The cloak’s Lesser Mild Climate enchantment helped little while Sorath hiked up an easy slope between mountain faces. He glanced down a cliff, couldn’t see the bottom, but Telepathy revealed to him pockets of wandering concentrated mana, almost alive. Ice Elementals. And inside holes and crevices were various sleeping rodents and birds.

Gwyn whispered, “Sense any Gnolls or Madrogs down there?”

“Only elementals.”

“Unlucky.”

With Freya’s entry grayed out, they had been hiking for hours as a party of two. Now they were trudging several leagues north of their mining settlement, their boots crunching down onto rocky ice and snow. The further they journeyed, the fiercer snow and wind lashed them, as though protecting those damned Gnolls. If it weren’t for Gwyn’s Rejuvenation aura, Sorath face would be bloody and frostbitten, not a fun experience to say the least. He had seen before what ice magics could do.

A twinkle over the north-east horizon caught his eye. Likely nothing—it fell over mountain peaks.

A wide parting between mountains was Slateward Passage, and beyond that was the great Lake Desiric. Ten leagues north of the Passage, Bluefish Town, sitting at a key choke point on the map, was due to advance to City tier. The only thing holding them back was faction-wide resource shortages, worsening by the month.

Maybe Cyesten was going to collapse at this rate. Maybe the faction had grown too large for its own good, and these were the early warning signs for coming a dark age. An age of suffering and death. These thoughts, to Sorath, weren’t so disturbing as he was trying to tell himself. It was no longer his problem. Cyesten was no longer his faction, for they had kicked him while he had been sleeping. He was now an outlaw. He would trigger alarms simply by stepping over their faction line. Bounty hunters would soon be coming after him.

Again, a bluish-white twinkle ascended then fell. That had to be a distress signal. From either Greenwood or Bluefish folk. Which meant Cyesten’s Royal Guard should already be on the way, at minimum a full party of eight including an Arcane Mage with Group Recall.

But word always travelled quickly throughout the faction, news of Magnair’s failure, danger in the eastern wilderness. The Royal Guard may just not be up for a night time rescue.

A third twinkle shot into the clouds.

Curiosity and minor concern eddied in Gwyn’s mana. Only for a second. She asked, “Do you want to go see what’s happening over there?”

Waning snowfall under moonlight made it difficult to judge distances. His lazy estimate put the signal at a few dozen leagues away originating from somewhere deep in Greenwood Spine. Those mountains were as almost difficult to traverse as the Red Crags. Almost.

Gwyn’s fingers waved in front of him. “Sora?”

“There’s no point. Unless we need recruits?”

“We always need recruits,” she happily said. “Mages most of all. Like Valia.”

Yes, that was the case. He hadn’t seen a single Mage among their ranks and only a handful of Priests and Shamans. Mages were expensive to train, needing much infrastructure locked behind faction tech, squishier than supports since they couldn’t heal themselves. Keeping a population of Mages alive and happy out here was going to be a divine headache.

He was about to speak as muddy, vile mana entered his sense. His mind conjured an accompanying rotten, musky stench. He had felt this vomit-inducing mana many times when Gnolls had spawned near Greenwood.

Stepping around fallen rock and hexagonal columns, he pinged Gwyn to follow. They shimmered out of view. Moonlight dimmed. Snowfall ceased. A cave entrance was tucked away into a well-covered alcove. Their ambient mana kept the vicinity clear of their tracks. Most people would’ve missed them. No wonder Tygett hadn’t found this; he wasn’t incompetent.

Gnolls were semi-nocturnal beasts akin to humanoid rats but not really, and they behaved exactly like giant rats with the intelligence of the smartest wolves. Sometimes they would group up into coordinated hunting packs. Most times they fought among themselves.

In front of the cave, a pair of Gnolls were feasting on a boar’s shredded corpse in slow motion. Curved, long fingernails ripped into bloody flesh and exposed entrails. Once again, that nose peg came in handy.

Sorath unsheathed Vetara’s Reckoning.

Gwyn was quicker, fired two jade bolts that pierced their skulls. No squealing. Instant death. Clean kills.

Their bodies were larger than usual, and slingshots were tied to their loincloths. They had been here for some time, a few weeks to a few months. They would evolve again after another few months; then they would be a real challenge. At this stage, however, final-year students at Greenwood School of Adventuring could take care of this infestation.

Back in Perfect Stealth, they hurried down the cave, down a narrow tunnel on slippery uneven ground. Thirty strides in, many Gnolls fuzzed into sensing range, smeared into a contiguous smudge behind dense rock. There were at least fifty of them.

Sorath stumbled into a cavern over a hundred strides deep and fifty high. Gemrock and azure crystals shined down on a dozen mud brick huts of impressive construction. Impressive for divinely cursed beast-men. Half-eaten animal corpses were lying about around a central stockpile of mud bricks and corpses. More than one human body was among the boars, hyenas, rabbits, and a few mountain lions. Their bodies were mauled and torn and smashed, their faces barely recognizable. Two males. One female.

Sorath squeezed Gwyn’s hand, walked past a few sleeping Gnolls, and whispered as quietly as possible, “Are either of them Lafan?”

She solemnly said, “I don’t think so.”

“Do you think they already ate him?”

