Kosian tiredly sat down on the empty box, which he had placed next to the fire. Sighing, he crouched down from his seat, carefully blowing at the small fire. He had to admit that he wasn’t the best when it came to camping. The sorry look of his and Pietres tent, an amalgamation of cloth and sticks which looked ready to fall any minute, proved that to anyone walking by. Still, he knew how to keep a fire from fizzling out. Blowing on the small tongues of flame, he was finally happy enough with how they caught on to the small branches and so laid down a large piece of firewood, covered in dry moss and bark. He watched intently, as the tongues of fire slowly grabbed onto the dry wood, burning it. It seemed almost alive as if slowly feasting on a large piece of meat. Kosian remembered the stories of that old lady, that always sat on her small stool on the corner of the Market, telling stories of the Divided, of the Two Emperors, of Clovis the Great and others. He remembered how she told of the lampdas – small human-like creatures, that lived and embodied fire. Straining his eyes, he focused on the fire. He watched its orange and yellow tongues, as they greedily turned the small sticks to char or ash, their luminescent tendrils latching onto the large piece of firewood. Watching, Kosian chuckled. ‘What am I, a village lout?’ he thought in a wry tone, and instead turned to look around.

The band had camped in a small clearing, which was surrounded by the Marel Hills in three different directions, with only one leading out, out onto the ancient phoenixian road. Kosian remembered cursing himself as they traversed those old stones. Old age and the encroaching forest had made the path barely visible, with trees and bushes growing in between moss-covered white stones. Some parts had the stones bulging out of the ground in mounds, thanks to the large nets of greatroot trees. Still, by sundown, they had travelled maybe a hundred helosai! A distance they could’ve doubled while on the road, but considering the terrain they were dealing with, it was a great feat nonetheless. Thinking that though, Kosian remembered the glares the men gave him as they moved through the road. Though he did everything he could to help, awkwardly cutting away roots or slashing away at bushes, it didn’t win him any good faith. Merely more glares and stares. ‘I think it would be best if I and Pietre sneak out while we still can,’ he thought to himself, turning to his brother.

He admired Pietre in a way. It almost seemed like the kid didn’t even notice the men’s glares at him. Though who could say with that soulless expression of his. It was hard enough to understand if the boy even heard your question and ignored it, or didn’t hear it entirely. Currently sitting next to the fire on the grass, he played with that small wood carved horse, which he seemed to treasure more than anything. Rising the small wooden horse into the sky, as if trying to place it atop the slowly revealing Band, Pietre froze for a moment, before quickly standing up and running behind Kosian, his head hitting his back with a force.

“It’s not usual a human notices my presence in the dark. The pup has wonderful senses,” said a deep, guttural voice.

Turning from Pietre, Kosian watched with a sort of hidden awe as Manguid came up to their fire, his ears drooping and the tail between his legs hanging still. It was obvious that the large qasqariam took to heart the fact that Pietre didn’t like him. Wearing those large baggy britches, he had changed from his loosely fitting tunic to something snugger, though still short-sleeved. One of his hands held a large jug, which he had thrown over his shoulder, while the other held two metal rods and what looked like a whole pheasant, already de-feathered and gutted.

“Thought you might be hungry. Didn’t see you at the dinner fire,” he said with a smile. Or at least what Kosian thought was a smile. Either way, he answered with one and waved for him to sit. At first, Kosian thought that Manguid would just spear the whole pheasant through with one of the rods and hang it over the fire, much like he would with say a fish. But that wasn’t the case at all. Instead, the qasqariam carefully sliced the bird into pieces, mounting the breasts and wings onto one, and the juicy legs onto the other. Opening a small pouch that hung from his belt, he carefully seasoned the meat, slowly spinning them just above the fire. Then, he placed the two rods so they would support each other and finally sat down. taking the large jug, he made Kosian get two cups. He filled them with a strange light red liquid. Placing the jug on the ground, Manguid smiled again, showing his fangs, as he said: “Anadosah! Cheers!”

“Sante!” Kosian answered and took a sip of what he assumed was wine. He felt the liquid burn his mouth so hard he almost spat it out immediately. Breathing heavily, he made himself gulp the thing down, feeling sick as he felt the liquid run through his gullet and into his stomach. Watching him, Manguid chuckled cheekily.

