1

Acquiescas returned home only shortly after Izumi was done with her shopping trip, well before dark and safe from bodily harm, to the guardians’ relief. In fact, the man appeared to be in quite high spirits, as if having received favorable news, though he refrained from sharing any particulars just yet.

“I will tell you tomorrow, after we get the latest forecast from the astrologists,” the professor told his guards. “Please look forward to it!”

“What about our message?” Waramoti inquired him while testing a new melody on his lute. “Did you manage to deliver it?”

“Ah.” In response, the scholar froze and made a rather stupefied face. “I forgot.”

“You forgot…?”

“W-well, in my defense, I did not see Faalan at all today!” Acquiescas argued. “Had he been at the City Hall, I am confident I would have remembered! And I can’t well deliver a message if the recipient is not there, can I?”

“Do try to get it done tomorrow,” the bard urged him. “At this rate, you’ll be halfway to the mountains before he hears of it.”

The communication problems were soon forgotten. Izumi’s apple (?) pie turned out unexpectedly well, and thanks to this rare surprise event, the mood turned fairly celebratory in the studio, even as darkness fell once more outside.

“You ought to put your sword away and become a baker,” Waramoti suggested, stuffing his cheeks full.

“Why would I waste my life in another world doing something I could’ve done at home?” Izumi retorted.

“Another world...?” the professor raised his brows.

“Ah, er, another land, I meant,” she corrected herself. “A slip of the tongue.”

As they ate, Acquiescas would tell the travelers about the eight Dharvic clans, which all had quite amusing names. Each clan also had their own specialties, and were united more by shared interests and ideals, rather than mere bonds of blood.

There was Knobout, the members of which all had a strong love for the flora and fauna, and enjoyed foraging and hunting wildlife; Helmstruck, who favored heavy weaponry and large armors above all, pure strength as their sole value; Alelard, who took kitchen work very seriously, and had for generations run a brewery outside the city; Owlshead, who upheld a close relationship with the spiritual and the mystical, and were the keepers of local lore; Innsland, the clan of the learned and science, who studied the world and held responsibility for educating the young; Rawround, who specialized in mineralogy, metals, and smithing, and fancied money most of all; Wrenchfill, obsessed with mechanical tools and machinery, ever seeking new ways to make labor easier for all; and, of course, the legendary Tarpit, the clan of rulers, who prided themselves the fiercest and bravest of all of Dharva’s warriors.

After tea, Waramoti wanted everyone’s opinions on his new song, though neither of his listeners were great fans of music. Nevertheless, they had by now all forgotten that they were on a mission in a dangerous foreign land, a scholar and his guards, but were as if they had lived together from the start. It was only hours later, seated in watch duty once again, that Izumi remembered the mystery note given by the no less anomalous stranger. She had missed the opportunity to tell her companions about it.

“Oh well,” she shrugged and tossed the note in the fire under the stove. “Why would I bother the others with this, when we’re not going to take the advice, anyway?”

Quitting was simply not an option, no matter the arguments in favor.

And regardless of warnings, their second night in Utenvik passed much like the first, without hazardous incidents. It was beginning to seem that Acquiescas’s concerns over his well-being were indeed baseless, and that the medieval equivalent of hate mail would be the worst of it. Thinking it was the easiest money she had ever made in her life, Izumi passed the quiet hours of the night mentally visualizing a replay of Ni** 2 in her mind, before Waramoti relieved her from duty at the beginning of the second period.

At sunrise, in a faithful reenactment of the previous day, the bard escorted Acquiescas to the City Hall, while Izumi kept watch at the house, horizontally and eyes closed. Waramoti spent time on the way back performing at various street corners, half for entertainment and practice, and half to shake off the guards’ suspicions, while also keeping an eye on the city. He returned after a few hours, to find that Izumi had barely moved meanwhile.

“What are you, a house cat?” he questioned the woman as he entered the apartment. “You’re in a new land the likes of which you’ve probably never seen before in your life, yet you’re not the least bit curious to see what it’s like? Go out and take a look around! Broaden your horizons! And you would call yourself an adventurer?”

“Don’t wanna,” Izumi listlessly replied. “I saw enough back when we first arrived. Besides, it’s cold outside and I don’t feel like putting on all those clothes again.”

“It’s at a time like this that you behave like an old woman?” The bard sighed. “What a helpless person.”

