It didn’t take them long to reach the servant’s quarters, all things considered, though their progress still felt agonisingly slow to Ferez. Despite her resolve to travel unaided, Ingrid’s injuries were catching up with her, and she had been forced to drape an arm around Ferez to steady her as they hobbled through the hallways.

It had been a bit of a struggle to ignore the way the muscle rippled against his skin. He admired her strength, and found it more than a little attractive, but it was also terrifying, like having a nominally domesticated python coiling around your neck. Still, as they opened one final door, they saw it. Freedom.

Before them was a kitchen, broad open windows on the far side looking out into a lush vegetable garden, strands of dried herbs hanging above the cauldron in the fireplace, and a pair of long tables between covered in an assortment of cooking utensils, pots, pans and a partially dressed deer.

It looked like everyone had left in a hurry. The door to the garden was hanging open, and the tables were in disarray, raw vegetables and strips of venison discarded across the benches and floor as the people fled the sounds of battle.

Just a few more steps out the door, through the garden, and over the perimeter wall.

“Don’t know what we were worried about,” Leo said, picking up a carrot as they went and crunching it.

As he did, the wall behind them exploded in a storm of black fire.

Leo and Ferez shrieked in unison.

“Val’Pyria’s ti-“

“Aquina’s cli-“

“Don’t you dare finish those sentences!” Ingrid shouted.

Ferez pulled her behind him as the dust settled. Leo stood his ground beside him, sucking the broth out of the cauldron to orbit his head alongside the goblet of wine. He was still chewing the carrot, and as Ferez watched, he plucked a potato chunk out of the broth.

“What?” he asked as Ferez glared. Ferez didn’t bother replying, instead turning his attention to the figure approaching through the haze of brick dust. He was short, maybe five and a half feet, clad in black from head to toe in an imitation college robe. His face was round and fleshy, with too small features that gave him a permanently pinched expression. His high pitched, nasally voice fit him perfectly.

He giggled. “Well, well, look who we found!”

Ingrid stiffened, and for a second Ferez struggled to reconcile the concern of such a strong battlemage with the pathetic man before him. Then he noticed the shield strapped to DuBois’s arm.

It looked notionally similar to the Resonance artefacts he had seen before. The average artefact only had a small amount of Resonance Ore in it, the brassy metal spider webbing through a shell of more mundane material. For aesthetic reasons, actual brass was commonly used, though a trained eye could detect the slight variation in tone. Any normal metal, no matter how lustrous, just seemed dull when alongside the magical ore.

But the shield? It hadn’t been refined, that much was clear. Instead of a smooth glossy surface, it was rough and pitted. It still had a metallic sheen, but not in the way of a finely forged sword, or even a polished spoon. It looked almost… organic. The shape of it reinforced the impression. It was broad at the top, tapering to a jagged point at the base, with two large, angular holes just above. Glossy black veins flowed out from the sockets in chaotic Lichtenberg figures, spreading across the face of the shield. It looked like the helmeted carapace of a colossal beetle, and it sent a shiver through the base of Ferez’s neck, as though an insect had scuttled across his shoulders.

Whatever this thing was, whatever it’s enchantment, that much ore in a single artefact was an extremely bad thing. For them, at least.

“Leo, get her out.”

“Ferez, I’m not sure that’s a great idea-”

“Do it, Leo!”

Leo glanced between Ferez and DuBois a couple of times, then took Ingrid and hurried out the door. Ingrid shouted over her shoulder as she left.

“Watch the shield! He uses it to attack, but it also sucks up any magical energy you throw at it!”

Ferez nodded, not taking his eyes off DuBois. The rogue watched impassively, a knowing smile on his lips, as Leo and Ingrid withdrew.

“Awfully sportsmanlike, letting them go like that,” Ferez said.

DuBois shrugged. “They won’t get far in that state. Not in the time it takes to finish you.”

“You’re overconfident, DuBois.”

The mage laughed. “Why don’t we find out. I’ll let you make the first move.”

Ferez grunted and shifted his stance, marshalling his power. He reviewed the facts he knew so far.