“I guess nobody besides Alti Wymond here can drink wyvern wine,” he said with a roaring chuckle.

“Wh…” Kosian coughed, trying to make the strange aftertaste go away. “What even is it?”

“Wyvern wine. Made with combining Shinei liquor with wyvern spit,” Manguid explained, taking another sip and letting out a satisfied sigh. Kosian thought he saw small flames leave with his breath. “A traditional drink among my people. I like mine with more spit. Makes it sweeter.”

“Ah… yes… sweeter,” Kosian said, still slightly coughing. “Well, forgive me for saying that I’ll stick with Bollardian wine for now.”

Manguid laughed at that. So did Kosian. Watching the large qasqariam, he suddenly remembered. “Manguid, catch!” he said. The wolfman caught the five gold laurels without even looking, though it seemed he was confused as to why he caught coins.

“This is payment for the tent,” Kosian explained, smiling to the perplexed qasqariam. Manguid looked at him, then at the money, then back at him.

“This is a lot of money, boss. Are you sure?”

“Take it. And give it to the others who shared the tent with you,” Kosian said with a wave of his hand. “I was taught to always pay back debts.”

Manguid still seemed perplexed at the notion. Finally, he nodded, placing the money into a pocket in his britches and taking another sip of that strange wine. They sat calmly like that for a little while. Kosian could hear Pietre making barely audible sounds, perhaps trying to imitate what he thought a horse would sound like. He also noticed that Manguid seemed… cautious, his gaze always ending up looking at the large flat hills of Marel, which surrounded their camp. Kosian thought he might know what had the wolfman so cautious.

“The kuy of this place seem restless,” he mused, almost to himself. Kosian looked around at the hills, taking note of the sparse trees that grew on them.

“They say that the Marel Hills were once home to an ancient tribe of centaurs,” he started, drawing Manguids attention to him. “The Marelsi, they called themselves. A proud tribe, known for their love of war. The tales say that the Golden Phoenix Empire, after defeating them in battle, stormed their city. All those, who couldn’t fight, hid in the temple to some pagan goddess. Rather than storm it, the phoenixians set it aflame, burning everyone inside alive. It is said that as they burned alive, the women cursed the land of their birth so that the invaders could not use it for their gain. Ever since then, it is said that anything grown in and around the hills quickly withers away, while ghostly centaurs ride from hilltop to hilltop once every Red Band.”

Manguid stayed silent for a bit, turning to the hills. He exhaled loudly as he mused: “And you humans consider the phoenixians to be the pinnacle of civilization. Ha!”

“They are!” Pietre suddenly shouted out. Manguid and Kosian both turned to him. The boy stood, his face flushed with hurt. “The story perfectly illustrates this! Since these centaurs couldn’t accept the light of progress and civilization the phoenixians brought, they lost! The curse only proves it further. No phoenixian Father could or would resort to black magic to curse land or people. The centaurs were weak and too afraid to accept the light of the Faith, that’s why they lost.”

Manguid snorted. “My tribe fought against the Empire for countless generations. I have heard stories of them. The phoenixians weren’t great giants, that built city’s in a night. They weren’t great prophets, who brought enlightenment and the Faith to all. They were men. Plain and simple. Men, who were led by other men, and who fought against men for power.” Checking the meat, he continued. "You should not take everything said to you at face value, little salaq. It's a bad habit."

This speech had left Pietre speechless. It seemed like he wanted to say something, but held his tongue, instead going back to hide behind Kosian.

Kosian chuckled sarcastically at the exchange. It was true. The Golden Phoenix empire was the pinnacle of civilization! Anyone who said otherwise was just a dim-witted barbarian. But he thought Manguid had to be forgiven this time. After all, he did have a point. Looking on at the shaded hills, Kosian also felt unease. Suddenly, he thought he saw a shadow dart in the light of the Band. As if on reflex, Kosian moved to make the Holy Diamond on him, to ward off the spirit. He stopped himself. Looking at his hand, a thought struck him. ‘Can I do this?’ He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to make the holy sign without some sort of retribution. He was a heretic after all.

