Sarissa paced impatiently in the antechamber.

She was in a foul humor.

She didn‘t like the place, so different from her homeland. There were no colorful rugs there, no bright sandstone, no large windows letting the light of the sun stream inside, no perfume to sweeten the air. Instead, the floors were spotless wood, and the windows tiny eyes held close by drab curtains. It was almost gloomy, with severe-looking furniture and little in the way of cheer. She had never liked to be indoor, but that place made her feel trapped.

The waiting also chafed at her. It reminded her too much of her time back in Kathreen, when she was a slave forced to obey her “master”’s every whim.

As always, remember about that period of her life did nothing but further sour her already dark humor.

She stopped her pacing at the center of the room, glaring at the two “soldiers” standing guards over her. She did so long and insistently enough to have the skinny one avert his eyes and start whistling, while the big one just looked back at her, bovine neutrality in his large eyes.

Sarissa spitefully wondered how many seconds it would take to skewer them both.

There was only one way to earn her respect: to be truly skillful in the arts of combat. Those two had performed less than pitifully in her last combat and as such their place in her ranking of consideration was just beneath the dirt.

She glared at both for some more moments, just enough to convey what exactly she thought about them. The big one’s stupid look only managed to annoy her more and she turned around with a scoff.

The only pleasing thing about those two was how casual they looked: they were stupid but not stupid enough to think they could actually contain her if it came down to a fight. Pleasing to think about but not enough to make her feel at ease. If anything, her host had probably put them there to keep her company or something, and the thought irritated her, doubly so because she was secretly glad for it. Being alone in that place would have felt dreary.

She put a hand over her bare stomach. There was an iron weight in there like her guts had been tied together in knots. A mix of eagerness, anxiety and terror. It had been there since the moment he had talked with that man and now that she was about to meet him again it was reaching its climax.

She dreaded that meeting almost as much as she was eager for it.

Don’t be pathetic, girl. Calm down.

Reproaching herself, Sarissa focused on her breathing, taking long and deep gulps of air. It helped her some, but not enough to spare the two guards from some more glaring.

The door opening jolted her out of her reverie.

The two freaky little secretaries stepped in the room.

“The Master will receive you now,” the female one said with a frown.

“Thanks for waiting!”, the male one added cheerfully.

Sarissa glared at the first and tried her best to be angry at the latter. Failing badly. There was something in that little guy’s smile that was just infectious. At that moment, it only made her angrier.

“About time,” she grumbled irritably, shouldering her way past both and into the room beyond, ignoring the outraged gasp from the female one.

The other room was just as drab and enclosed as the one she had been pacing in. But she barely gave any attention to it. All her focus immediately went to the man himself, sitting behind a large desk.

He was scribbling on some papers, looking sternly busy.

The memory she had of him, of a masked man speaking with the weight of destiny, was nowhere to be seen. What stood before her was a robust old man, almost unremarkable in his mondanità, with nothing of the pressure she had felt.

It was… disappointing.

She was just thinking that, when he threw a quick glance toward her, eyes flashing.

Her heart trembled. There was understanding there, far more than she had ever seen directed her way.

Any disappointment disappeared immediately. Like the first time she had laid eyes upon him, she felt her chest constrict, her breath stifled. The weight of destiny pressed over her.

Trying to hide her turmoil, she glanced at the door. With a quick gesture, she slammed it shut, so that they were alone in the room. Ignoring the muffled protests from outside, she locked it, then gave him a challenging look. What about now?

He ignored her, keeping on writing like nothing.

That threw her completely out of balance. She was used at powerful men nipping at her heels, outraged at her “arrogance”, scared by her prowess. Being ignored like that was a first, and she found the last of her patience snap.

Baring her teeth, she whipped out her spear and lunged. In the time her heart took to beat once she had traversed the entirety of the room, reaching the desk. The point of her spear stopped an inch away from his face.

“Start talking,” she hissed.

Satisfyingly for her, his hand stopped. Impassive, he took a look at gleaming steel close by, then at her face. Then, he returned to his writing.

Sarissa watched him, dumbfounded.

“I will ask you to stop acting so childish,” he said without looking at her.

Sarissa’s eyes widened. Childish? Childish?!?

