Jarrett sat on a log bench, close enough to enjoy the nearby bonfire, but far enough that he hoped to avoid sparks and smoke wafting his way. He sipped a cup of warm apple cider while other Vanguardians milled about, likewise enjoying the evening.

Saridian had finally given them their first proper day of spring, one that brought warmth to the earth instead of snow, so everyone was in high spirits—thus, a good opportunity to have a party in the town square. Someone had brought out a lute and was plucking a cheery tune from the other side of the fire.

The air was brisk and the moon shone brightly overhead. The fire crackled and was pleasantly warm. The wind kept blowing smoke into Jarrett’s face despite his precautionary distance, burning his nostrils. He was intent on ignoring it. Things had been good; better than they had been in quite some time.

“Where’s Morgane?” asked Lars. The skinny man took a seat next to Jarrett. “I haven’t seen her all evening.”

“Home, resting,” Jarrett said. “She was feeling under the weather.”

“That’s disappointing. She should be out here enjoying this night with the rest of us.”

Jarrett nodded, though he knew their leader took things too seriously to be able to enjoy a celebration, even when things were going as well as they were.

Lars clapped Jarrett on the back and grinned. “Well, you’re the next best thing now, aren’t you? It’s about time Morgane named you second-in-command.”

That brought a genuine smile to Jarrett’s face. “Cheers to that, friend.” They clanked their cups together, and Jarrett took a long swig, letting the cider warm his belly.

He had been the co-leader of the Vanguard in all but name until recently. The rebellion’s cause had been his life’s purpose since he’d met Morgane three years back, right as her plans were gaining momentum. Things had stagnated for the past year or so, but finally they were able to bring in a good number of new recruits.

“How are the new mages doing?” Jarrett asked. “Is training going well with them?”

Lars shrugged. “Neera is doing alright. Elden is struggling, he still has a hard time letting himself use his magic, but he’ll get there. Eventually. It takes some time, I know that well enough.”

Jarrett wasn’t a mage, but he understood. Joining the Vanguard was the best thing he’d done, but their way of life took some adjustment. He wondered if the transition was harder or easier for a mage—they’d already lived in constant danger. Joining the Vanguard only made it more purposeful.

Saridi mages either avoided using their magic, or practiced in secret at great risk to themselves. Here in Rosewood, magic was accepted openly. It was a large part of what the rebellion was fighting for. Of course, being a mage—being anyone—in this town would be a death sentence if the Vanguard and their dissent were ever discovered by the Tyrant Riordan or any of his loyalists.

That was exactly why recruiting was so difficult. The majority of the kingdom bowed easily to the god-king, whether because they believed he was right in his ways, or because they were too afraid to speak against him. The rebellion force had to be careful in seeking out those that sympathized with them, and wary of each passing traveler.

“What of the less magical recruits?” asked Lars. “Are you hammering the new warriors into shape?”

“You know it.”

“The young’ns haven’t beaten you to a pulp yet?”

Jarrett glared at Lars. “I bested Leon in a spar yesterday, so don’t send me to pasture quite yet.”

Jarrett had a decade or two on most of the Vanguard’s other fighters. In truth, he was beginning to feel old, but defeating the younger council member—one of their best swordsmen, no less—rejuvenated him.

Raised voices from two other council members caught Jarrett’s ear. He twisted around to see what the commotion was. Hera and Korene were arguing a few feet behind them. The two women were often at odds, though usually less publicly.

Korene was on patrol tonight—one of the Vanguard’s security measures. He remembered her complaining about missing the evening’s festivities. Now it seemed the patrol had come back early.

A tense atmosphere took over the crowd as more Vanguardians noticed the disturbance and began murmuring hushed conjectures to one another. Some of them surrounded Korene and the rest of the patrol, seeking answers.

Jarrett heaved himself up, and rushed over to part the crowd, waving his arms to get their focus. “Settle down. Korene, what’s going on?”

Korene tore her intense gaze away from Hera to look at Jarrett. “There’s a group camped near the town.”