In a few more minutes, Kosian was eating well-charred pheasant breast, licking his fingers with every bite. It was some of the best pheasant he had eaten in his entire life, and he had even eaten one made by the best chef in Baye. Looking back, he saw Pietre looking at his plate suspiciously, as if trying to see if there was any poison in the food. Patting him on the head, Kosian said with a full mouth: “Eat,” and continued to do so as well. The boy stared at the well-charred piece of breast, before finally taking a bite. It almost seemed as if something had exploded in his mouth, as Pietre put the plate down and laid down on the grass, a warm smile on his face. Kosian gazed at him for a moment, amazed, as he saw colour rush into the boy’s cheeks, tears run down his face and sparkling eyes, looking up at the sky. It almost made him want to cry. Here he was, thinking of ways to make the boy lose that dreadful soulless face when all he needed was a good meal. He discreetly waved for Manguid. The qasqariam turned to him while crushing the pheasant legs in his large mouth, but smiled as he noticed Pietre, showing pieces of bone through his fangs. Crunching those between his strong jaws, Manguid swallowed and stood up, clapping his hands, his topknot and braids swooshing slightly in a sudden chilly gust.

“I wish the both of you a good night, my qostarr,” he said with that doggish grin on his face. Picking up the jug of wyvern wine, he was turning, when Pietre suddenly grabbed onto his britches. The boy’s head only reached the qasqariams knees. Looking down, Manguid crouched down, though he still loomed over Pietre.

“T-Thank you for the food, mister Manguid,” Pietre said sheepishly. “I… I am sorry for my behaviour towards you. I hope you can forgive me.”

The large wolfman stood still for a moment, before letting his large hand land on Pietres head. He grinned at the boy.

“Next time, I’ll bring you some beef,” said the qasqariam, grinning. Pietre nodded.

Kosian watched as the qasqariam walked away. Let the men do as they pleased, at least one of them was willing to speak to them. He guessed that was enough for him, knowing that out of twenty-odd people, one will still smile warmly and wave his hand to you. Yes. That was enough. Still, he didn’t think Pietre would’ve done that. Watching the boy eat his food wildly, he patted him on the shoulder.

“Good job,” he whispered.

Pietre nodded back, turning back to his food.

Carrying the already sleeping Pietre into the tent, Kosian felt the wild calling to him. Quickly kicking some dirt over the fire, he ran down near the marbled road, quickly fumbling with his belt. As he conducted his business, Kosian thought he noticed something moving in the darkness. Quickly, he tied his belt and started carefully creeping next to the underbrush, taking out his knucklers. Suddenly, he heard a rustle and the clanking of metal just next to him. Taking a deep breath, Kosian suddenly jumped out, ready to shout with all his might if needed. In front of him, standing surrounded by the bushes, was a man, seemingly also pulling up his pants. Kosian let out an awkward groan, before spinning around immediately. “Forgive me… sorry… goodnight,” he said quickly, turning to go.

Walking away towards his tent, trying not to think of the uncomfortableness of the situation, Kosian suddenly stopped one of his legs held in the air. He felt the edge of a razor-sharp blade just in front of his throat. Clearing his voice, he said nervously.

“I am sorry for walking in on you, my good man, but I do think this is a bit of an overreaction.”

His voice came out in only a slight tremble but calmed down instantly. The person behind him laughed. Feeling the blade on his throat slightly move away, Kosian immediately snatched it with his bare hands, gripping it tightly. Moving the weapon to the side, he spun to face his assailant. The move only half worked, as the mercenary expertly pulled the weapon out of his grasp, drawing even more blood, and moved away. Quickly stuffing his member back into his pants, Kosian took out the knucklers. He felt the burning sting of the cuts in his palms, blood dripping down the two pieces of steel. The Band didn’t shine so brightly tonight, so his assailant's face was half-covered in shadow. Still, Kosian didn’t know any man in the company who had that light copper hair besides Wymonds daughter Cleo. For a moment, they just stood there. Kosian felt his cheeks get warmer but maintained his calm. ‘No need for this to end in more bloodshed,’ he thought, slowly lowering his arms.

“I am truly sorry for this. I did not wish to disturb you, please believe me! I suggest we stop before anyone gets seriously hurt,” he said, trying to smile. It didn’t help. Scoffing, the woman measured him up.