“Our friendship is not at the rank yet where you can call me old and get away with it,” Izumi notified him with a scowl.

“Yes, yes,” the bard shrugged, not sounding particularly threatened.

“Geez.” Izumi sat up, scratching her head. “Isn’t this a dilemma? The longer I wait, the more money I get paid, but at the same time, I want to find the guy already and leave.”

“I suggest you put up with it and let Van Hortz call him over,” he said. “Unless you want to make closer acquaintance with the Steward’s men. Patience is most certainly a virtue in our situation.”

“What do you think?” Izumi asked. “About the whole expedition project?”

“What of it?” the youth asked, taking a seat with his lute. “If they wish to go dig up old ruins and pots in search of gold and treasures, then let them? Though I strongly doubt the trip will end too happily for anyone.”

“How so?”

“Because there’s nothing out there! Hundreds of square miles of uncharted, barren land, ice, snow, and mountains, inhabited only by elementals and beasts, and perhaps things yet worse. Once upon a time, the climate was more hospitable in these parts, I’ve heard, but the minor ice age that began two cycles back has done its tricks. Why has no one ever thought of investigating the Precursor sites before, though we know they’re somewhere in there? Because it’s simply not worth the risks involved.”

“So something’s changed,” she said. “What?”

“That is the question, o’ summoned champion!” Waramoti answered her, striking a theatrical pose. “Want to know what I think? It’s desperation!”

“Desperation?” Izumi raised a brow.

“Indeed,” he nodded. “The Dharves lost the war. They lost their lands, their sovereignty. Their sons, their fathers! They struggle just to keep warm and live another day. What could rekindle their spirits in these depressing times? What could give them hope for the future again? Visions of past heroics! Memories of having been part of something greater, tales of overcoming oppression, of finding liberation! They survived slavery and achieved greatness, and though they have suffered defeat now, there is yet hope that the glory days may return...Or, that’s how I’d spin it, if I had to.”

“I see,” Izumi stroke her chin, thinking. “But if that’s their goal, then why would Faalan go along with it? Is it out of a sense of guilt? Because he played a part in their suffering, he wants to help them now, to silence his conscience?”

“Who knows?” Waramoti shrugged. “We’ll have to ask the man himself.”

“So it comes down to that again.” Izumi threw herself against the back support, and swung her arms up in the air.

“Incidentally,” the bard continued. “I also have an alternative theory regarding the expedition’s goals.”

“What’s that?”

“Gold,” he replied.

“Uh-huh?”

“They’re not getting rich off coal, steel, and snow. The production can’t answer the demand when there’s such a shortage of labor, and the prices are poor. The Dharves burned most their wealth on the failed war campaign, hoping the spoils of victory would cover the costs. But they were defeated and left with nothing. So they need something valuable, fast, to get back up on their feet as a nation.”

“And the Precursors’ hidden treasure will help them achieve this,” Izumi commented.

“Precisely. The ancient race dwelt in the mountains, and used slave labor to dig up the wealth of the earth. But then the Precursors vanished, and it is doubtful that they took their possessions with them. Neither could the Dharves carry unnecessary weight for such a distance, in so extreme conditions, when they moved house. In all likelihood, all the wealth that Eylia once had is still there in the mountains, untouched.”

“So now they feel like carrying it.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “That’s where the desperation comes into the picture again. And there, we can also see a less noble explanation to what might motivate our warrior friend.”

“Gold,” Izumi said and shook her head.

“Once a mercenary...” Waramoti played his lute. “A share of the Precursors’ treasure! But a minor percentage will likely mean great riches. Even I’d be slightly tempted, were not the delighted smiles of my audience more precious to my enlightened self than diamonds! Though I need to eat too, no denying that.”

Meanwhile, Izumi’s expression turned even more harsh.

“Leaving his family behind for money, this guy’s really starting to get on my nerves.”

“Well, this is still only a theory of mine,” he said. “A very likely, convincing theory, perhaps, but just a theory all the same. Hopefully, Van Hortz will be able to deliver the message, and our man comes to explain himself in person.”

“If not, I’ll go find him myself. And when I do, I’ll make sashimi out of him.”

“What in the blazes does that mean…?” the bard grimaced.