One, the size of the artefact meant it could store a massive amount of Talent, which in turn meant powerful attacks. But not overwhelmingly so. Ingrid had survived a hit, and though her arm was heavily burnt, she could still move it, suggesting the burns didn’t extend far beneath the skin. With a thought, he surged Talent throughout his body, saturating his skin. Hopefully, it would mitigate at least some of the damage if he took a direct hit.

Two, the enchantment on the shield wasn’t Pyris. Well, wasn’t just Pyris, at least. The effects of the flame were too… odd. He had heard some of the most ancient artefacts had enchantments from multiple schools, and some new artefacts had managed two, though they were technically separate but enmeshed artefacts. It could have an Umbral enchantment as well? Either way, he needed to observe at least one attack without dying, so he could assess its full capabilities.

Three, he probably couldn’t kill DuBois. Not here, like this. He was fresh and raring to go, but he didn’t have a strategy. Not a proper one anyway.

Four… actually, that was about it. The artefact was scary as Pit and this was going to be a battle for survival, not victory.

Ferez threw a gout of flame at DuBois and started running. DuBois threw the shield up, and as per Ingrid’s warning, it sucked the flames out of the air. Annoying, but it did mean DuBois couldn’t see him anymore. He dashed through a doorway back into the castle, dropping a pool of liquid flame onto the floor as he went.

He found himself in a dining room, dark red curtains running along the walls, a series of circular timber tables scattered through the wide room, with a long bench on a raised platform at the far end. It was Gascoigne’s table, judging from the massive, richly ornamented mahogany throne in the centre. He sprinted to the chair and dove behind it, peeking around as DuBois followed.

The doorframe had gone up like dry grass, and through the flames the renegade stood, scratching obsessively at his face. He approached, hesitant, the shield held out in front of him. As he got closer, the pool itself flowed into the shield, but the mundane flames sprouting from the wood burned unabated.

Ferez smiled. Magical attacks were useless, but the mundane effects of magical attacks were still on the table.

Finally, with a yelp, DuBois jumped through the doorway, shield first, the flames licking at his cloak. It didn’t catch, but Ferez still got a discrete chuckle as DuBois hit the ground and rolled, pre-emptively trying to put out flames that didn’t exist. After carrying on like that for a few seconds, he shot back to his feet, jabbering something Ferez couldn’t make out, then stalked into the room. His head swivelled, searching for Ferez’s hiding place. It would be seconds before he was discovered.

Ferez leapt out, hurling another stream of flame. DuBois was prepared this time, and he replied with a stream of his own, obsidian flames roaring to meet the bright red. They clashed in the centre of the room, offshoots of flame lancing out at random and igniting the furniture, the floorboards, and the curtains.

Ferez yelled and sunk more power into his flames, driving the black back while the room turned into a raging inferno. If he won the magical shoving match, it would only feed Talent back into the shield, but if he could hold DuBois here long enough, there was a chance he could trap the bastard in the room. DuBois would have a degree of control over the flames, he was still a Pyris mage after all, but he wasn’t a very good one, and his school wouldn’t count for shit when the room’s support structure failed and dropped the second floor of the castle on him.

Of course, that meant Ferez had to be out of here when that happened. It would take some precise timing. He was trying to figure out step two in his cunning plan when he heard something over the roar of the flames and the snapping of tortured wood.

Laughter.

“Yes! Yes, we are very impressed! Not many can match us head on! None of the others could, at least.”

The black flame split down either side of Ferez’s and surged towards him, and he swore as he threw up a wall of flame. It buckled under the impact, the healthy crimson bowing towards him as lances of ugly black slipped through. He swore the unnatural flames seemed, hungry.

One more second and he would be consumed. He needed a new plan immediately. He fell to a knee, his Talent draining out of him. He racked his brain as he glanced around; burning drapes, burning floor, burning roof, burn-

Wait, he thought. Burning floor.

He hadn’t seen much of the castle on his way in, but he had noticed that there were more stairs leading down into the sub-level than just the one to the cells. He had no idea what was below him, or even if the level extended as far as the dining room, but he didn’t have many choices.