“…How dare you say that you damn lecher?!” she said mockingly. Kosian felt embarrassed for a moment. He could hear the embarrassment in her voice. Fully lowering his arms, he slowly took off his knucklers, making an effort to show her what he was doing. The girl scoffed again. In a sudden flash of bandlight, she streaked towards him, her dagger plunging from the side. Now that she had entered the light, Kosian felt his eyes widen as he noticed the details of her face – her round but lean face, her dark cherry eyes, a scar running from the top of her forehead to her left eyebrow, her… pointy ears?! Without a moment’s hesitation, Kosian grabbed both of her hands as they arched towards him and kicked her in the shin. Losing balance, the girl sprawled towards Kosian, who stepped to let her fall, still holding her hands. Making her let go of the dagger, he twisted the arms and placed his slightly muddied boot on the girl’s head, putting pressure on it. She didn’t scream, as he thought she would’ve, but she did let out an audible gasp. Grunting, Kosian spoke loudly enough for her to hear: “Think what you may, but I am not just some fattened merchant’s son who paid men to do all the work for me. I am sorry I walked in on you, I truly am, but do not EVER dare and try to attack me again!”

He put more pressure on his foot, making the girl gasp harder.

“Make sure this never happens again, you knife-eared bitch!” Kosian said through clenched teeth. Finally letting her go, he grabbed the fallen dagger from the ground. Holding it up to the strip, Kosian analyzed the blade. They were of solid design, with an ornamented pommel. Tucking it behind his belt, he glared at her.

“I will keep this as recompense for your actions. You may come and take it back from your father whenever you wish,” he said coldly to her. Taking a few steps, he turned and made a mocking bow at her. “Fair night to you, Lady Cleo. May the Lord look over your dreams.”

And with those words, he walked away. He could still hear the woman, wheezing slightly as she stood. Thankfully though, she most likely decided against her wishes and instead limped away to the other part of the camp. ‘Good!’ Kosian thought, watching from the flaps of his tent as she walked briskly. He would’ve felt sick if he had to touch that half-breed again. He had created an image of Wymond, thinking him a man of sound judgement and accepting anyone into his service. But even this was pushing it. A half-breed?! As his daughter?! Honestly, it was hard for Kosian to even justify it. Who in their right mind willingly adopted a human with elfen blood? Urian blood? Forcefully, he stuffed the thoughts into a deep part of his mind. There were things more important to think about. Still, as he laid down into his bedding next to Pietre, Kosian couldn’t stop thinking about it. It made his blood boil with anger just remembering the sight. He needed to make a point of keeping his distance with that thing.

“Oh great Lord, whose weathered eyes never falter,

We beseech thee, from atop your star gilded throne.

We pray, be the shield that surrounds our person,

Strong in fairness, heavy in truth,

Shaped from love and gilded with strength.

Protect us, so that in your name may we vanquish the foes who wish you harm.

Bless our blades, so that we can slay the mutant,

Bless our minds, so that we do not fall to the elf,

Bless our hearts, so that we do not falter when faced with the odds.

With your guidance, I vow to fear no evil and to defend that which is holy.

In this day, this hour, this moment, and for the rest of my life,

I put my faith in you and you alone.

And May the Stars Guide my Path.”

Standing, Bel grabbed the small bowl of water and stood. Turning, he saw his brothers from the Order Putrelis, each kneeling in rows indicated by a sprawling red carpet and wearing nothing but loincloths. He gazed upon their infected skin, the bloody cracks which followed veins, the great zits of puss which covered their shoulders and faces. Some had even reached the advanced stages of the Putrelian sickness, barely able to continue their duties. But he knew as well as they, that as long as they continued to believe and suffer through the pain, their souls would be accepted into the highest ranks of the Lord. And that made all the suffering worth enduring. Walking slowly among them, himself dressed in only an ornate robe of a Father and loincloth, he used the small bundle of leaves, which were placed into the water, to bless each row of men, saying small prayers for their souls and health. Many flinched as the salty water ran down their crackly skin, but endured it. Only a heretic itched or did not give thanks to being blessed by holy water.