2

Another day passed in impatient waiting. This time Acquiescas was away even longer than yesterday. The sun fell far beyond the mountains, dying the eastern horizon a deep brown-red, and the hired muscle was beginning to wonder if they hadn’t failed their duty, after all. Begrudgingly, Izumi began to put on her shoes and go look for the missing archaeologist, when the sound of quick footsteps in the stairs stopped her. She halted and listened with momentary caution, but soon enough, only the aged scholar burst into the room.

Instead of terror, there was only overflowing joy reflected on Acquiescas’s countenance, and his loose-framed glasses could barely stay on his nose.

“Wonderful news, my friends!” he told the woman and the bard as soon as he had stepped in. “Nothing but fair weathers in view, weeks ahead! Temperatures just above the freezing point during the day! We are now officially cleared to depart, right on schedule!”

“My, my,” Izumi said, surprised, and clapped her hands. The man’s excitement was contagious. “Congrats!”

“Congratulations, professor,” Waramoti said as well.

“Thank you, thank you!” the scholar answered with a wide smile. “The expedition will set out on the daybreak of Sunnaan, two days from now. Ah! Two and a half decades of research and labor, finally about to see fruition! You can’t believe how happy this makes me! That’s it! We’re going to the Winding Gear right now! It’s my treat. Hurry on, good people!”

“Oh, by the way,” Izumi interrupted him, “did you get the message to Faalan?”

“Ah.” As if someone had hit the pause button, Acquiescas froze in the doorway. “I forgot.”

“Listen, you...”

“I-I don’t see what the problem is,” the scholar replied while retreating into the hallway outside. “He’s not going to randomly disappear overnight, I might see him tomorrow. Come now! Best mead in the city awaits! It will cheer you right up!”

“Did you just jinx it? Your head has so many holes you wouldn’t even be able to strain pasta in it,” Izumi grumbled, continuing to tie her shoe laces.

Three blocks west and two northward from Acquiescas’s apartment was a warm, merry tavern, called the Winding Gear. The spacious ground floor of it was furnished with sturdy, round wood tables, with a few long ones reserved for local clansmen. Though it was an ordinary weekday night, there were quite a few customers about, perhaps forty or so, absorbed in cheerful chatter.

Most of the available products were local make, seeing as alcohol was one of the most popular Dharvic exports, and they held great pride in the quality of their distilleries. The tavern’s own specialty, Redeye Mead, sounded slightly too exotic for Izumi’s tastes.

“Don’t get carried away,” Waramoti discreetly cautioned the woman, as they took seats at a table near the southeast corner of the hall with their drinks.

“I’m not a drunk,” Izumi retorted. “I know my limits.”

“News to me.”

“Here’s to success,” Acquiescas raised his tankard. “To history!”

“Aye,” Warmoti said, raising his mead bottle in kind. “Here’s to hoping I will one day be part of it.”

“Why, you’re much too young to worry about such things, my lad,” the scholar told him with a chuckle. “The mood must be getting to me, but I’m beginning to feel that at your age, it is still perfectly acceptable to live your days without a care, instead of gazing into the past.”

“Right.” The bard forced a smile. He had indeed done his fair share of living fast, though none of it was apparent on his face.

“All this talk of age and past makes me want to get wasted,” Izumi commented with a heavy sigh.

“Oi, what did I just tell you?” the bard kicked her foot.

“Theoretically speaking,” she specified.

“Then let us speak of the future instead,” Acquiescas proposed. “As said, after Sunnaan, I will require your services no more. I thank you humbly for keeping me company, as little danger as there has been, in the end. But what do you mean to do from hereon? Have you already decided on your next destination after Dharva? I would strongly recommend that you pay Cotlann, my dear homeland, a visit! The highlands are much, much more hospitable than Utenvik—no offense to our hosts—not to mention warmer! And I can name several houses that would welcome you with open arms. You should go see the University too, while you’re at it. They are always eager to show visitors around.”

“Ah, I’ll give it some thought,” Izumi said. “Though I fear destiny won’t allow for much advance planning.”

“Is that so? You sound like you speak from experience. Oh, but you have to tell me about the places you’ve seen before! Now that we have the chance.”

“I doubt you’d believe any of it, even if we told you,” she replied.

“Well, now I’m twice as interested!” The enthusiasm wouldn’t leave the scholar’s visage. “But just a moment, before you get started. I will need to pay a visit to the men’s room. I’ve been holding it much too long!”