He slowly moved a hand behind him, feeling the flame wall weaken as he tried to maintain it with one hand. He pooled Talent in his free hand and pointed it at the floor behind him. Physically, it was a very simple gesture. Mentally, it was like balancing a unicycle on a rope suspended over a bottomless chasm.

In a tornado.

With a grunt that was equal parts effort and desperation, he dropped a blob of liquid fire onto the floor, counting down the long seconds as it ate through the floorboards. When he had a hole about a foot and a half in diameter, Ferez said a quick prayer to Val’Pyria and threw himself backwards. He slipped down into the dark as black flames shot overhead, close enough to feel their heat.

And that sensation from before. That hunger.

He landed on his back with a thud; the breath knocked from his lungs. He groaned, rolled to his hands and knees, and sparked a small flame above his finger. He was in a cellar, rows of casks and wall mounted lattices full to bursting with wine.

There could be worse places to land.

He heard the patter of feet above him and extinguished the light, scrambling over to the wall and pressing himself as hard against it as possible. He stared at the small circle of light, sweat beading on his forehead as a shadow fell over it.

“Where did he go? Hmm? Where? Not here, not there, not anywhere? Oh, what is that?” There was silence, then a frantic giggle. “Oh, right, yes, I suppose. Unusual for him to have been consumed so completely though.”

More silence.

“It was a spectacular attack, wasn’t it? Alright, let’s get going then. That took longer than I wanted and we’ve got two more little mouseys to hunt down.”

Ferez stayed still as the shadow moved away. When he was confident DuBois was gone, he gently prised himself off the wall. Bottles clinked softly in the rack behind him, and in a fit of fancy, he grabbed a bottle as he left. He felt his way around the wall until he found the door. He opened it and slipped through, kicking something soft on the floor. He sparked up another flame to see what it was.

A body, wearing the livery of Gascoigne’s men. He slowly looked up into the faces of a half dozen assassins. They looked as surprised as he did.

“Hello,” Ferez said, “why are you all standing here in the dark?”

“Our lantern got smashed in the fight. We’ve been trying to find the door.”

“Oh, I think it’s over there?” Ferez said, pointing at the door behind them. They turned to look, then turned back to him. Ferez pulled the cork out of the wine bottle with his teeth and took a swig.

“Alright then, let’s do this.”

*

A few hours later, Ferez crouched in the treeline on the outskirts of town. A dozen odd assassins had been crawling over the place since he got there, but he had detected a gradual decline in activity over the last thirty minutes since the sun dipped below the horizon. That was a good sign. It meant they hadn’t found Ingrid and Leo, and they were slowly giving up. He glanced at the sky.

It was dark enough that the stars were out, and the moon hadn’t risen yet. This was his best chance to get into town undetected.

He crept forward, wearing the cloak he’d taken off one of the assassins in the cellar. It had been much more difficult than he expected. He didn’t realise how inefficient empty wine bottles were as an improvised weapon. Still, a quick Flash Bomb to knock the assassin down and a rapid and aggressive follow up left him with his perfectly serviceable disguise.

He kept his head down and hood up as he walked, trying to act unsuspicious. It was hard, since he had no idea what a nonchalant assassin canvasing a small town would act like. Should he hurry? That might make him look nervous and, therefore, suspicious. But the assassins wouldn’t be dawdling either, they were trying to find someone after all. In the end, he opted for a stride he hoped conveyed confidence and purpose, with maybe a hint of stalking thrown in for good measure.

He passed the first house and peeked through the window. A local farmer sat by his fireplace, the house in disarray from being tossed by the guilders. He had a pitchfork in his hands and was staring intently at the door.

It was the same with the second house, though that farmer had a shovel, and the third house as well, though that farmer had a rolling pin.

Best of luck to him, Ferez thought, then sighed and looked around. He could wander around peeking through windows all night. If the assassins hadn’t found Ingrid and Leo that way, he sure as Pit wouldn’t either. He needed a better plan.

Think, Ferez, think! If I were Ingrid, where would my ‘guy’ be?

If he was involved in the smuggling ring, it’d need to be some place where contraband could be stored, out of sight. That would be the granary, the stables, and the tavern.

The movement of said contraband would also need to be disguised as movement of regular supplies too, which narrowed it down to the granary and the tavern.