“You seem to have reneged upon our agreement,” he commented grimly, cutting her off a moment before outraged words left her mouth.

“I didn’t!” She protested.

He glanced up at her, past the point of her spear like it wasn’t even there, eyes flashing. “Then stop being a baby and let’s talk like adults.”

She glared at him, furious and at a loss. Nobody had ever disregarded the violence she could inflict so carelessly. And what would wounding him accomplish anyway? She needed him to talk…

With a mighty effort, she lowered her weapon. Still, she wasn’t done. In the last act of defiance, she marched at the windows. A single movement of her spear and the curtains fell in pieces, allowing the light of the day inside. Then, she marched to the chair already prepared for her, sat down, and heavily propped her feet on the desk, ignoring the squished documents.

The man, Cartus that was his name, looked with undisguised disapproval. She just smirked at him. Finally, she got something out of that man-shaped rock.

For some moments, the only sound in the room was the pen scribbling over the paper.

Sarissa was already losing her patience when he finally spoke.

“You’re from Kathreen.”

She almost fell to the floor.

“How the hell do you know that?” She asked sharply, her hand going to her spear.

Her homeland was incredibly far from this wretched piece of land. Nobody should know about it, less alone connect her to it and its customs. Her clothes weren’t enough of a giveaway.

“I noticed the tattoo,” he said, giving a quick gesture with his pen toward her chest. “You’d be using Kathliota only if you wanted to cover a possession mark, and only the people of Kathleen are barbarous enough to mark their women with it.”

Her hand strayed to her chest, where a nightingale spread her wings over her skin, half-hidden by her top.

The Kathliota, the Ink of Pain; she remembered its bite like it was only yesterday that his brothers forced her beneath the Naiure’s stained hands, to have her marked as a possession. In Kathreen, women were just that, commodities to be exchanged and sold and used at leisure. She had hated bearing that mark of servitude just as much as she had relished feeling the ink sear her again, that time to erase it under a drawing of her choosing.

She looked at him, daring him to pity her, to look at her like she was a little lost lamb. If he did, Gods help her, she would drive her spear into his guts, agreement be damned.

He didn’t.

There wasn’t a shred of pity in the look he regarded her with, only grim comprehension and acceptance.

Nobody had ever watched her like this like they knew exactly what she had gone through and what she had been ready to do to escape. No judgment, no pity, only grim acceptance.

It made the hatred for his knowledge about that part of her life a bit less vicious.

She was glad when he turned back to his paper. The long silence that came after helped her to regain some form of balance.

Eventually, he put down his pen, stacked the documents in a regular pile, and, crossing his fingers on the desk, gave her his undivided attention.

As those eyes laid over her, she felt her head spin for a moment. A flash of destiny rumbled through her mind, disappearing as quickly as it had come. It left her mouth buzzing with tastes, some known some unknown. The harmonious song of a nightingale echoed in her ears.

“Destiny,” he said. “You chase it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin defiantly.

Cartus leaned a cheek on his fingers, looking interested. “Who put you on this path?”

Her defiance mixed with unbridled pride. “I am a daughter of Ashaak, the Silver Nightingale.”

She peered intently at him, eagerly searching for signs of astonishment or reverential awe.

Nothing. The man just gave her a faintly amused smile.

“I had many dealings with Gods and their children,” he explained. “I fear that the title alone isn’t enough to rouse my surprise anymore.”

That astonished her. Many dealing with the Gods? Who in the nine hells was this man?

He watched him with wariness, wondering if she was being made fun of. But no, it was impossible. Her mother had made her presence known at this man’s appearance. That couldn’t be counterfeited.

Who was this man?

“I am Usshari,” she said, pushing away her doubts.

Cartus nodded slowly. “A Seeker of Perfection,” he said. “How peculiar. It was your search for the Last Song that carried you so far from home?”

Sarissa decided not to be surprised at his knowledge. That man seemed to know so much already.

The Usshari were the children of Ashaak, her chosen warriors. In her name, they followed the path of arms, seeking to reach absolute perfection with their weapon of choice. Some were vagrants, heeding the voice of their Goddess wherever it carried them, led both to those challenges that would improve their skills and to whatever service their patron asked of them. Others were guardians, protecting places holy to Ashaak while refining their skills, even acting as masters for other Seekers that came to them.

