My lord,” the guard stirred and decided to remind him. “Travelers from the fatherland. They wished to speak with you.”

“Greetings to you, good sir,” Waramoti now said with a courteous bow. “I am Waramoti, a traveling minstrel and songwriter, at your service.”

“I’m Izumi. How do you do?” Izumi said, with a reflexive, more eastern-style bow.

The knight gave Waramoti a look and snorted.

“To think there was another one with a name as daft!”

“...”

The bard looked somewhat stunned by the comment and failed to respond.

“Get your eyes checked, Raynard,” the master of Ingelbek grunted at the guard and turned to leave. “Shoo them away, and don’t you ever bother me for beggars again.”

“Hey, hey!” Izumi called after the departing officer. “Don’t you think my fashion sense is much too good for a beggar? I’ll have you know I’m a hero among heroes, and have the relevant key item too.”

She dug out the regal ring from her pocket and showed it to the commander. The man turned back, took the ring into his hands, and spent quite some time examining it from every angle in the limited light.

Eventually, he unceremoniously handed it back.

“Nice trinket,” he remarked. “Who’d you steal it from? I should have you whipped for theft. Begone.”

Waving them off, the knight moved to depart again.

“We’re looking for someone, your grace,” Waramoti spoke up, regaining his voice. “A hero. All we ask is that you share with us what you may know, after which we will be on our way and trouble you no longer. Be aware that refusing us may come at a great cost for the Empire.”

The man stopped and turned back again, scowling at the youth.

“I don’t give a rat about the Empire,” he informed them. “You think I enjoy my post here, in this ever-frozen horse ass? My reward for thirty years of loyal service! I am not here to humor women and children or answer their senseless inquiries, that much I can tell you, and for no cost at all.”

“Just a word, and we shall be on our way,” the bard slowly reiterated.

“...And maybe a cup of something hot on the side,” Izumi added, feeling her stomach, which let out a sad growl. “It’s been a while since breakfast.”

The commander of Ingelbek stared at the two for a moment, quite irritated, the corners of his mouth twisted steep south. But eventually, he either found answering them less of a hassle, or else honest pity overcame him, and he gestured for the two to follow.

“I am Colonel Rhesvain La Gue Sar Mervinna of Ingebek,” the man told them, as they entered the main castle and walked across the torch-lit lobby. “They dumped this rotten carcass of a fort on me after the war, along with the title of Count, and it was the sorriest deal I ever agreed to. Nobility warms no man in these parts. If anything, it brings every wandering wretch to my doorstep, begging for alms, the way it brought you, though we have nowhere near enough wealth to share it. And the notion that my house will be the first to burn when the Dharves rise to take their revenge on the Empire doesn’t make it much better.”

“’When’?” Waramoti echoed. “So you believe it to be only a matter of time then?”

“Of course,” Colonel Mervinna replied, with a wry huff. “Dharves are vicious, stubborn, prideful, jealous, greedy, and vengeful, above all. They will never get over the humiliation we gave them, not in a million years. We should have put them all to the sword while we had the chance. It may not happen today or tomorrow, but sooner or later, they will come knocking again. Make no mistake about that!”

“You do seem concerned for your people, though you claim to care not for the Empire,” Waramoti said, looking around the hallway, on the walls of which old paintings of dead nobles were hung, respectfully cleansed.

“How can I not be?” the knight responded. “I joined the army to serve. Throwing that away now would be no different from admitting I wasted my time! The Empire may have turned its back on us, but we at Ingelbek will continue to toil for the good of our people, to our sorry end. Because it’s all we have left. And what about you, son? When was the last time you ever did a day of honest work? There’s nothing wrong with your hands, is there? Then quit loitering around and depending on the good will of strangers, but work for what you eat! I can arrange you decent things to do, for decent pay. There’s ever a need for helpers, to keep this pile of rubble standing.”

“Um...” the young bard stiffened, looking uncharacteristically troubled. “I have done my fair share of manual labor, I assure you, sir. But I am a bard, not a construction worker, and menial toil won’t bring me the fame I was destined for. I’m afraid the ingenuity that the Divines bestowed upon me would only go to waste in your halls, as nice as they are. I must seize glory with my pen while I can, and it’s only out there that I may find it.”

“Yes, there’s no shortage of excuses with you lot,” Colonel Mervinna replied, unimpressed. “Let me tell you what the deal is—cowardice! Gutless fear of earnest effort. Plain and simple.”

“Ghhhh….”

Both Waramoti and Izumi gritted their teeth, shivering, tormented by inescapable guilt and frustration. One an artist, the other simply a NEET, both with equally bleak future prospects, and no desire to work.

Even as he scolded them, Colonel Mervinna led the two on to the castle’s mess hall, where he requested the kitchen for two cups of soup. They took seats before a large hearth in the back of the hall, with no one else around to overhear them.

“Was it true, what you said?” the commander then asked them, while the pair cautiously sampled their boiling hot meal. “That you are looking for someone?”

“True as day,” Waramoti judged it best that he handled the talking, knowing Izumi’s lack of talent at explaining things. “And it is a person you’ve surely heard of, sir. Certain Faalan, whom they also call, ‘Half-Elf’.”

“The Silver Saber?” Colonel Mervinna raised a brow. “Why, I know of him, yes.”

“The Empire would dearly like to have their champion back, which is why we are to seek his whereabouts. Any news you have heard of Faalan’s recent moves in Dharva would be appreciated.”

“Doubt that, son,” the knight remarked with a cynical smirk. “I have word of him, yes, which I don’t think has reached even the Empire’s big ears yet. And what I’ve heard paints that bastard as no hero! I don’t see him ever having the gall to tread Tratovia’s roads again, and I dare say he’s better left forgotten too. Pursuing the Silver Saber further north from Ingelbek will mean putting your lives on the line, whoever you are, for that man has become a sour topic on both sides of the border. Are you sure you want to find him, regardless?”