Acquiescas left his tankard, stood up, and headed to the northeastern corner of the hall. By his unhesitating steps, it appeared he was quite familiar with the tavern’s layout, and not a stranger to ale. This was likely the regular place the scholar and his late assistant had frequented.

“You tell him,” Izumi told the bard. “Talking’s not my strong suit.”

“Me?” Waramoti replied. “If I’m going to have to tell the tale, then I might as well share the fables with the rest of the clientele too.”

The young man reached for his instrument, which rested by his chair. But Izumi stopped him by grabbing his shoulder.

“Geez. Could you endure not being the center of attention for one day?” she asked.

“It’s my job,” he retorted. “I can only either do it full-time, or not do it at all.”

“What if I cut your strings, Bono? Take a break.”

“You hate it then?” Waramoti asked her. “My music?”

The look in his eyes—there was disappointment in it.

“W-well...” Izumi evaded his gaze and withdrew. “It’s not like I...Eh, I don’t not like it. It’s just...”

“Just? Well?”

Under his expectant, unusually demanding stare, Izumi gave up, took a sip from her tankard, and leaned heavily on the table.

“...I don’t want to hear beautiful things,” she spoke. “I don’t want to feel a thing. I just want to forget. But, whenever I hear the sound of that lute, it all comes back to me again, as if it happened only yesterday. The beauty I saw. The love I felt. And the pain.”

“...I see.” The bard slowly nodded, his offended expression shifting into one of pity. “Then, I suppose we have a problem. I cannot record your adventures, unless I’m there to see them in person; yet so long as I’m with you, I wouldn’t be able to perform them.”

“Why not move on to tell someone else’s story?” Izumi suggested. “Plenty of heroes out there, by the sound of it. There won’t be any more adventures for me, you know? After we find Faalan and I give him an earful, we’re out of here, and I’m going back to south. To Ludgwert. And I won’t touch this sword ever again.”

“Do you honestly believe that’s possible?” he asked her.

“Hm?”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” Waramoti pointed out. “You can’t go against destiny.”

“That was a bad joke,” Izumi retorted.

He appeared to believe otherwise.

“You are the summoned champion of the prophecy,” the bard told her. “Chosen by Divine intent. I hope you haven’t forgotten. The future of our world is in your hands, Izumi. That’s why, I’m afraid retirement is not an option for you, no more than it is for me. The stars themselves have determined otherwise.”

“Stars my butt,” Izumi replied, growing sullen. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done of my own will. All the mistakes, all the empty victories. I wouldn’t be here, if not for the dumb choices I’ve made. And I couldn’t care less about any absurd prophecies.”

Waramoti wasn’t as easily convinced. “Can you be sure it was really your own will that brought you here today? Or if your will and soul themselves aren’t only another facet of the river of fate?”

“What an incredibly crappy destiny it is then!” Izumi exclaimed, slamming her fist on the table. “That lets children die in the hands of their loved ones, turns mothers against their daughters, and drives brothers and sisters apart! I’m never going along with such stars, that’s for sure! I’ll do the very opposite they want, if only out of spite!”

People nearby were giving weird looks to the woman’s sudden outburst.

“Do keep it down,” Waramoti advised her with a look of alarm.

“Ah, darn it...” Izumi blushed, embarrassed, and lowered her head. “Did the professor drown in the urinal? What’s taking? I need another pint.”

“I’m not so sure if that’s a good idea, but there he comes.”

Acquiescas returned, wiping his hands in his robe sides.

“What’s with the commotion?” he asked. “Is everything all right—”

Izumi didn’t listen further. At that moment, she looked past the scholar and saw a local man in a table by the north wall stand up. As he did, he lifted a peculiar contraption up from under the table. It was something that had gone long out of fashion by the time Izumi was born, but the various works of fiction had nevertheless helped modern people remember its purpose. In a few tenths of a second, Izumi identified that object as a crossbow, which the unknown man aimed at the back of the returning professor.

Not missing a beat, Izumi seized Acquiescas’s tankard on the table, and threw it across the hall at the bowman as hard as she could. It missed by half a foot, hitting the wall, spraying foaming ale all around, but the messy projectile distracted the assassin just by enough. His aim shifted. A sharp whistle rang out and the bolt flashed disturbingly close past Acquiescas’s head, hitting the shelf behind the counter in the east end, and shattered a bottle of liquor.