No matter what they did, they all chased the Last Song: the moment of absolute martial skill where Ashaak herself would appear to them, that instant where Truth and Perfection would merge and their souls would soar into the embrace of their Goddess.

Just thinking about it set a fire burning in Sarissa’s breast.

“My life for the Usshari Path,” she said with deep conviction.

Cartus nodded solemnly. The comprehension she saw on his stark features surprised her. Nobody had ever accepted her conviction so earnestly, seem to understand them so deeply…

“And the visions brought you to me,” he said.

Sarissa hesitated, wondering if it was wise to share everything. She pushed back the thought a moment later. There could be no half-truth in this matter. It was too important.

“My Lady told me that you’re connected with my Path,” she said, steadying herself. “I don’t know how or in what way. The only thing i know is that you’re instrumental to it, no,” her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You’re fundamental.”

She glared insistently at him, a part of her expecting him to explain what his role was to be.

But of course, the know-it-all had to let her down just when she would have welcomed some unexpected knowledge.

“Very interesting,” he mused, stroking his chin.

She fumed but said nothing. She knew better than to question her Mother, but still she didn’t like having to trust someone with something so important. In fact, she hated it.

“So Atlanta sent one of hers to me…” He said, looking like he was thinking out loud.

Sarissa glanced irritably at him.

“Who’re you talking about? I answer only to Ashaak.”

“Oh, yes,” he mumbled. “Your Goddess has another name in this land. Here she’s called Atlanta, and she shares dominion over war with her brother.”

Sarissa looked up sharply. “My Mother needs no man dragging her down.”

Amusement flashed in Cartus’ gray eyes. “I am sure you’ll be happier at finding out the details on your own than hearing it from me.”

Sarissa glared at him. “Damn straight,” she mumbled eventually. She would get to the bottom of this.

“That said, to resolve this situation.” Cartus drummed his fingers on the desk’s wooden surface. “It’s obvious that the answers that you seek won’t present themselves in a brief period. You’ll need a place to stay, preferably close to me.”

Wary of where that was going, Sarissa nodded slowly

“I’ll allow you to stay here,” he said. His tone turned stern. “But you’ll have to pull your weight. I won’t let you access to my person if you just laze about.” He eyed her spear. “I am just in need of an instructor for my guards. You can do that. I’ll pay you well and even provide lodging.”

The speed with which the old man was taking arrangements left her lightheaded.

“Wait a moment now!” She protested, jumping at her feet. “I don’t care about any of that! This is not about… jobs!” She said that word like it was poison. “It’s my destiny! My fate!”

Reducing what was the core of her life to… to money and lodging felt wrong on a fundamental level. She hadn’t traversed half of the world for this! She had come in search of martial perfection!

Annoyance appeared on Cartus’ wooden face.

“Children,” he grumbled. “Always expecting things to happen right away. Never a moment of patience.” He frowned at her. “What else do you want to do? Sit around, waiting for Ashaak to drop enlightenment on your head? Your journey here was only the first stretch of the path, young girl, and what remains is made 9 parts of day after day, bread and house, and only the remaining one of heroic frippery.”

That took the wind out of her sails.

She glared angrily at him, refusing to accept that he was right.

It’s just… she had walked so much, traveled to another world entirely for all she cared… for this?

It wasn’t right!

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she hissed between clenched teeth, her fingers clenching and unclenching around her spear’s shaft.

Those words provoked an incredible transformation in Cartus.

The old man’s eyes narrowed into two slits, and he seemed to grow taller. All the commonness bled away from him as the air in the room became heavy.

Eyes wide, Sarissa found herself watching another man, one that had nothing of the stern old man she had seen until then, one that stood like a statue carved out of marble.

Her throat immediately ran dry.

“Child.” His voice was like the rumble of thunder in the distance. “I know more about destiny than you could ever hope to. For it, I’ve lost more than you’ve ever known.”

He looked at her, a faint glow making his eyes into hot coals. Even with the light streaming in from windows, the air seemed to take a dark sheen around his head, like a nimbus of darkness enveloped it.

Sarissa swallowed. She would have loved to reply smartly but words failed her. The best she managed was to avert her eyes with a scoff.