“For me, sir, your word alone would be good enough,” Waramoti replied. “But I have a funny feeling my travel companion here won’t be so easily swayed.”

The bard gave Izumi a glance as he spoke.

“Well, I do think it’s a pain and a bother,” Izumi replied, stopping her spoon. “But I’m a completionist at heart, and leave no open quests in my journal. It won’t raise any flags with Mira-rin if I abort now, so what can I do? Dead or alive, Mr Quasi-Elf is coming back home with me.”

Her words were, as usual, followed by an awkward silence, as her listeners struggled to comprehend what they were hearing. Waramoti, the one most accustomed to the woman’s bizarre use of language, was the first to recover from his daze.

“There you have it,” he shrugged and turned back to the commander. “So what can you tell us about Faalan?”

Recovering as well, Colonel Mervinna spoke again.

“Maintaining cordial ties with the Dharves is a lifeline in these parts, so far removed from the civilized lands. My men trade with the folk, oftentimes going as far as Utenvik to get what we need. We sell them grain, clothes, skins, cured meat, whatever we get from the provinces, and they give us oil, coal, cheruleum, and tools in exchange. Of course, we also use these trade trips to survey the general air over there, to see which way the wind blows. Such is our job. And it was through our usual business that we inadvertently came across news of Faalan, of whom I’d seen and heard much during the war. Certainly, what we found out was difficult for myself as well to accept. Which is why I have been deliberating over whether to report this back to the fatherland at all.”

“What is it, then?” Waramoti asked. “Do you know where he is?”

“Indeed, I do!” the commander exclaimed. “That so-called champion of the Empire has wriggled his way into the inner circle of Utenvik’s Steward! He has been seen escorting the old goat on several occasions in the role of a bodyguard, and appears to be quite at home at the house of his sworn enemies. It should go without saying, but there is only one plausible explanation for the fact.”

“You don’t say...” The bard’s expression clouded.

“That I do. I’m sorry, son. Your fabled champion is a turncoat.”

The Colonel certainly wouldn’t mince words. In response, even Izumi’s brow took on a deep wrinkle, though she said nothing.

“And you are sure of this?” Waramoti asked their host.

“No, I flap my gums here just to keep warm!” the Count of Ingelbek moodily retorted. “The Dharves are nowhere near green enough to accept the man after a quick round of apologies and false courtesies. If he’s convinced them, then he’s convinced me. And I may have an inkling as to how he did it too.”

“Do go on?”

“In the past months, no less than twenty Imperial agents have gone missing in Dharva. Disappeared without a trace. As they kept vanishing, the Intelligence Bureau ended up withdrawing all their operatives from the field, which goes to explain the general scarcity of news from the region. They called it an information leak, which prevents any operations in the area to the foreseeable future, and though they wouldn’t outright name the cause, neither is it terribly hard to pinpoint a hole that fucking big.”

“...Faalan,” Waramoti surmised.

“Dead on,” Colonel Mervinna nodded. “He showed the Dharves that he’s a changed man by personally sniffing out and cutting down our agents in Utenvik, driving our agency out of the city. Why would they put him up for that? Of course, because they’re cooking up something they don’t want us to know about. Color me surprised—not one bit!”

“And you haven’t reported this to Bhastifal yet?” the bard inquired.

“There is no proof,” the knight shook his head, spreading his hands. “It’s not so simple for the forgotten officer of some backwater shithole to point the finger at a famous war hero. The mere suggestion that such an ‘icon of hope and strength’, whom all the rich children out there look up to, might’ve jumped ship could earn me early retirement—deprived of pension. I’m afraid my hands are tied until my men learn more.”

“Well, our hands are quite free,” Waramoti said, turning to Izumi. “If we catch Faalan and silence him, it will not only conclude your quest, but also rid the Empire of a dangerous enemy. It might even prevent us from drifting into yet another devastating war. A most fitting chapter to our tale, no?”

“You think?” Izumi tilted her head, not quite as convinced. “To be honest, I feel something smells about all this. Though I can’t tell yet what.”

“Well, I’d say you’re in need of a bath,” he replied. “Not every business can have a hidden, nefarious underside to it. Sometimes, matters are exactly what they appear to be. So could you leave it at that and not look for any additional trouble? I’d say we have enough, as things stand.”

“Trust me, it’s not like I want more problems, but I’m starting to see a pattern here,” Izumi said, setting aside her already emptied soup cup. “Oh well, we know where to find our guy now, so we should be on our way. The sooner we get this show on the road, the sooner it’ll be done and over with.”

“Agreed,” the bard said and downed the last of his broth. “We should carry on while it’s still light, and we’ll be in Dharva by nightfall. It’s only about four days from the border to Utenvik.”

“Almost a week still!” Izumi cried. “The elves could stand to expand their highway network a little.”

“Here I thought you liked camping?”

“Burying your tent in snow and praying you won’t die in your sleep is not the sort of camping I enjoy,” she answered.

“That’s the adventure,” the bard remarked, tapping her shoulder, and then recalled their host. “Ah, thank you for your hospitality, Colonel. As promised, we shall trouble you no more, and your grace may return to honest work again.”

He stood, picked up his lute and got ready to head out.

Colonel Mervinna had followed their peculiar exchange with growing confusion.

“Who were you people, again?” he now asked them.

Izumi stood, dug out a silver coin from her pocket and placed it on the table before the master of Ingelbek, before following after the bard.

“Thanks for the soup, uncle!” she told the old knight with a smile. “As you can see, I’m a prosperous adventurer, and totally not a NEET!”