Feeling the breeze in his hair, Acquiescas paused to feel his head, blissfully unaware of what had just happened. Fortunately, Waramoti caught on faster. The bard leapt off his seat and lunged at the scholar, tackling him down onto the floor.

Terrified yells and shrieks rang out, as the civilian customers realized they were caught in a firefight. Everyone rushed immediately for the exits, save for a handful of glum men in chain mail shirts and orange-dyed cloaks, who remained behind. They now stood from their seats and faced the trio of foreigners, gripping crossbows of similar design to the first one.

Izumi gripped the corner of the table and flipped it up on its side, taking cover behind it, right as more deadly whistling could be heard. A few bolts struck the table, their sharp, multi-edged heads poking through the planks.

“Have I ever told you how much I hate bows?” Izumi remarked.

“They’re after the professor! We need to get out of here!” Waramoti told her, bringing Acquiescas behind the cover. “Can you get us an opening?”

“Don’t ask the impossible! I’m not bulletproof! Ow!”

Another bolt punched through the table seam, and peeked out near Izumi’s elbow. Though the boards were almost four inches thick.

“The Dharves’ mechanical arbalests can pierce plating of tempered steel,” Waramoti said, speaking from experience. “Don’t get hit.”

“That helps,” Izumi sighed. “You awake, Yui-chan? I need a bit of backup. Ocilí, Statha!”

Bzzt—.

In an instant, the familiar, nauseating weightlessness washed over Izumi, as her brain was flooded with sensory information overwhelming her sense of self. The tavern hall became rendered in her mind from every conceivable angle at once, down to unfiltered minutiae. Every table, chair, forgotten bag, coat, and tankard. On the edge of table number eight, a fallen cider bottle was spilling its contents onto the floor in slow motion. A young civilian was cowering under table number eleven, light snot dripping down his thin mustache. But beside completely unnecessary data, Izumi was also able to perceive the number and positioning of all the enemies, leaving not one hiding spot around.

As the spell’s effect soon ended, Izumi’s perception returned to normal limits, making her feel like a fly stuck in syrup, dazed, heavy, and slightly nauseous. By now, she knew the effect well enough to assume a stable posture beforehand and avoided hitting her head on anything as her balance wavered.

“Alright,” she said, catching her breath, tensing her muscles. “Six bogeys. Four loading, one ready, one firing. And there I thought this was easy money!”

Waiting for the next bolt to hit the table edge, Izumi rolled out. Exiting cover on the left, she picked up her fallen sword from the floor, while naming the relevant runes.

“Sifl, Gram!”

Amplifying both her speed and strength, Izumi dashed for the nearest enemies, faint blue light leaking from her enhanced limbs. There were three in front of her; one a few paces away from the entrance, the second some six steps behind the first, and the third still further behind.

The closest of them had just finished arming his crossbow again, and began to shift the aim from the professor to the attacking woman. Recognizing that she wouldn’t cross twenty-four feet in the time it took him to move his fingers an inch, Izumi lifted her sword above her shoulder, and then flung it at the warrior.

The wildly spinning greatsword hit the man’s arms and shoulder in passing, the weight and force sufficient to tear through the chain mail. The warrior cried out, knocked back, and tumbled over the chair behind him.

Izumi had sacrificed her blade, but she wasn’t without ammunition. Continuing on, both her hands now freed, she grabbed a heavy tavern chair along her path while turning, and threw it in the next foe’s general direction. Her aim was a bit off, only one of the legs hit the man, but it did delay him. With Sifl active, her movement speed was only a little short of a thrown object itself, and by the time the warrior had fixed his poise, she was already in front of him.

Stepping close in, Izumi turned the crossbow aside with her left hand, and smacked her right palm into the bottom of the man’s jaw. Continuing to hold him up like this, she took a step in, shoved his hips out of line with her knee, and slammed the man on his back onto the floor. The archer’s legs reflexively kicked up at the impact, and Izumi grabbed his ankle. Holding the leg like a club with both hands, she leapt forward, turned and flung the assailant as if he were a big sack, aiming at the third warrior up ahead. A direct hit from the man-sized cannonball sent both attackers tumbling, tables and chairs crashing about them.

Briefly confirming that they were down for the count, Izumi spun right.

The remaining two foes stood further away, diagonally spread out, aiming at the hiding scholar and the bard. One was still in the process of arming his weapon, using his foot to keep the bow arc still, while drawing the string. The other one was ready to fire and aiming, waiting to see a head poke out from behind the table.

