“You,” growled Durran. “All of you. Before the battle is even finished, you devolve into base vultures. You pick at a carcass still warm, still pumping blood.” He looked about the crowd. “You paint me as a monster with the direction of some snake merchant, who puts forth his own claim to the city in the same breath.”

The people beneath Titus rose their voices, but Durran raised his own volume, drowning them out. “I thought to help people. The purest motivation, devoid of politics, of ambition. I left the tribes, saw the people of Sethia suffering… and I knew that something had to be done, even if it cost me my future in the tribe.” Durran spread his arms out, and his wyvern rose him up higher. “It seems, though, that good intentions are always marred by opportunists. I should have known better.

“So go forth,” Durran continued, waving his hands dismissively. “Go into your ‘new age,’ striving for a better future, led by men like Titus who butcher your brothers and sisters to frame another. I’ll have no part of this anymore, even if you beg. But I won’t stand here and let anyone accuse me of wrongdoing.”

“Durran..!” Boarmask called out.

“Forget it,” Durran shook his head. “Titus. If there’s one thing we agree on, it’s that my people offer no future for the desert. But you… you are no different than the Brandback buried in the sand, luring people in with promise of an oasis only to swallow them whole. I won’t endanger myself to save fools—not any longer.”

Durran strode down the back of his wyvern’s neck. People shouted at him and threw things.

Titus made a hand signal, and Galamon tensed, grasping Argrave’s shoulder to remind him of the archers. Argrave knew that Titus, ruthless as he was, wouldn’t remain content in allowing his largest opponent to simply walk away. Thinking desperately, Argrave willed the electric eels he’d summoned earlier away from his person until they hovered above the belltower Titus stood atop. It was a conspicuous move, but Argrave felt no other option.

“Durran,” Argrave called out, voice tight. “One of the men with me is injured—Corentin. I think I’ll need you to give them a ride… for safety,” he alluded.

Argrave pointed to the roofs where the archers watched, and Durran, with a higher vantage point, spotted them and caught on quickly.

“Fine,” he said, acting bitter. “Hurry things along. If I see these snakes any longer, I might vomit.”

Argrave locked eyes with Titus. The two held their gaze for a long while. Argrave spread his arms out, letting the electric eels dance a little faster. Eventually, the dye merchant lowered his hands, and Galamon’s tense grip slackened. The archers soon slid down the roof quietly and jumped off. Argrave called back his eels, though kept Titus’ position in mind.

“…the bodies,” Florimund spoke up. “They need to be delivered home. I don’t wish to leave them in the open sun. Corentin—you should go with. I’ll stay. I need to speak for my people, should the need arise.”

“I can bring the bodies,” Durran said, gaze distant. “But not much else.”

“We can walk back to Otraccia,” Argrave suggested. “Sorry to impose, Durran, but… can you help them out?”

“Might not be welcome home, anymore,” Durran noted, keeping his wyvern steady as he stared out across the crowd with cold eyes. “Otraccia is as fine a place to go as any.” Durran stopped scanning the crowd, setting his eyes on Boarmask. “And what will you do?”

“My business here is not yet done,” Boarmask said simply. “But I won’t act rashly. Not yet. I refuse to make things worse. So go… Durran, Argrave.” The masked knight looked to him as he mentioned his name. “You rather resemble your brother… though much skinnier,” the masked knight noted.

Argrave didn’t know how to respond to that for a time, but eventually he managed, “Hopefully a lot less heartless.”

“I don’t know.” Boarmask shook his head. “Time will make that clear.”

“That’s true… Rolf,” Argrave said the man’s real name, then walked away, content to leave him unsettled. As Argrave left, Boarmask never tore his gaze away from his departure, stunned.

#####

“Now you see the merit of your help,” Garm noted as they walked across the warm sand. “You leave hated, unwanted. You extend your hand only to have it bitten. If people find you have a heart of gold, they won’t admire it. They’ll mine it until every vein of gold is dry, leaving you only with a withered husk of stone.”

Argrave trod up the dunes silently, turning to look back at Sethia. The place was badly flooded and largely ruined. Galamon walked with them, unfocused, while Anneliese led them, her expression indiscernible.

“You sure know how to cheer everyone up, Garm,” Argrave finally responded, voice and gaze both distant. He thought back to the battle against the Lord of Silver. “How’s your soul?”

“My soul?” Garm repeated, confused.

“Spare me the act,” Argrave turned from Sethia, facing the head atop Galamon’s backpack. “You used [Voice of the Corrupt]. Barring the fact that’s a B-rank spell you supposedly can’t cast, I know you haven’t done any soul harvesting recently, so you must’ve used a piece of your own.”

Galamon devoted his attention to the conversation, while Garm’s black and gold eyes stayed fixed on Argrave.

“The proof,” Garm finally said. Argrave raised a brow in the silence that followed. “You’ve given plenty proof.”

“About Gerechtigkeit?”

“What are you, exactly?” Garm asked. “The things you know… I have no choice but to acknowledge it. You’re not an extrasensory of some kind—it seems you have a base of knowledge to fall back on. What is it?”

Argrave said nothing, thinking of how to answer this. Garm continued his inquiries. “You mentioned avatars… and other strange, convoluted things. Are you the hand of some god? A prophet? I certainly don’t see you kneel and pray at any time, so it’s doubtful.”

“You’re willing to admit, then, that I’m telling the truth?” Argrave stepped a little closer.