“You can only have faith now,” he said. “Take this job and have the patience or turn away. That‘s your choice.”

Sarissa gritted her teeth. There was no turning back. Ever. The choice was only one.

As the door slammed shut behind the Hero so hard that it almost flew off its hinges, Gorren stood musing at his desk.

“What an intriguing gift,” he mumbled.

How many things could be made with a Hero’s blood? How many wonderful reinforcements to his creations could he have access at? That magnificent medium to divinity…

To kill her for it? No, it couldn’t be done. A Hero wasn’t to be killed lightly, not if one wanted to avoid her divine parent’s displeasure. And anyway, he could get what he needed without having to kill her.

Pragmatism aside, a fellow Seeker? He had nothing but respect for her kind, even if they were muscleheads rather than researchers.

“If only she wasn’t so childish…”

He rolled his eyes. Kids…

It didn’t matter. She would serve nicely.

He stood up and walked around the desk, thinking as he watched his fingers slid over the wood.

A question remained: why had Atlanta sent him one of her daughters?

He stood thinking for a moment. Then, he went to a side locker. Opening it, he took out a single, black candle. Going back to the desk, he put it on the wooden surface. A small flame flickered out of his fingers as he lit it. The wick flickered and twisted like a small snake as it burned, giving off a flame that flickered with obsidian reflexes, projecting eerily dancing shadows on the desk.

Gorren clasped his hands together in front of his chest and focused. From the depth of his heart, he called and prayed.

“You called?”

He opened his eyes and turned.

Nama was there, her masked visage giving off a faint curiosity. The light didn’t bend around her as much as it died into her dark figure, sinking into the black of her cloak like water into a pit. The air around her shimmered with dark fragments that danced briefly only to disappear.

“Maybe i am giving you too much attention,” the Goddess said with dry humor. “Now you call me like i am at your beck and call.”

Gorren stood tall in front of her. “I respected the etiquette, haven’t i?” He pointed out. “A small sacrifice and a prayer for an audience.”

“Ah, words and movements.” Her bony hand moved in a dismissive gesture. “It’s what in the heart that matters. And when it comes to that you have to be the worst petitioner I’ve ever seen.” Another chuckle.

Gorren remained silent. He wasn’t going to deny that there was little faith in the Gods in his heart. Most of his devotion went to one and only one.

“This is about the child, i imagine.” She tilted her head. “What makes you think i’ll answer?”

Gorren felt a flicker of annoyance, but he tramped it down. “Can’t you?”

She touched her mask with a bony finger, looking in thought for a moment. Eventually, she shrugged. “Why not? It’s a peripheral matter after all.”

The surge of pleased surprise almost managed to reach his face. Almost. He clamped down on it just in time.

“Name your price,” he said, letting his eagerness spill forth. Finally! Some answers!

“My,” she chuckled. “You’ll never learn what’s the appropriate way to speak to a God is, do you?”

Gorren stiffened but stood his ground.

“Alright, since you‘re asking so gently.” Nama shrugged. “There’s a nice little temple on the outskirts of this city. It’s some time that i can’t smell the smoke coming from it though. How about you remedy that? Ten black sheep would do just fine.”

“Done.”

“And the ritual drum.“ Nama’s voice became almost dreamy. “Ah, it’s some time i don’t get a good drink hearing that.”

“Done,” Gorren repeated. “Now speak.”

She turned at him. “All business. Always all business. Maybe i should ask you a nice smile as well.” Her tone was teasing.

Gorren set his jaw.

“Alright alright,” she raised a hand in mock surrender. “Ask away.”

Gorren had to stop himself from sighing in relief.

“What’s Atlanta’s intentions?” He asked eagerly.

“She hopes,” was Nama’s simple reply.

“Hope for what?”

“For her child to reach the Last, of course. I told you, didn’t i? You’re a vortex of fate. Those that walk with you are bound to be caught into it. And what better blade than the one tempered from the harshest fire?”

Gorren roiled those words in his mind, catching their implications. “That’s a great favor for someone so young.”

Nama shrugged. “Ashaak has always had a soft spot for young rebels like her.”

Gorren nodded slowly. Only a war god would consider a great favor putting his child on the line of fire.

