Hildebran leapt to his feet and his blade was drawn in less than a second. Ser Ovald simply fell out of his seat. Elder Rattar went for his sword and clumsily knocked it to the floor right at the foot of one of the men in robes. Hildebran flung his sword gracefully, demonstrating his familiarity with a blade in his hand.

"Reveal yourself, we were not expecting visitors in the night." Hildebran's comment garnered no response. The three cloaked figures stood still as the night in the door frame, dirks in hands down by their side.

"Drop your weapons to the ground, that is the only way I can promise no harm to you."

Hildebran took a step forward, prepared to attack but Ser Ovald put an arm on his shoulder and whispered, "You cannot take all three of them, Hildebran."

"You do not know what I can and cannot do." Hildebran's blade was inches from the cloaked figure nearest to him when the mystery man flung his hood from his head, revealing a face Hildebran did not know, but felt as though he should for some reason. The man stood facing Hildebran with a look of smugness as if Hildebran should recognize him.

"Don't worry Ki'vatsu, you don't know me. But we know you."

"Who are you and how do you know me?" Hildebran's sword was still raised and in position to attack if he needed to.

"We are the Knights of the Magi Temple, or, I should say, we once were."

Hildebran's sword lowered slowly, "How do you know me?"

"We have been following since you left Fereton."

"Well do you have a name or are you just going to stand there like a bunch fools?" Hildebran did not like man of that sort.

"I am Abimelek, and these are my two companions, also former Magi Knights."

It was now Ser Ovald, full of ponder, who questioned, "If you aren't Magi Knights then what are you?" A single drop of sweat rolled down his face.

"We are the Knights of Dundor."

Alvar had been listening from afar but he now interjected much to the dismay of Ser Ovald who gave an irritated look for all to see. "The Knights of Dundor? A new order of swordsman is the last thing we need in these lands. The continent still bleeds from the war that tore this continent apart."

Abimelek spoke again, "There is no more Magi Order. There will be no more nations, as you can see already with Fereton. There will be no Modena. Darkness is coming from the south."

Hildebran spoke pointing his sword towards Abimelek, "How can we trust you? I have never met a Magi Knight who abandoned his art. You are wielding dirks, that is no weapon of a Magi Knight. The black cloaks, those are cloaks off the back of the freemen of the Perorg, which is quite a way from here."

Another man other than Abimelek spoke up. His hair was matted back wildly in a flow of jet-black hair with one streak of blonde down the back of his head. "We could not give away our appearance. We travelled unidentified, many times your own men glanced at us and did not give us a second thought. I am Gideon Gordon, son of Avras Gordon The Great."

"And you, the quiet one, reveal yourself." Ser Ovald pointed to the third and final man whose hood was still up over his head, his face concealed.

Abimelek took an aggressive step forward now, shrinking Ser Ovald right down, "Do not speak to him without my permission. His identity does not concern you. Speak to him like that again and I'll show you exactly what this dirk can do. If you look at him, do so at your own risk. Many do not live to see from their own eyes after seeing his own."

Hildebran had furrowed his brows. He didn't appreciate the new company, and he got the sense that his men were all feeling a bit unsettled. He could hear Alvar whispering something behind him to a man next to him. Ser Ovald had his eyes to the ground, not daring to look in the general direction of the mysterious man whom Abimelek had spoken of.

"Well what do you want with us then?"

"We want your company to join us. We want you to join us as the first members of the Modena army—the great Modena army that will stand against the dark forces of the south led by the evil lord king himself—King Steed."

"who is—" Alvar was cut off by Hildebran.

"—thanks for the offer, but I don't associate with fallen Magi Knights. Not an optimist of the arts. Magic never solves problems, only starts them."

Hildebran's eyes met Abimelek's, and the two stared at each other, testing each other. It was Abimelek's eyes that wandered away first, turning to Gideon and the unnamed mystique of a character.

"What has the Scoward King promised you? Anything? Did he offer a couple of his weakest horses? How about that foolish prince of his...was the swine in his ear when you tried to speak some sense into him? We can lead together, Hildebran. You can think on it. I'll give you a fortnight. Meet me in Arrenborne, the small trade city of Scourden, if you accept the other. One fortnight, Hildebran."

