With a newfound clarity, Hoss’Rayull nods and pats Bayl on the shoulder. “Culiairty, our job isn’t to get out alive. We’re here to protect our people. Are there folks you care about back home?” Rayull asks in a hushed, but straight tone.

Everyone watches Bayl slowly nod. His breathing is calming down.

“What you’re feeling now, do you want to spare those people the same feelings? Of the armed enemy only a door away?” Rayull continues.

Bayl pauses a moment, but nods shortly afterward.

“Then do your job and take your position. We don’t have room for kids,” Rayull finishes, pushing Bayl up to the door.

The boy closes his eyes, takes a breath, and opens with a darker gaze, as if he had just expunged his boyhood in one fateful moment. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll open the door.” Bayl then speaks under his breath, causing a slight hum and glow from the bolt set in the crossbow – he’s casting a spell.

Awnway and Carl exchange impressed glances, seeing that the kid has something valuable to bring into the group, and a spark of contempt strikes in Cet’s eye – now it’s obvious he’s the weakest link; he’s sure of it.

Bayl sharpens his gaze as Rayull gives the signal. Vulrick eases the door open with barely a sound.

At the other end is a duo of Eastern soldiers. Their uniforms are gray, and around their shoulders are holstered those long, glinting metal sticks of death: semi-automatic bolt-action firearms. Both of their heads are turned from the door, one laying back in an aged chair, and the other looking at some paintings still dangling on the foyer walls.

The men among the western group simultaneously agree in perfect silence: the two are not hardened for war and probably enjoyed a soft life until they were drafted.

Bayl takes aim at the neck of the boy resting in his chair, and the final tremors in his body bind into a lethal accuracy becoming of a proper ranger. He takes the shot. The enchanted arrow whistles, barely perceptible to all but the ears of the trained, and strikes the boy, (Holt Harrenman, eighteen years old, an innkeeper’s assistant and beloved by his father,) in his neck, smacking across the right jugular and filling his throat with blood before he can even yelp.

Bayl reloads with trained, practiced speed, and takes aim just as Holt, choking on his blood, hits the floor with a slam of the chair’s back. The other boy finds his comrade struggling for air and blood just as the next shot is fired. The slight movement puts Bayl off, and he mark’s the boy’s shoulder, padded with the Eastern double-breasted coat he’s wearing, but not enough to foil the shot entirely.

The panicked boy takes up his gun and aims just as Rayull gives Cet and Awnway the order to take their own shots.

Cet’s untrained with a bow and misses by a full two meters. Awnway’s knife, however, is something he’s a professional at, so the blade hits, and lodges in the boy’s leg.

The easterner screams out in pain this time, and brings the gun back up to his shoulder. Bayl takes his next shot, and this time it hits the enemy, (Dan Olgarant, twenty years old, farmhand and married with one child,) straight in the eye. Dan jolts, and falls over immediately.

The group reloads and listens for incoming movement. Half a minute passes, but there’s nothing. Rayull signals forward, and the group moves out of the tight room into the Foyer.

“Nice job,” a smiling Carl mutters, shoving Bayl lightly. Mr. Culiairty has trouble smiling, but forces one across his face to politely accept the compliment. Awnway nods with approval, and Bayl nods back.

The group loots the two soldiers, get their hands on the guns and nine bullets.

“Check these out,” Carl says with an intrigued gaze as he spins a bullet between his fingers, “you know, it would be sort of cool if we could play their game and-”

Rayull interrupts him with a sharp scoff. “You’ve been on the field long enough to know that artificial magic is illegal. We’re not going to drop to their level,” Rayull says with a bland look; he’s just repeating the same old rule – no guns. After all, the high up magicians in Kanvane can’t just have anyone getting that power at the pull of a trigger. Only after years of learning and study and highly-recommended service to the Council of Magic, can one hope to be given the spells to kill another with any degree of efficiency.

Carl scoffs, nods, and puts them down; Cet seems more perturbed. “Yeah? And why the hell not? Don’t we want to live?” he asks with an indignant peer from the side of the two.

Rayull looks over to the austere Vulrick, who doesn’t respond with a gesture, and then back to Cet. “Mr. Garraline, I hate the rules as much as you do, but you know the Western Council’s judgement on the matter.”

“Course, and it’s bullshit. Why do we have to follow their rules when we’re out of the West? We’re in the East now! We should take the oppourtun-”

Bayl sighs, cutting off Cet’s speech. “Another idiot who thinks he knows anything about magic, I see,” he mutters, resting his crossbow to the side, and immediately allowing his recent success to get to his head.

Cet growls. “No, dumbass. I’m talking about guns- shit I can use.”

“A Rag would definitely only know how to use something so simple,” Bayl says with a poised brow.

Carl and Awnway watch in some form of entertainment as the two thin boys push each other around, each strike increasing in force. Their arguing has almost reached yelling, until Rayull speaks up.

“Culiarty, Garraline, a word,” the calm half-dragon says, placing his hands behind his back professionally as he juts out his chest.

Bayl instantly feels the weight of a displeased authority on him, but Cet still has some issues.

“And what if I don’t want to have a word? You gonna’ report me? I gotta say I was getting pretty excited about this day until you came along,” Cet says in no uncertain terms.

A smirking Carl starts towards Cet, who seems not to notice with how invested he is in his speech.

“You listen here, lizard: Don’t get in my way and let me do what I’m here for. I don’t need you to tell me how to survive, that’s my job- it was all I did as a kid, you hear me?! Just you try living a life where you never met your fucking pare-” Cet is silenced the moment Carl punches him in the face.

Cet spins about and shuts up instantly amidst the surprise. Unlike Bayl, it’s quite clear that force is what he was raised to respond to. “…Sorry,” Cet says with a pathetic tone as he averts his gaze, his hand resting against his bruise.

Rayull looks over to Carl with a look of appreciation though again, the so-titled “Knight Law” is one to follow the rules and live up to regulation. “Mr. Yarland, explain yourself.”

Carl nods. “Sir, he was out of place in stating his concerns, and seeing as he was not listening to you, I thought I would ease your burden and discipline him for you. As his ranking superior I find it only reasonable,” Carl says with a relaxed smile. Awnway chuckles at the whole scene, and Carl responds to the attention with an accepting bow of the head.

Rayull struggles to hide his smirk before speaking. “You stepped out of line like he did. I won’t warn you again, though your correction was at an opportune time,” he says, which is his professional way of saying “Thanks.”

Carl sharpens his posture in an ironic display of professionalism. “Yes, s-”

The language of the Easterners comes close to the front door- another patrol.