Alarmed by Izumi’s counterattack, the Dharves were momentarily unsure which target to pursue. But only for a moment. Then, they both turned to face the woman.

Sprinting into motion again, Izumi kicked the edge of the nearest table on her path, knocking it on its side. She reached down and took the large middle leg into her embrace, picking up the whole table, and charged ahead, using the table for an improvised shield and a battering ram.

“Haaaaaa—!”

Tok. She heard a solitary bolt hit the surface, inflicting negligible damage. She kept running, unable to see what was ahead of her, until bumping into something that felt softer than another table or a chair. Hearing the rustling of chain mail, she jumped on, burying the foe underneath the table and herself. Izumi let go and rolled over the table bottom, which brought her right in front of the next opponent. Displaying great composure, the black-bearded assailant adjusted his aim, pointing the bolt’s star-shaped metal head at Izumi’s face.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

Izumi kicked up, her toes barely reaching the tip of the crossbow. Chak. The mechanism shot the bolt at the ceiling, where it sank next to one of the lamps without casualties. Standing up, Izumi seized the crossbow’s head with her right hand. Simultaneously turning, she forced the weapon aside and elbowed the warrior in the face. Snatching the weapon from his hands, she turned immediately back and whacked him overhead with the metal frame, and the assailant was down.

The warrior left under the table struggled to pull himself out of the trap. As soon as his head appeared from under the oaken boards, Izumi ended his struggle with a solid drop kick.

Brief silence spread to the tavern.

The solitary civilian hiding under table eleven took this chance to escape, sprinting to the exit and outside as fast as he was able, the door banging close after him. But his escape stole Izumi’s attention at a dangerous moment.

There was one more enemy left.

A character of some subtle cunning, this warrior had taken cover during the battle, making Izumi lose track of his whereabouts. Now he sprung up from behind the long table in the north, lifted his crossbow onto the table, and aimed at the woman, ready to fire.

Facing away, Izumi noticed him much too late.

Sifl effectively quintupled her movement and reaction speed, making her far faster than any human; but a crossbow bolt could reach the velocity of over three hundred feet per second. She didn’t need to try it to tell who would be left second in that race. The bolt was aimed at her navel, she couldn’t pull her whole body away from the line of fire in time. Neither did she have any way to stop him from shooting. His finger was already on the trigger, a murderous glint lighting up in his eyes. No matter how she looked at the situation in those fleeting hundredths of a second, taking a hit was unavoidable.

But in this case, Izumi’s assessment was slightly mistaken.

——BOONG!

A dark, flat object came flying from the sideline. A very peculiar missile, a cast iron pan, it landed a direct hit on the bowman’s head. The chain mail hood alone couldn’t absorb such a heavy impact. Twitching a little, the man’s gaze turned vacant, and he sank limply onto the floor, leaving his weapon unused.

Astonished, Izumi turned to the direction the flying pan had come from.

Had one of her companions saved her? How, in so short a time? Such operating was quite extraordinary, even for Waramoti at his prime. No, neither the bard nor the professor had helped Izumi in this situation.

Instead, another person emerged from the kitchen entrance in the east.

A tall man stepped into the tavern hall, starkly unlike the brawny, hairy, dark-browed locals. His slim, upright figure was clad in a well-fitting, light gray jacket, with the collar and cuffs lined in pale fur. His tough trousers and hiking boots were of similar ashen style, making the man look like a phantom of winter. His hair as well was light in color, as cotton, cut short, and brushed back in waves, the way hay was bent by gale. His eyes were light gray, their gaze serene and aloof. All in all, the man was extraordinarily handsome, though his complexion was so pale that it appeared to almost glow in the dimly lit hall.

Strangest of all, the upper corners of the man’s ears were curiously sharpened, like leaves. He carried nothing in his hands, but on his wide belt hung a thin, curved saber of peculiar design, with a handle of ivory, and a sheath of white oak.

Paying no heed to the two hiding behind the table, the disorder filling the tavern floor, or the woman staring at him with alarm and astonishment on her face, the stranger strode unhurriedly past it all, to the archer he had just downed. He crouched to look closer, turning the unconscious man’s face aside, and examined the markings tattooed onto the sides of the neck.

