Arrin squinted into the campfire through Ambrose’s eyes. They were camped in the Heartwoods, not far from the Crossroads. The hooting of night birds and the buzzing of insects joined the crackling of the fire. Davu sat with his back against a tree.

“You are silent, friend,” the Umbran said. “What troubles you?”

“Your… show,” Ambrose began. “It was smart of you to distract them while you built each well. The promise of silver stays their hand, and those who need aid will seek you out themselves. Traveling with another Arcadian also helps build trust, especially one wearing the Faith’s robes. But why do all this? To what end?”

“You ask as one prying for secrets.”

“I thought we were friends.”

Davu laughed, a hearty sound that echoed in the forest. “I am a friend to all, even to those who would not consider me such. Trusting a friend is another matter entirely.” His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight. “I propose a trade. You tell me of your Faith, and I will tell you of mine.”

After a moment’s pause, Ambrose spoke. “My father, Hagen, was a merchant that traded with the Isles. I myself had never set foot outside of Arcadia. He was always away, planning for better routes away from Haolan raiders and engaged with the business of his trading empire. I eventually realized it was not wealth he pursued, but power.” He grimaced. “But our line is mortalborn. And the highest position a mortal can achieve is not wealth but the faith. So when I was just a youngling, my father inducted me to the order of the Faith. I was a novice. Such was my lack of influence. There was a man. He was a prelate, one of the highest positions in the order. He wore no gold, had no guard, showed no visible wealth. Yet he was one of the most influential men in the capital, in the Empire perhaps. Where he went, others followed, others listened to his words. He asked people to be kind to one another. He spoke that everyone was blessed by the gods in their own ways. In time, the Faith feared the masses that followed his word outside of the scriptures. He was deemed a heretic. He was hanged upside down, a death sentence granted him by the arch queen. It is said it is a humane end. We all saw him pale and fade away after two days, when he finally choked from his lungs and heart crushed under his own weight." Ambrose drew a sharp exhale.

“I learned something from that man. That selflessness is not rewarded in this world. So I hid what selflessness I had left, doling it out in such meager amounts to never be caught by the very people sworn to aid their common man. That part of me died with my daughter. Perhaps it can be renewed with your Enlightening. I believe I’ve said my piece. Will you tell me yours?”

Davu stirred. “We are aware of the… acts of your previous Faith. We do not overstep their rule.”

“Thus you hide away from their order in plain sight,” Ambrose noted. “Sneaking past their reach in corners of the Empire too scattered for them to follow.”

“Their reach runs farther than you know. I shall tell you of our purpose. But first, our concept of Enlightenment. It is not some divine condition, nor religion, merely a higher understanding. We offer sanctuary, not divinity.”

“So it is a lie.”

Davu shook his head. “We merely let your people seek the truth. If that is their current understanding of it, it is not up to us to bend their perspective. They must find their own way, choose to make their own mind.”

Ambrose said softly, “Before the arch queen unified Arcadia after so many centuries, it was an age of lawlessness. Rivers flowed red, plague alongside drought and famine ravaged the people, and the mage kings and queens ruled with their fickle whims. When the monarchy was united under her reign, there was finally order. Mortalborn could live in harmony with the mageborn.”

“In such harmony,” Davu said, “there must always be one below the other.”

Ambrose shrugged. “Is it not natural that those who seek power will come to wield it? Would you give the village fool a crown and scepter and kneel before him? No, I think not. It is only natural that we have our stations. The arch queen allowed us to reach what we seek in life.”

“And what do you seek, Ambrose Quilling?”

“What I want cannot be given. Freedom is just who we give our freedom to, be it a person, a pursuit, an ideal, that holds us prisoner. I do not care enough anymore to choose.”

“Your cynicism could perhaps be cleared with further understanding. Our purpose here is to guide the Enlightened through the barrier.”

Ambrose frowned. “The Sundering? Was it your people that built it?”

Davu sighed. “It was created long ago, before even the first of my line. You know of the Mythic. What if I told you it was not the gods that brought about their end, but that they brought it upon themselves? The Mythic are our long forgotten ancestors.”

“It makes sense,” Ambrose said. “The Faith would not want us to repeat our past mistakes, not want us to know and understand what the Mythic once had. They keep their power to themselves, so that it can never be repeated.”

“But do you agree with what you’ve seen? What your Empire has done to its own people?”

“If what you’ve said is true, what other way is there for all involved? The strong will not let go of their strength, and the weak will only squander it. Why risk the chance for the Mythic’s fall to happen again?”

“Would you rather live in a prison all your life, or be free to choose your own circumstances? You may say there is no freedom, but it is easy to say for one who can choose where he walks, where he stays. Do you wish to be Enlightened, Ambrose? Even if you refuse, you may still journey with us. You will not be able to cross the barrier, however.”

Arrin felt Ambrose’s chest tighten.

“I would—”

Davu cut off his words with a raised hand. His relaxed face hardened and he stood suddenly.

“They are near,” he said.

Ambrose looked around. The surrounding trees were veiled now in shadow. The encroaching darkness closed in upon them.

“How did they get past our sensors?” Imani asked.

Davu spoke then in Umbrak, his words terse and booming.

The Umbrans circled round the camp, shoulder to shoulder. Black helmets formed upon their heads, humming and snapping into place through their magic.

“Stay near the tree,” Imani whispered. “Do not run away from the camp.”

Her black helm formed over her face and she joined the Umbran circle. They drew swords that glowed an iridescent greenish-blue. The campfire sputtered, dwindled, and then died. Ambrose’s breath was loud in the sudden quiet. Only the faint glow of the Umbran blades revealed their figures, still and unyielding.

They came then. Hooded and cloaked in shadow, daggers whispering in the dark as they flew swiftly past, one striking the tree trunk beside Ambrose. Davu shouted in their language, throwing up something overhead. A burst of blinding light flashed and Arrin felt his knees collapse, his hands covering his ringing ears, not yet drowning out the clash of metal and the throaty cries of the dying.

Fear flooded his vision with a preternatural clarity. Some of the Umbrans had fallen, not as many as the cloaked figures that had bloodied their blades, yet the darkness would not be banished.

Imani lay curled upon the earth, several shadowy figures beating and striking down on her. Ambrose darted past, picking up a fallen Umbran’s swords. They were near weightless, lighter than even his hidden dagger. He stabbed a sword into one of their backs, sliding it back out as a knife through warm butter. Some turned to him, allowing Imani to kick a man’s leg away and lift a shining sword to bury into another’s backside.

Ambrose backed away as one of the hooded figures stepped towards him. He could see it was a man, his black cloak like a deep, unfathomable blanket of shadow.

He wielded a saber and dirk. Ambrose’s eyes focused on the dagger, and that was when the saber slashed with overwhelming speed. His Umbran sword met the steel, only for his legs to be swept out from under him. The man raised his saber, only to stare down at the blade, a shimmering blue point trickling with gore, sprouting from his chest. Imani withdrew her sword, the man topping to land beside Ambrose with a wheezing gasp.

The man’s cloak was now a lifeless grey, no longer sifting with shadow. Imani shook Ambrose, her helm ebbing away, her voice bringing him from his stupor.

“Ambrose. You’re in shock. Do you—”

“I wish to be Enlightened,” he whispered, his voice growing stronger, clearer. “I wish to be Enlightened.”

“I must see to the others… you saved me.” She produced a small black seed. “Thank you.”