The Rwedar was originally founded in 702, to combat the rumoured threat of the nomadic Golion tribes from the east. The original group consisted entirely of swordsmen and mercenaries of the highest order; they were said to have magical abilities, some surpassing those of the ones that the archpriest was said to have possessed. Despite the Golions perishing long before they made it near Valeris’ walls, the Rwedar still continued to operate in the name of the city, occasionally banding together in terms of crisis. In 746, they separated themselves from the authority of the crown, though they still supported the crown and in return, were supported by the crown. Records of their activities after 782 have not been made public, though it is certain that they very much exist to this day and still carry out any duties bestowed upon them by the king.

Sam stepped out of the inn, raising his head to peek out at all the hustle and bustle in the street. He walked towards a cart placed near the door; his feet gracefully spun around it, his hands sweeping in to return with a bright red apple. He walked further down the road, taking a big bite as he turned around a corner.

He slumped down, his back resting on the wall. He chewed through the core, and carefully glanced around the corner. The alley he was in didn’t seem very welcoming, and it lead nowhere; it was the best place for someone to keep an eye on the inn. And so he waited, fumbling with his lockpicks to pass the time.

Sam looked around the corner again, and he saw Zen walking out of the inn. He propped himself up on his feet, and waited till Zen disappeared out of his view before walking back towards the inn.

He pushed open the door with the flat of his hand, ignoring the curious look of a child who had seen him hide just a few minutes ago. He closed the door behind him, and stared at Charles.

“Did you tell him?” Sam asked, his voice a little louder than he had intended it to be.

Charles looked tired; he felt sick of dealing with the broken boy that was Zen, and he felt sicker when he looked at Sam trying his hardest for absolutely nothing at all.

“He went to Hanna’s place,” Charles said.

“Did you tell him?” Sam asked again, adamant in his pursuit.

Charles took a deep breath. “I gave it to him yesterday.”

Sam cursed and cursed under his breath; he had told Charles to hide the letter that princess had attempted to pass onto Zen, even if he knew it was none of his business. Sam didn’t want Zen to get in trouble again, especially when he was still like that. That was why he had been waiting outside the inn ever since the letter came a week ago.

“He’s not normal anymore. You know he’s not,” Sam said, his voice straining.

“We don’t know that,” Charles said, his young face showing a calm sort of weariness that was 20 years too soon for him, “I told you he might not have that. He can... think for himself.”

Sam shook his head, barely managing to keep his calm.

“I’m going. Aunt Hanna’s place, right?”

And the inn was left empty once again, save the barkeep and an old man dressed in black leather at the back.

“You told about him about the exchanges?” The old man asked.

Charles had never liked referring to them as ‘exchanges’. ‘Curse’ was the term he preferred, even if exchange was the most accurate word to call those supernatural happenings.

“The other boy, Zen, had it happen. And Sam said he had a dream about it; but he doesn’t know what he got or gave.”

The old man laughed. “They never do.”

“You believe him?”

“Why wouldn’t I? These things are like a bag of fleas in a gutter.”

Contagious?

Charles lowered his chin and smoothed down his apron for the fifth time in the past hour; he always did it when he was worried about something.

“Sam’s going to get himself killed.”

“What about the other one? You said he-”

“He’s long gone,” Charles said quietly.

The old man looked up and glanced at Charles, noticing the worry the young man had for Sam. Charles had known Sam for four years, when the inn was first taken over by him. Comparing that to the meagre half year Sam had known Zen, Charles just didn’t want him to get involved in things beyond his understanding only to find himself dead all because of Zen.

“You’re not old enough to call them ‘boys’, and they’re aren’t young enough to be called it, either,” said the old man.

Hanna twirled a knife around her finger and raised her arm, holding the knife between her fingers and thumb; she swung downwards, releasing the knife halfway through the rotation. It flew straight through the air without spinning and embedded itself in the thick wooden board Hanna had placed here for this purpose.

“How did you even do that?” Zen asked, watching her, “Do it again.”

Hanna grinned, relishing the attention she was receiving, even if it was from an odd blue-eyed young man.

“It’s pretty easy, actually,” Hanna lied, not mentioning the many years of practise she had with it, “I’m going to do one where the knife spins. Watch.”

She held the knife in the same way as before, but took a step backwards with her left leg and swung down harder than she had to. Zen saw nothing but a wider blur when it went past him, the tip somehow managing to hit the board at an impeccable angle.

“Can I try?” Zen asked, his face still.

“Uh, sure.” Hanna expected him to brighten up suddenly, but he looked deep in thought as he took a knife from her. “You said Charles sent you here, didn’t you? What for?”

“I want to dye my hair. He said your sister could help,” Zen said, attention focused on copying the grip Hanna had shown him.

“He did, didn’t he,” Hanna said, twirling her hair around her finger. She got distracted way too easily by that handsome foreigner running the inn down the street.

Zen swung down, missing the target. The knife scratched the wall right below the board, and tumbled to the floor.

He glanced at Hanna, and picked up another. This time he swung harder, but the knife didn’t make it far. It struck the ground and dug into it, this time managing to stay there.

“At least I tried, right?” Zen said, then looked at Hanna and shrugged, “I’ll pay for the floor?”

Hanna opened her mouth, preparing some very vulgar vocabulary she had wanted to use for a while, but stopped when she saw him removing hs purse from under his cloak. It looked heavy, and it was. He removed a gold coin from it and threw it to her. She fumbled for it, surprised; as a baker, she didn’t see those many gold coins.

“Is your sister here?” He asked.

“She’s left town already.” She looked at him, only now thinking clearly about how strange he was. She couldn’t put her on it though.

“Why do you want your hair dyed?”

Then she saw him smile. It was dubiously inapposite..

“I promised myself once that I would,” he said, the smile still on his face.

“You’re not smiling with your eyes,” she noted, now knowing full well that he had only smiled because he thought it was the right time to.

His face instantly transformed back, but with a slight tinge of disappointment. He then smiled again, but this time with his whole face. Unlike her advice on knife throwing, he had followed this one to the letter.

“That… looks like the real thing,” Hanna said, fighting a sudden desire to gag. It looked so much like a real smile, yet there was something unspeakably wrong about it.

“I was truly smiling both the times.” Zen relaxed a bit. “I think I’ve taken too much of your time. I’ll be going now.” It had been about half an hour since he came.

He walked over to the door and opened, only to find Sam standing very close to the frame. Zen said nothing, and walked away, taking a turn to the right at the nearest alley. Sam followed him, a few paces behind, unsure as always yet still determined.

“Zen, are you going to meet Selicia?” Sam asked.

Zen turned around.

“Yeah.” Zen didn’t bother asking him to leave, because he knew Sam wouldn’t listen to him. He didn’t understand why Sam was this persistent, but he never understood anyone these days.

“Wait,” Sam said, before Zen turned away. Sam walked over to him, bumping into him. His hand snuck into Zen’s cloak, but he didn’t make it far before Zen caught his hand.

Sam felt something in his hand, and he looked to find a purse. He had never gotten his purse before. He looked at Zen’s face only to find those cold blue eyes looking straight through him. He let go of the purse, giving it to Zen. Zenaris would never have taken it back. He never would have tried to grab his arm.

Zen walked away, Sam still following behind him.

Sam's hands were clenched hard, and it felt like his heart was, too.