With that, Abimelek flung his dirk to the ground, slamming the tip into the wooden floorboards right between both of Hildebran's feet where he stood. The dirk wiggled back and forth incessantly as the three men left. Gideon shot a blue-eyed glare back at Hildebran as he left.

Hildebran felt uneasy about those men. The way they entered, the abrupt offer. How long had they been followed? Were they truly former Magi Knights? Abimelek certainly didn't have the typical behavioral traits of one. Hildebran stood silent for a moment staring at the door that had slammed shut behind them. Elder Rattar tried to put a hand on his shoulder but he pushed it away and sheathed his sword.

"Get some rest, lads. We're going to need it." The rest of his men followed his orders and headed to their rooms at the back of the inn. Hildebran stayed up a while, sharpening his blade and reflecting on the encounter. He needed an army, but he needed the right men. There were other armies forming now in the north, but it was an odd time. A difficult time to mobilize men, especially after the recent war. He wondered what kind of army was brewing in Mestrane. How powerful was this King Steed that Abimelek spoke of?

Hildebran's eyes were staring into the dirt, and the hairs on his skin stuck straight up. His eyes went to the blade of the dirk that was thrown into the dirt at his feet. It was not just any old rusty dirk, there was something on the flat of the blade, writing? He picked up the blade and there was faint writing inscribed on the blade, but he could not read the writing. It must be another dialect, another language entirely. The hilt grew warm in his hand, his palm began to burn, he yelled and tossed the blade to the ground and burn marks scorched his palm.

The writing began to move on the flat of the blade and glow a bright orange, but it faded out before he had a chance to read it. Hildebran had seen this type of blade once before when he was invited to the Magi Temple to be knighted. It was a blade every Ki'vatsu had dreamed of obtaining in his lifetime. It was the blade of a true blood-Magi, a blade from a descendant of Ednord, the true heir of Ertorin—the giver of the stones of Ertorin. How had Abimelek gotten his hands on it, and why was it smashed to pieces to become a dirk? Abimelek had left It on purpose. Hildebran kicked the blade over towards the fireplace, and decided it was time for him to get some sleep.

He paused as soon as he turned away. He looked back at the dirk. Something was drawing him to it. He walked up to it and picked it up again, this time the blade was warm, but it did not scold his palm. He swung the broken blade, testing its weight. It felt incredible, even for a dirk.

"It is a cursed blade; every broken blade is."

Hildebran flinched, not knowing there was anyone in the room besides him. He knew the voice from earlier, it was Alvar.

"Do not sneak up on me like that Alvar."

"I didn't sneak up on you, I'm just light-footed."

"Well try to give me some warning next time." Hildebran placed the blade down at a round, wooden table and took a seat at the table.

"Let me see the blade."

"No, you said yourself Alvar, it is a cursed blade."

"I just want to see it; I'm not going to use it."

Hildebran reluctantly held out the blade in his palm for Alvar to see. Alvar eyed up the blade, "looks like it might have been a beautiful blade once."

"Yes, I'm sure it was." Hildebran wanted Alvar to leave so he refused to engage in discussion. He noticed the blade no longer had writing on the flat of the sword's blade and he stared intently.

He grasped its hilt again and held it in front of his eyes, but this time the hilt sent shocks of pain through his arm and he grimaced, placing the dirk down again.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing, just tired. My arms tired."

Alvar raised an eyebrow but turned to leave. "Alright, I think I'll be heading off then. Just remember, a Ki'vatsu's strongest bond belongs with blade, never with men."

Alvar turned to leave, but Hildebran sat glaring after him as he left. Hildebran felt a pit in his stomach as he remembered the odd sensations he felt when he gripped the blades hilt. There was something off about it, and certainly something about Abimelek and his two men that needed solving. After some time, decompressing, Hildebran eventually fell asleep in the commons area of the inn with his head resting on the wood of the round table. That was his first mistake. And there would be many more to come.