Finishing the last row, Bel put the bowl and bundle on a small stool and lifted his arms into the night sky. As he did, each man stood, turning to him.

“Stellinus custodiam noi!” he shouted out.

“Ad Astra Urer!” answered the men in a choir. And with that, the evening prayers had finished.

Helping the rest of them neatly pack the sprawling red carpet and the pedestal with the Diamond Star into one of their carts, Bel put on his long robes, which reached the forest floor. Looking around, he finally saw his mask, put in a row with the others. Everyone called it a mask, but the thing was more akin to a helmet which could split into two and be used as a mask, with the split running along the helmet's top. The bronze visage showed the face of a stern, chisel-jawed man, with parted lips, a long nose and a furrowed brow. A small Diamond Star, the sign of the Faith, was beautifully etched onto the bronze forehead, while the sign of the order, a leper greatsword, was stylized as a tear under the left eye. A wide and puffed out adding ran along the jaw of the mask, made to look like a well-cut, round beard, images from the holy scriptures etched onto it in sectioned off parts. Bel once again analyzed the meeting of Lord and Sanginus, the burning of Gamorukh, the slaying of the Ancient by St. Clovis. He knew that if he reached the rank of Grandfather, they would add an image depicting St. Belmis. Picking up the helm, Bel used the small pin, which held the two parts of the headpiece together, to part them and placed the mask over his face, gently lowering the backside until it snapped in place thanks to the small switches on its side. Making sure the pads didn’t bother the piece of cracked skin on his scalp, Bel walked off, towards the main part of their encampment.

Tidy white tents circled the main common area, where they kept the carts, dogs and main dining and prayer tents. His tent was also in the middle, snuggled next to the large tent made to be an impromptu church for anyone wishing to converse with the Lord. Walking, Bel waved to hurrying servants, nodded to passing inquisitors. Even now, the men wore their white capes and wide-brimmed hats, seemingly never taking them off. he admired that of the holy men, always hiding their person, to not shame the Lord by revealing themselves. He guessed he and his brothers were in some ways similar. Passing through the dining tents, he felt the beautiful aroma of chickpea curry as it wafted from the field kitchens. Lady Marionne was an exceptional cook, and he couldn’t wait to ask for the food to be brought into his rooms.

Opening the tent flaps into his tent, Bel saw Sister Almona, along with Inquisitor Captain Arlosius, standing over the maps sprawled on his writing-table. Bel sighed, the sound reverberating through his helmet. Since they set out, the two of them had been using his tent as a sort of planning room, thinking and devising, along with him, how and where the robbers would go. He guessed they were especially engrossed in the maps today, considering that the band of heretics had suddenly disappeared sometime in the afternoon, with their last citing being along the road towards Tulez. Hearing his sigh, Almona quickly looked up, a warm smile etching her face.

“Ah, Father Bel! Please, come join us! Me and Captain Arlosius were just thinking…”

“The prey has most likely hidden in the Marel Hills, Father,” said Arlosius, suddenly cutting her off. A short man, he was maybe already in his fifties, wide streaks of silver decorating his furry beard and the sides of his temples, the rest of his head shaved. He was the only inquisitor Bel had ever seen to remove his hat, though his white cloak, embroidered with golden thread, always stayed on, its high collar only revealing the man’s head. Always with a stern, soulless expression, he sometimes resembled a statue more than a man. Scratching his chin under the mask, Bel neared the table, musing:

“I wouldn’t put it past infidels to cross tainted land, but how can you be so sure? From the reports of scouts this morning, they had at least two carts with them. How do you expect they moved those hulking things through such uneven terrain?”

Looking down, Arlosius merely pointed at the map. It was an old one, most likely a redrawing of an ancient phoenixian map. His heavy gauntleted finger landed on a small road, which crossed the Marel Hills. Bel nodded. Though many of today’s roads followed phoenixian ones, some, much like its splendorous cities, had been lost to time. Bel curled his eyebrow, thinking. If the map read true, then they were about two hundred helosai from the ancient road. Turning to Arlosius, he said: “Have your scouts find this path and ask them to check for signs of activity. We should not fully commit our efforts to mere speculation.”