“Is there another reason?”

“Actually, yeah.” Nama touched her mask with a finger. “To help you.”

Gorren stiffened. “To… help me?”

“You will need it.” Nama chuckled.

Gorren looked at her, mind racing.

“It’s the limitations you talked about,” he said after a moment. “The Gods can’t act directly against the Flaming Light and so they send one of their children to help me against it. Or they won’t?” He stepped toward her. “What is your relationship with that thing? Why won’t the Gods oppose it directly?”

Nama’s dry chuckle echoed in the room. “I’ve always known you were quick. I probably said too much already.”

Frustration surged in Gorren. Just when he was hoping to finally get some answers!

For a moment, he stood his ground, frustration pushing for him to demand.

“There are limitations when it comes to that thing,” Nama said. “We don’t want to attract undue attention, do we?”

Gorren froze. There were beings, powerful beings that could feel when their name was pronounced. Were the Gods trying to avoid attracting his notice?

That did it. He couldn’t press.

With a snarl, he called for his two assistants.

Trich and Krik entered right away. Strangely, the female’s usually impeccable hair was all tousled and disheveled. She was red like a tomato and looked ready to explode at any moment.

“The spear girl,” Krik explained as Gorren gave him an inquisitive look. The male kept throwing his counterpart glances mixed with concern and wariness. “She was kinda angry when she got out of here and tousled her a bit.”

Gorren repressed the need to roll his eyes. Babies…

“Have my coach prepared,” he grumbled. “There are places i need to be.”

The duo quickly scurried out of the study to have the Master’s orders executed.

The coach waited in the shed adjacent to the mansion, already primed and ready for moving at a moment’s notice.

“Hey, Prim,” Krik called at the hatted man sitting at the entrance while Trich mumbled bad things under her breath. “Mount up. The Master needs some stuff done.”

The coarse-looking servant took a shabby pipe out of his mouth.

“First you’ll have to tell that gal to get her pets off.”

“What gal?” Trich stopped her flow of profanities to frown at him.

The driver just nodded toward the shed.

The duo exchanged a look, then hurried inside.

“Dara?” Krik said in surprise, recognizing the priestess’ slender form beside the coach.

Dara turned to them with a somewhat apologetic expression.

“Have the Master need of the coach?” She asked. Then, at Krik’s quick nod, she turned serious: “I’ll have it freed immediately.”

“What do you mean with freed?” Krik asked, curious.

Following her gesture, they turned their attention on the coach itself. There was a big bundle of fur on the driver’s seat. Three Dire rats were paw-deep in it, sniffing at it excitedly.

As they watched, the bundle moved and uncoiled. Trich gasped. Krik jumped.

The rat had to be the size of a large wolf, his body lean and muscular under a tight coat of fur. Two massive incisors jutted out of his muzzle, just above an over-sized jaw that looked strong enough to bite through stone. A rope-like tail emerged from the fur to swish lazily into the air as two red eyes peered impassively at the duo.

“Holy shit, Dara,” Krik said in awe, Trich surreptitiously leaning against him. “You got a Doomrat now? I thought they avoided the cities!”

The priestess smiled somewhat shyly. “My Lady favors me. Her creature seeks me out.”

“Yeah yeah, alright,” Trich said hurriedly, glancing warily at the creature. “Get that oversized rodent off Master’s coach now. Master has urgent business to do.”

Watching her, the Doomrat clacked his teeth together. Trich jumped and hid behind Krik, only to glare at him when the male laughed.

“Tell that to his friends.”

The duo turned. Tur was just getting out from beneath the coach, a dire rat ducked underneath his armpit.

“These little guys have been going crazy since the big one showed up.” The moment he put down the rat, he darted to join his fellows. The smaller rodents enthusiastically swarmed their bigger counterpart, sniffing and grooming his fur. The Doomrat chittered quietly in appreciation, his long tail coiling around his smaller brethren.

“They love him,” Dara said gently. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Tur as he busied himself with keeping the rats from darting away once again.

Krik noticed, and grinned.

“Yeah, whatever.” Trich’s barking broke the moment. “Master still needs the coach, so get those rodents out of there. Pronto!”

“Relaaaaaax.”

“Shut up!”