Garm’s eyes followed Argrave. “My soul… yes, I used some of my soul. Much of it was to save myself. I die with you, in case you forget.”

“I asked that question a minute ago, and you answer it now?” Argrave shook his head.

“I’m making a point. It’s an analogy,” Garm closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened once more, they seemed fiercer, somehow. “I’m a walking… damn,” he trailed off, recognizing he used the wrong word. “I embody a contradiction.”

“Embody,” Argrave repeated. “Even that word is a bit ill-fit—”

“You think I’m not aware I live only because of your party’s generosity?” Garm interrupted, voice cold. “My existence can only be sustained by selflessness, yet I preach constantly about the virtue of self-importance.”

“We brokered an agreement,” Anneliese said. “The others agreed. It—”

“A deal maintained only because you people are stupid enough to keep your word,” Garm butted in once more, then laughed. It was a bitter, slow chuckle, that slowly trailed off. “I always found the Veidimen foreign. A people who value contracts, honor, loyalty, above even their own life. It seemed ridiculous. Yet here we are. Excluding one notable exception that happened today, my presence has only hindered you. Still, you keep me around.”

Argrave crossed his arms. “Yeah, we keep you around. You think we shouldn’t? I don’t know as much as I want, but even the Order of the Rose wasn’t this… absolutist, shall we say, about these things.”

Garm lowered his gaze to the sand below. “It’s a personal philosophy, not a cultural one. I’ll spare you my tale of woe—I don’t care to relive it by telling it to others,” he raised his gaze back to Argrave. “But every time I tried to be generous… I was disappointed.” He laughed through his nose, then added, “Even landing as I am… the man who made me this way… I taught him. Hah!”

Garm laughed as though it was the funniest thing in the world, repeating the line, ‘I taught him.’

“I helped him devise the theory that makes you three drag me about as the burden I am. I was on a selfish streak until that point, but then I decided to be golden hearted once again. Look at me now.”

“You’re alive,” Argrave said simply. “He isn’t.”

Garm sighed. “I know. Disappointing in some ways, oddly comforting in others. But the point is this.” Garm’s brows furrowed. “It’s hard for me to muster the will to do something that doesn’t benefit me. Not after what I’ve been through.”

“But…” Anneliese prompted him, catching he had more to say.

“But that boy, Durran,” Garm began. “He reminds me of myself. Same sense of humor. And he projects that very same disappointment I feel. That… coupled with how you fools have treated me… I don’t know,” the trailed off, taking a pause to regather his thoughts. “All I can do is think—I’m more brain than skin. And I’ve been doing much thinking.”

Garm’s gaze jumped between the three of them. “I’d like to ask a favor. I want to talk to Durran. You said a while ago you want him as an ally. Maybe I can make that happen. Almost… like confronting myself, in a manner of speaking. But… and though I loathe to say it… if you can give me this last bit of proof, if you can become Black Blooded as you claim… I’ll help you. All of you. No more holding back. I’ll cooperate. Fully.”

Argrave smiled—it felt like the first time he’d done that today. “I’m happy to hear it.”

“Don’t act like it’s earth-shattering,” Garm cautioned. “We’ve established I’m a burden who can offer very little genuine help. My magic takes months to replenish—that one spell I used set me back immeasurably.”

Anneliese raised her hand to draw attention. “Durran may not be as you think, though. His anger is not genuinely towards the people, I believe—it is towards himself. His own weakness, his own inability.”

Garm smiled knowingly. “All the more reason, then.”

#####

Galamon held his gauntlet in hand, sitting atop a rock. His arm had been cleanly severed, destroying the armor with it. It had been a difficult task to remove the flesh from the metal, but now that it was free, he could not reconnect it with the rest of his armor. It was yet another thing he needed a smith for.

They were in the oasis town of Otraccia. Argrave spoke with Durran and the southron elves—he’d practically ordered Galamon to rest, perhaps in an attempt to allow the vampire to regain his focus, put his self-loathing to bed.

“Galamon,” Anneliese interrupted, and the vampire raised his head up quickly, surprised. “I have never come this close without you noticing before. You are very disturbed.”

Galamon said nothing.

“Do you know…” she began, stepping closer. “I am the reason those slaves in Argent are dead?”

Galamon frowned at once. “Don’t comfort me with pedantry. Regardless of any mistake you might’ve—”

“Come to think of it, so is Argrave. And Garm.” She knelt down, staring at him. “We were aware of your vampirism—aware you are a hungry, bloodthirsty fiend. Yet we travel with you. We refrained from killing you.”

He stared at her, his expression still fierce.

“You see how ridiculous that sounds, no?” Anneliese said flatly. “I know you will piece yourself together, given time. But… I simply wished to contribute that to your thoughts. Everyone, it seems, is blaming themselves. Durran blames himself. Argrave blames himself. Even me… everyone feels responsible for misery around them. Like… we failed. We were found lacking.”

Galamon dropped the gauntlet he held.

“I… understand your point,” he finally said.

“Argrave relies on you. Seeing you like this makes him worry. And I do not like him to worry. That is all.” She shrugged, then rose to her feet.

“Cold words,” Galamon shook his head. “Fine. Never thought I’d be told to stop whining and suck it up.”

“That’s not—”

“Relax,” Galamon held a hand out. “Joking.” He rose to his feet, standing with a straight back. “Let’s go, then.”

Nothing more needed to be said, by Galamon’s estimation.