The inquisitor stiffened, placing his hand to his heart as he hurried out, placing his hat squarely on his head. Bel didn’t know why, but every time he was near him, a sudden chill ran down his spine. Turning, he saw Sister Almona, pouting as she looked at him. Chuckling, Bel tried to comfort her: “Forgive me, Sister. I know you dislike being left out of the conversation. But this is men’s business.”

She glared indignantly at him.

“They stole a slave place under my protection. He’s MINE as much as he is the Churches. I suggest you do not forget that Father,” she said in a razor-sharp tone.

“I understand this is hard for you, Sister. Still, I ask for your understanding and patience.”

Almona glared at him for a moment longer, before turning, her pout slowly changing into simple worry and sadness. During their short time together, it was obvious to Bel that the girl loved her slave, cared for him. Walking over to her, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“It won’t be long now, my Sister. Remember, if you ever need it, I am open and free to speak anytime.”

Shuddering a bit, the girl smiled and walked out of the tent. Smiling to her back, Bel carefully rolled up the maps and called for a servant to bring him that amazing smelling curry. As he waited for the food to be brought, Bel’s gaze fell on his greatsword, neatly placed on a stand, encased in its scabbard. Approaching it, he carefully looked through the beautifully detailed hard leather of the scabbard, its flowing design, similar to his mask, depicting the actions of holy men. He always felt a strange… pull to the sword. As if it beckoned to him. Raising his hand, he took the sword off its pedestal, setting it on his knees. It almost felt like his hand was glued to the white stitched scabbard. Following the tiny images on the scabbard, remembering each from the holy scriptures, he let his gaze rest on the hilt, with its s-shaped guard, ladened with intricate patterns of gilded steel, its tips curving onto themselves. Those curves were of greater use than anyone realized, as they made for a good hammerhead when in a pinch. He once again saw the long, two-handed handle, two parts of tied steel-string separated by an oval, depicting the Diamond Star, the pommel which also depicted it, though with more detail, showing the image of the Lord, the Phoenix, the Star and the Damned, with a hollowed-out middle. Letting his hand rest on the hilt, feeling the cold steel in his hand, Bel took a deep breath, preparing himself for the magnificence of the blade. Standing, he suddenly drew the sword in a single motion, revealing it in all its glory.

An azure blue blade, exactly 100 and three-quarter tall and 3 and two thirds wide shone darkly from the torchlight. Bel once again carefully examined its broad fuller, which tapered off at the end of the blade, its blunt end missing the curving end tip common with all swords. Looking at the words etched into the fuller, which eloquently named the sword Beremus, Bel couldn’t help but stare. Here, right in his hands, was the envy of all nobility, the weapon made of the rarest element known to the Seven Races – starsteel. Azure starsteel, known for its durability and springiness, making it the perfect greatsword. Captivated by its beauty, Bel let his fingers run along the even edge of the blade, seeing the places where the jagged material was sanded down, allowing the weapon to gain a strange pattern, like that of shattered glass, each line taking on a blacker colour than the rest of the blade. Bel almost felt like it was fate that landed him this weapon. He was born during a blue year, after all. But he did not care for superstitious foretelling of the stars. If the Lord willed for him to have the fluidity of character, then so be it. As long as it allowed him to remain in his service.

Running his finger along the edge of the weapon, he felt the slight bluntness of the blade. Unlike the common material, starsteel barely chipped or blunted, only needing sharpening or oiling once every few weeks or even months. Taking a small slab of steel from the foot of the swords pedestal, Bel started to put pressure on the edge, carefully checking it every few swipes.

‘He will already be turned by the time you reach him…’

‘He will not!’ Almona thought to herself, walking towards her tent. She felt the voice in her head chuckle softly.

‘Of course, he will. After all, think of what you’ve done to him. You are not afraid to lose a lost lamb. You’re afraid of losing your precious toy…’

‘Shut up!’ she yelled at it. No. It wasn’t true. She did not… yearn for Pietre. It wasn’t true. She was just worried for him. Yes. That’s all. Worried. Worried…

Almona felt herself slowly going into ecstasy. The mere thought of him… of that perfect body… of that angelic hair. Forcing it to stop, she ignored the frightened servants around her, storming into her tent and closing the flaps as quick as possible.

“Worry… I am only worried. Yes! Worried… only worried.”