“Recruits?”

“No.” Korene was firm. “Ravens.”

Jarrett strove to keep his face neutral. It would look bad if the crowd saw his excitement. “Really?”

“They want to talk to Morgane. I told them they needed to leave, but they refused,” Korene said. It was easy to see the tension in her body, a vein in her forehead pulsated. “They’ll bring too much attention if they stay.”

“Yes, of course. We don’t want Saridi military to come poking around,” Jarrett said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them.”

“They said they would only speak to Morgane.”

“Morgane is feeling unwell, so I’m close enough.”

“Honestly,” said Korene, “My vote is to take a larger group out and shoo them off. We agreed a long time ago to not work with them. It’s too risky.”

“It’s worth seeing what they want, isn’t it?” argued Hera. “All our newest recruits were directed here by them. We’re fighting a god with an army and an entire kingdom at his back, and we have an active force of what, sixty fighters, a dozen mages? We can’t afford to be picky about our allies.”

Hera’s comment was met with silence and awkward shuffling from the group at large. Her points were decent and though the Ravens had indeed sent them many new members, both recently and in the past, they weren’t popular. The Ravens’ open hostility against the Tyrant went against the secrecy that kept the Vanguard relatively safe. The Vanguard hid in plain sight, and it gave them time to build, to plan. The Ravens’ mere presence in their area threatened all of that.

Plus, the Ravens were… unorthodox. They dressed in black and wore jewelry made of bone. Actual ravens often followed them overhead, as if waiting for carrion. Anyone who had spoken to them said they were some sort of death cult, claiming that Death was a sixth god, and controlled the “cycle of souls”, or something along those lines.

Jarrett didn’t care how many gods there were, assuming they kept mortals out of their squabbles with one another. The Magus War nearly tore the continent apart, and though it ended a century ago he wasn’t convinced that the gods had ceased manipulating mortals for their own gain.

Korene was the one to break the quiet tension. “You’re being naive, Hera. Everything we have turns to nothing if we’re discovered.”

Jarrett stepped between the women. “This squabbling will get us nowhere. We need to make an informed decision, and that means speaking to the Ravens first.”

Hera nodded. “Should I fetch Morgane?”

Jarrett inhaled sharply. There was no way his leader would let him run off to the Ravens, not alone, like he needed to be. Guiltily, he was grateful that Morgane was sick this eve. “We can let her rest. I’ll see what the Ravens have to say and convene with her if the situation requires.”

“I’ll go with you,” Korene said. “I’d like to hear for myself what they want.”

Jarrett shook his head. “We have nothing to fear from the Ravens—only what consequences they may bring if they stay. I think I have the best chance of hurrying them on their way if I speak to them alone.”

“Alone?” Korene asked. “Take Hera”—she made a sour face—“if you think it’s better, or whoever, but go with someone.”

Jarrett clenched his jaw, and tried to project bravado, not his anxiety. “They wanted to speak with a leader, so I’ll go. No need to ruin anyone else’s evening.”

More than a few people looked at him dubiously, but no one argued further. The Vanguardians knew by now that Jarrett wouldn’t change his mind once he’d made a decision.

And sure, Morgane was going to give him a verbal lashing when she found out, but opportunities like this weren’t meant to be squandered.

Jarrett made sure his sword was belted tightly to his waist—on the off-chance this didn’t go as well as he hoped—and set off with a confident swagger.

He ventured out into a last moment of peace in the darkness, under the cover of the stars and the silence of the night. Following Korene’s directions, it didn’t take long for him to reach the Raven camp.

A dozen hide tents were set up on the border of the forest. Jarrett approached a cookfire, where the savory scent of stew wafted from. A few of the Ravens stopped what they were doing to stare at him. They all wore black garments, and their clothes and hair were ornamented with long, dark feathers, and carved bone decorations.