And it would need to be the kind of place where unfamiliar faces passing through weren’t that unusual. Which left the tavern.

Ferez set off with renewed purpose, heading towards the town entrance where he’d seen the hanging tankard sign on their way in. There were a few roaming assassins still around, but he kept his distance and made it to the tavern without being challenged. He stopped at the doorway and did a quick check to make sure he was alone before he pushed through the door.

The tavern was fairly nondescript, straw on the floor to soak up spilled ale, rickety tables and stools scattered around the barroom, and a warm fire crackling in the hearth. The barkeep stood behind the counter, a powerfully built Aderathian with an impressive moustache, cleaning out a tankard with a surprisingly clean looking rag. Patrons were scattered about the room in spite of, or because of, the search, talking at the tables in low voices. They turned as one when he came in.

“Good evening,” he said.

They continued staring, one of the men closest spitting onto the floor at his feet.

Charming.

“Look, I understand this is an unpleasant situation, but I’m not an assassin! I’m looking for my friends, the same people the guilders are after.”

The barkeep set down the tankard and produced an axe from behind the counter. “I would be more inclined to believe you, monsieur, if you weren’t wearing a guilder’s uniform.”

“How else was I supposed to get here? The town is crawling with them. I couldn’t just saunter in wearing my mage robes, could I?”

“I suppose not. But I would still need to be an idiot to take your word for it. I’m a simple man, not a fool.”

“Alright, that’s fair, if you just ask Ingrid, tell her what I look like, she’ll be able to vouch for me.”

“But assuming you are an assassin, if I said ‘certainly, let me just go check’, that would be an admission that she was here in itself, no?”

“I- yes, I guess it would.”

“Therefore I cannot ask her, even if she was here.”

Ferez pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is getting us nowhere. Let me put it to you this way, either tell me where she is or I’ll burn this building to the ground with you all in it!”

He realised he had said the wrong thing when weapons appeared in the hands of everyone in the tavern. They ranged from knives to hammers to broken bottles and, oddly enough, another rolling pin, but despite the motley assortment, they still looked intimidating.

“We don’t take kindly to threats, monsieur.”

“So, I see. But, if I was an assassin, wouldn’t attacking me risk bringing the rest of the guild down on you in retaliation?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No! Haven’t you been listen-“

“Then if we kill you, no one out there will care.”

“Gods, you are dense. If you’re going to assume I’m not an assassin, then you could just tell me where Ingrid is!”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing an assassin would say.”

Ferez was about to reply with ‘sod it’ and torch the place when he heard Ingrid’s voice.

“Give the man a break, Louis. If he’s here and still alive, he’s been through too much to put up with your drivel.”

Louis the barkeep cocked an eyebrow and stepped to the side, Ingrid appearing where he’d been standing a moment prior.

“I won’t lie, Ferez. I didn’t expect you to live long enough for us to escape, let alone live at all.”

“What can I say?” Ferez said, tugging the lip of his hood and smiling. “I’m not the youngest Adept in the history of my college for no reason.”

“Yeah, I heard you give amazing blowjobs, but what’s that got to do with this?”

“Fuck you, Ingrid. I saved your life after you threatened to end mine. A little gratitude wouldn’t go astray.”

“Really? I’m supposed to think that was altruism? DuBois is more than you can handle alone, and Leo is about as useful as a working girl in an Aetherial convent. You need me back up to strength and at your side to make good on your contract.”

“It’s not a contract, it’s a Writ of Termination-“

“It’s a fucking contract, Ferez. You’re no better than the arseholes out there. But I’m not here to judge, and he’s personally raised my ire now, so I’ll help you take him down. But first things first, I need to recover. Get your arse into the cellar and get some sleep. Louis can cover for us till morning, then we’ll figure out a game plan.”

Ferez glared. This was not the triumphant return he’d expected, but she was right.

It was at least a little altruistic, he thought as he followed Ingrid down through the trick floor and into the darkened cellar. And it was definitely impressive either way.

He might not have ‘won’ his first brush with DuBois, but he’d survived, and that meant the rogue mage was fallible. He could bring this bastard down, and when he did? People would definitely know his name.