She didn’t answer, her mana swishing in affirmation. The sight of these bodies dampened her usual cheerful mood. These three had been under her watch, and she had failed them, though she wasn’t crying over the loss. In fact, she didn’t care much at all.

“Did you know them well?” he asked.

“Not really.” Truth.

“I see these two men were prisoners,” he stated, judging by their baggy linen outfits. However, the woman was young and fit. Much of her shoulder-length brunette hair had been ripped from the scalp. Her face was beyond ruined, worse of the three. He couldn’t look for more than a few seconds.

Gwyn mumbled, “I’m not sure who the dark-haired man is, but the bald man’s name is Admon. He was an unremarkable Rogue. I captured him near our Farms. He was on a mission for Hyera to sabotage our food supply. He would’ve succeeded if I hadn’t been there—much like you, Sora. Strange how differently you two turned out.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “Strange indeed.”

“So remember…” Her fingernails dug into his palm. “If you try to run off, you might end up just like this.” Her tone was far too light-hearted.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Make sure you do.” She sighed. “Anyway, the woman’s name is Cerellia. She’s wanted for tens of burglaries, but we took her in, gave her a second chance. She really did try to change for the better, at first, but the harsh life slowly nibbled away at her sanity. Last month she snapped at one of our Guards, stabbed him, then ran off. You Humans can be so tricky to work with.”

He couldn’t disagree. He breathed through chuckles. “Let’s get on with this. Do you want to just ult them?”

“That’d be very lazy of me.” She hummed in indecision. “But it’s much safer, I agree.” She held her wand vertically in front of her hood, rapidly chanting rhyming lines in the divine language. Her body’s outline took on a green hue, then grew vines shedding thousands upon thousands of razor-sharp leaves.

A hurricane of jade exterminated these Gnolls. Their howls and shrieks were lost to his ears; he was lost in this display of nature magic, overwhelming his sixth sense with serene vigor. He would never grow tired of this ultimate skill, her signature move.

For the next half hour, they searched destroyed huts for dragonhide and other bodies, but they found neither. No loot gems. No Lafan Madrog. Nothing. Too bad. Plus all this meat wasn’t palatable, diseased and rotten thanks to these rats. With a hundred decaying corpses in one location, dark mana was thick in the air. True monstrosities could spawn, albeit extremely unlikely. These corpses needed to be burned—a job for a certain Fire Mage.

Time to go win her over.

On the way back, the dawn sun broke over the Red Crags, lighting up a valley blanketed under a layer of white fluff. Ponds and streams were frozen. Chunky ice elements were wandering among sparse trees. The sky was more blue than gray, for now. This was a scene from northern Cyesten during winter. Sorath couldn’t imagine how bad it was up there right now. Greenwood must be in chaos, hopefully not under siege.

They found Tygett waiting in front of the gate house, true to his word. Fatigue swayed his mana. To Gwyn he slowly asked, “Did you find their burrow?”

Sorath turned off Temporal Haste before she said, “We did. They’re gone now.”

Tygett grinned, showing a chipped front tooth. “Good news for once.”

“For once?” Sorath asked.

“The past Autumn has been difficult for us,” Tygett said in a patient, fatherly voice not unlike Madrog’s. “Cyesten’s forces have clashes with ours on no less than fourteen occasions, and we have lost many good men and women. Veric Taul has refused communication since the Salt Mine depleted. Unrest is brewing in our settlements; we’ve had to exile more people every week. My optimism is stretching thin, I must say. We are no closer to establishing a faction since last winter. But I personally thank you for keeping Lady Freya and Carena safe.”

Sorath nodded politely.

Gwyn said, “All will be fine, don’t worry.”

Tygett’s lips pressed together for a moment. “You have my utmost confidence, as always. Excuse me, I have much to do.” He walked through the gatehouse.

Sorath followed Gwyn without her Stealth active. Heads turned, first glancing at her in mostly respect then at him in a range of curiosity, suspicion, and confusion, which gradually settled into tentative acceptance. Because he was wearing a Shrouded cloak like hers, they assumed he was like her, a leader of this bandit gang. Their new lord, presumptuously.

The Elves had intended this. He was their new lord.

The responsibility of the position hit him like a slap to the cheek. These people, whether innocent or ex-criminal or prisoner, were under his watchful presence, his authority. Their failures would be his failures, and his failures would have grave consequences. They would look up to him for security and answers and guidance. Yet he, Psionic Hexblade Sorath Adanell, was only an eighteen-year-old young man just as lost in this damned world as they were.

As they came to the Jail, Gwyn teased, “You’re walking like you have wooden limbs. What’s wrong?”

“This cloak.”

“Not warm enough?”

He softly coughed. “Only you and Freya wear cloaks like this. Just you two?”

“Yep. Well, three of us now.”

“Is it a rule?”

“Not really, but as you know, the Shrouded enchantment is highly advanced. I’m the only one here who can craft these cloaks, so…” She was smug.

He held her shoulders. “So people will start calling me Lord Adanell. Are you sure you want that?”

“Why not? You said to Freya you wanted a place in her court. Are you having second thoughts?” She poked his chest.

“No, it’s— It’s fine. I’ll do my best.”

She hugged him in a crushing embrace. “I know you will. Like right now. Don’t creep out Valia, alright? We really need her to warm up to us.”

“Sure.” What could go wrong?