It wasn’t long until someone came to interrogate him: a girl passed off the wooden—or perhaps bone—spoon she had been using to stir the cooking pot’s contents, and approached Jarrett. As she got closer, Jarrett realized she was older than he first suspected, not a girl, but a young woman.

Her brown hair was pleated, with some sections wrapped in red string or embellished with dangling metal ornaments, bone beads, and feathers. She wore even more decorations than the other Ravens. What caught Jarrett’s eye was the bird skull she wore around her neck, at least until he noticed the mark on her face.

A gnarled scar stretched vertically from just below her left eye down to her jawline. A magebrand, though only half of one—her right cheek remained unblemished. Though Jarrett had met a decent number of mages, it was rare to find one that had escaped the grasp of Saridi soldiers.

Once marked, there was little refuge for a mage. Even if they managed to escape before their execution, they would be sheltered by few. Unless, of course, they were lucky enough to find their way to the Vanguard, or, as this woman had, the Ravens.

Jarrett waited for her to speak, but it became clear she was expecting him to make the first move. His mouth was dry. He had waited so long to speak with a Raven. He couldn’t mess this up.

“I need to speak with you,” Jarrett said.

The woman snorted. “As we told the last one, bring us Morgane, or no one at all.” Apparently, she considered this the end of the conversation, and started back toward the camp.

“Wait, please!” Jarrett’s voice cracked as he yelled out.

The woman looked over her shoulder at him, a pierced eyebrow raised. He cleared his throat and started again. “I’m connected to the Ravens. And I need information. Please.” He could tell her that he was Morgane’s second, but whatever the Raven’s wanted from the Vanguard was his secondary concern.

She turned fully around, but kept her distance. “Connected to us how?”

“Bear with me.” Jarrett took off his cowl and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He pulled down the collar to reveal the tattoo on his chest. Baring his tattoo was the only way he could think to earn her trust. He hoped the light from the fires reached far enough for her to make out the image: a black bird in flight, placed over his heart.

“So?”

“You’re a mage, right? Take a closer look.”

His lucky streak had to hold out, just a little longer. They stared at each other for a long few seconds before the woman finally walked over him. A nervous triumph ran through him. She placed two cold fingers on his tattoo and he felt the tingling probe of her magic.

“Hm,” was all she said.

“A mage once told me in passing that—”

“Come with me.”

An obstacle passed, his muscles relaxed. She led him through the camp to the tent at the heart of the temporary settlement. The woman gestured for him to enter, and he obliged. She followed him in.

Inside the tent, there was an older woman sitting cross-legged on a worn rug. Her hair was grey, and her robes were simple. In front of her was a short table, where she was sorting through a collection of herbs. The air was thick with smoke from a stick of burning incense, and the sweet smell of lavender.

The elderly Raven barely glanced up from her work. “Fae, what have you dragged into my tent? I told you I wanted their leader, who is a woman named Morgane, is it not?”

The woman shrugged. “I thought you might find him interesting.” She nodded to Jarrett. “Show her the tattoo.”

Jarrett revealed the black bird again. The elderly woman paused her work to look him up and down with an evaluating eye. She sighed and waved a hand at Fae. “You may leave.”

Fae gave Jarrett a sidelong glance as she exited through the flap of the tent.

“I am Leandra.” She kept sorting herbs into piles on the table as she spoke. “Who are you, and what is it that you want?”

“My name is Jarrett. I come seeking information—”

“You are not an emissary of Death,” Leandra interrupted. “Yet, you have a tattoo imbued with her power, or perhaps that of an emissary. How did this come to be?”

“Death?” A mage had mentioned that they’d felt a magic pulse from his tattoo, but he knew little else about it. The only hint he had was the form of the tattoo: the image of a raven. “I don’t know. But I seek answers.”

“Sit down.”

Jarrett obeyed, kneeling at the opposite side of the table from the Raven. He coughed as pungent smoke from the incense swirled around him.

“I woke up one day with this tattoo. I don’t know who gave it to me.” Jarrett ran his fingers through his hair, as he considered telling the Raven his full story. But those words wouldn’t come. He hadn’t told anyone. For some reason, it was just too hard to say. “Whoever they are, though… they took something from me, too. I’d like it back.”