“As I thought,” the gray man then remarked. “Men of Owlshead. Traditionalists. They believe the mountains to be sacred and suffer no one to approach them. Even their kinsmen are no exception, never mind outsiders.”

Hearing the familiar voice, Acquiescas crept up from his hiding spot, and a look of delight appeared on his face.

“Faalan!” he greeted the newcomer. “Thank goodness you’re here! I was quite certain we were done for! Did the Steward send you?”

“No,” Faalan answered, standing up, and turned to face the scholar. “I have been keeping an eye on you without his knowing. Hiyrland did not think it possible that any of the clans would defy him, openly or in secret. But the Owlshead are not like the others. They alone have faith in what some would call supernatural, and this faith they place above any mortal ruler. That makes them particularly dangerous, unpredictable.”

“I can’t believe it either!” Acquiescas exclaimed, looking at the bodies around. “So they were the ones who killed poor Alfois? But, should we not leave here? The guards must be on their way. We wouldn’t want them to draw the wrong conclusions on what happened here, would we?”

“No cause for concern there,” the warrior told him, shaking his head. “The city guard is already aware of the situation. And as far as they are concerned, this is a private dispute between Owlshead and outsiders, and they feel no need to intervene on our behalf. Yet, they are not fools either, and honest people at heart. They will not blame you for defending yourselves, or make up false charges against you. Though it is true that this will not earn you their love either. You are right that we had better quit this place. Go on ahead. I will make sure there are no pursuers.”

Waramoti nodded to Izumi, and left to escort the scholar back to their apartment.

But Izumi wouldn’t follow them.

She went to pick up her sword, and then turned back to the gray-clad man.

“Wait.” she called after him, as he moved to leave the other way.

“Yes?” Faalan paused and glanced over his shoulder.

“That’s all?” the woman asked, walking up to him. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” he replied.

“You do?” Izumi frowned. “...You’re the one who gave me that note, aren't you?”

“And the others,” Faalan affirmed. “Though they were of little use, in the end.”

“No, I got the gist of it and I’m out of here,” she told him. “And you’re coming with me. They’re all waiting for you back in the Empire, you know? Wondering if you’ve died, or changed teams, or worse. Just how bad do you think you’ve made your family and friends worry? I got told to take you home, so that’s what I’m going to do. You’d better not have a problem with that.”

Faalan faced away and stood for a moment without speaking. Then, in a solemn voice, he answered,

“I can’t go back.”

“And why’s that?” she asked.

“Professor Van Hortz’s expedition is only a front.” Turning around again, the man looked back at Izumi and explained. “Steward Hiyrland has other plans. He believes they will find in Eylia more than just gold or historical knowledge. A weapon, an ancient Precursor tool, by which the Dharves were originally enslaved. Should they find it, they may still turn the tables on the Empire. Fearing economical retaliation, they don’t want the imperials to find out about their plans, and the professor’s endeavor works in their favor. We cannot strike against Dharva without any proof, before they’ve even done anything, not without uniting the rest of the world against us. But by the time the expedition returns, it may already be too late.”

“That’s...”

“They will leave in two days,” Faalan continued. “There’s nothing we can do to stop it anymore. Even were the professor to die, they would only cover it up. Therefore, I have no other choice. I must go with them and procure the weapon before the Dharves do. I will come back, if I succeed. If I do not…I will pay for my failure with my life. Should you return to Tratovia, please tell them so.”

Having said all that he intended, Faalan turned to leave.

But he soon stopped once again. Compelled to, by the large blade held at his neck.

“You know,” Izumi spoke in a quiet tone, standing behind him. “I could tell them you rebelled and take back just the head. Would make things a lot easier for me.”

“…” To this, Faalan said nothing.

Tense seconds dragged by, as the two continued to stand in silence.

Yet, Faalan made no move. Disregarding the threat on his life, he stood completely still and relaxed, his back turned at the woman, displaying not the slightest intention of defending himself.

What was going to happen?

Suddenly, the volatile mood was dispelled by the one who set it.

“Just kidding~!” Izumi exclaimed in a far lighter tone, and withdrew her weapon. “I wouldn’t do such terrible things! I’m the hero, after all! And real heroes don’t kill people for their own benefit, yes? That’s why, there’s simply no other choice for me either! I’m going to have to come with you all the way to the mountains of madness, and somehow keep you alive until we get back home! Damn it!”