“When did this happen?”

“Four years ago.”

Leandra finished one last bundle of herbs and looked up to Jarrett. “I’m attuned to Io. I have the gift of insight, in particular. Occasionally, I give readings. I see things that others don’t. The magic in that tattoo, it’s possible I can read the signature, and tell you something of the mage who gave it to you.”

“Yes, please—”

“If you promise to set us a meeting with Morgane.”

Now that Leandra’s hands were still, Jarrett noticed the black markings on the back of her left hand. He’d never met an emissary before, but he’d heard of the magically imbued tattoos that tied them to their patron god. Leandra’s tattoo was two overlapping circles—he didn’t recognize it as an insignia of any of the five gods.

Perhaps Death really was a sixth god, as the vaguest of rumors hinted. Perhaps she had left a mark on him, too, somehow. Now, he might finally get answers. His body buzzed with nervous excitement.

Leandra held her tattooed hand out to him. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

“Of course.”

Jarrett placed his trembling hand in hers. He thought they were shaking hands, but instead, Leandra latched onto his hand with her cold fingers, and stared at him from across the table. He barely kept from fidgeting as she seemed to gaze into his very soul, a prying flow of magic reaching into him. Though it was invasive, he welcomed the sensation. If this could solve the mystery, he could finally be at peace.

It was an eternity before Leandra withdrew her hand, breaking the magic that let her examine him. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. She drew in a deep breath before speaking. “You won’t find what you’re seeking.”

“What?” Jarrett’s stomach dropped. “No, please, that can’t be right, you can’t tell me there’s nothing—”

“It’s best if you stop searching. It will only bring you more pain.”

“But you know something, don’t you?”

“I see what this mage took from you.”

He froze. So she had seen into his soul, into his mind.

“Getting it back would only cause more pain. Trust me on that. Continue on with the life you have now. It will save you the heartbreak.”

“Tell me!” Jarrett stood and drew his sword in a single movement, pointing his blade at Leandra. He was breathing heavily, his head getting lighter with each breath. “You know who did this, don’t you? Tell me their name. Anything you know.”

“There is nothing more for me to tell.” Leandra didn’t look up at the bare steel facing her. She began once again to bundle her herbs together with twine, convenient bunches to hang on a drying rack. Such a mundane task. So nonchalant, as if none of this mattered.

Jarrett let the tip of his sword lower to the ground. He couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. The world pressed in on him, spinning as his vision narrowed. He dropped to his knees before he lost his balance and fell.

What a nightmare. What a continuous, everlasting, godsforsaken nightmare. Jarrett let himself collapse fully.

Was that it, then? Four years of searching, only to get so close and to find that he had gotten nowhere. His memories were gone, and there was no way to recover them.

He could forget about the hole in his heart, sometimes. For a minute or two, maybe a couple of hours on a good day. The first year was the hardest. He’d been a shell of a man. Empty, nothing to focus on. He had wandered through Saridian, trying to find any hint of himself.

Then, three years ago, he came to Rosewood. He met Morgane as the Vanguard was starting to form. He joined and heartily threw himself into building up the rebellion force, improving his own abilities and helping others do the same.

Most of the time, he could at least pretend he was happy. He had a goal: to stop the Tyrant from destroying what little he had left. If he didn’t have anything to live for, at least he had something to die for.

But each day he lived, he lived in the torture of knowing there was something so important, so essential to himself, that had been missing for the past four years. He just wanted to know who had done this, and why? What could his past hold that someone found it necessary to erase it?

When he came back to himself, Leandra had finished bundling her herbs. “You should go.”

Jarrett said nothing. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do. The chance of him overcoming a mage, especially if she was an emissary, was minuscule. He wasn’t a mage, and he had no backup. Jarrett knew when he was beaten and he hated that it had been without a fight. He stood, sheathed his sword, and left his hopes behind.