The room became silent once more.

Mythril stood, slowly, his hand continuing to hold down Sindre’s as he rose.

“You think that this is how a leader should act?” he asked the guild who sat stunned in front of him. “This is what we are used to? That our leader should take one of our own, should take your champion’s soulbound and string her up in front of us,” Mythril’s voice grew louder, both in anger and in an attempt to quiet the tremble in his throat. He knew little of what he was doing, even less of how scenes like this would usually play out in front of the guild, but from their reaction, he felt that this was not an uncommon sight.

“I call an end to this,” he said, his voice calm once more, his eyes locked on Sindre’s who looked at him, still with that same smile on his lips but with a cold wish of death in his eyes. “I call an end to this or tomorrow you face the Elder without me.”

He knew this was a risk. After all, Mythril did not know how important he was within the guild, especially when Sindre felt it acceptable to treat Selrah as he did in front of him. Yet they called him the guild’s champion, he only saw it fit to act like one.

He walked around Sindre, no longer looking at him he turned his gaze to Selrah. There was no gratitude in her eyes, only a look of surprise, and still that same watchful look of fear. He saw her lips part, watched as she hesitated to speak.

“Release me, Sindre.” Her voice was quiet, her body still shaking, only less so now. “You have made your point. None should challenge you.”

“And yet, our champion sees it fit that if any should, it will be him,” Sindre shook free Selrah’s arm, striking it down as though he were casting her aside. “Mythril,” he growled his name, his lip twitching upwards as he stepped towards him. “Our champion you may be, but you are not their leader.” Sindre turned his attention back towards the guild, waved his hand across them, addressing what Mythril could see he considered his people. Sindre didn’t see himself as their leader, he considered himself a king.

“You’re not our leader.”

The voice came from near the entrance of the inn. A woman’s voice, deep and somewhat muffled. The attention of the guild was drawn to her, but when Mythril turned to see who it was, he saw that she rose to their gaze, and stood from her seat, her eyes fixed on Sindre.

The woman pulled the mask from her face, revealing even in the flickering torchlight the scars that covered her cheek and down to her jaw.

“You’re Elder’s Chosen, are you not?” she asked, now looking at the guild that sat just apart from her group. “I’ve heard of you. The tales of your victories, your accomplishments. I’ve certainly heard of you,” she looked to Mythril, “and a little about you,” her attention back to Sindre.

“A little of me is more than the nothing I know of you,” Sindre replied. “Who are you?”

“She’s Saga,” one of her companions, a dwarf with a full red beard and stocky frame, said with a laugh. “You sure you’ve not heard of her?”

Mythril looked to Sindre, he opened his mouth to speak, his head twitching slightly before closing it again. His eyes bore into the woman who waited patiently for his reply. “I’ve heard of you, traitor.”

“I am a traitor to no man deserving of loyalty,” Saga replied, “my Path shows as much. I see you have earned your masquerade, and what might that be?” She brushed a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear, and tilted her head in a feigned interest.

“That is none of your concern,” Sindre said, positioning himself to stand taller, the affect of this pushing out his chest plate. “My masquerade is told to no wanderer.”

“Something to hide?” Saga continued, a slight smile lifting the corner of her scarred lips.

“Yes,” Sindre replied. He turned his attention to his guild. No longer addressing Saga he said, “especially from our enemies. How foolish a man does this woman take me that I should reveal it to a story, a saga, especially one that speaks of as many betrayals as hers. Mythril, our champion, were you not the very one to advise me on this?”

Mythril, with little idea of what he may or may not have done, and no idea of what a masquerade might be glanced to Selrah. She nodded her head once. He looked back to Sindre and did the same.

“Yes, I advised as much,” he said, when it was obvious from the way Sindre’s jaw began to clench that he wanted more.

This pleased him, the look that he gave Mythril was now amiable. “You see, Saga, if my own guild trusts my decisions, then your thoughts are not of my concern.” He turned back to the guild. “Elder’s Chosen, do you trust me as your leader?”

The guild raised their tankards to this, and let out a cheer in agreement and pride.

Sindre faced Saga once more, nodded his head to the side, and then spoke again to the guild. “Then trust that tomorrow I will lead all of us into victory, as I trust in our strength. Eat, drink, so that we might continue to better prepare ourselves for what the dawn might bring.”

The guild, satisfied with this odd exchange of words, went back to their meals. Their conversations were louder than before and glances were still given to him, Selrah, and Sindre. He knew what their discussions would be about even if they no longer gawped at the commotion. Only one set of eyes remained on Mythril unwavering. Saga.

The dark-haired woman showed no expression, if there were one perhaps it could be disappointment. What had she expected of him? For him to battle against Sindre, drag him out to the Deadlands and strike his blade against his shield until he knocked him down. Mythril knew this was what he would have liked to have done. All of the days earlier achievements felt like nothing, a drop in a tenacious ocean. If he were to stay in this world then he may not be the Mythril of legend, but he would become a champion.

Saga turned away from him and back to her companions.

“Selrah,” Sindre said, his voice disturbing in how gentle it now sounded. “You understand why I did this?”

Selrah remained quiet, as though thoughts rolled over in her mind, she lifted her head and then spoke, “I understand.”

“And Mythril?” Sindre kept his voice low, but in it Mythril could here there was little room for discussion.

Selrah, nudged him and her eyes told him what he should say.

“Yes,” he knew that it sounded like an admittance that Sindre had been right in his actions, but he tried to hold on to it also simply being a response to his name being spoken.

“If any in this guild, especially any not truly of this faction after what the noxiri did to us today,” Sindre momentarily looked to Jumin. “If any turn their faith on the guild, on me, it could mean disaster for us tomorrow. It would do better for you if instead you spoke of how far I have brought this guild, or you’ll do nothing but bring down your own spirits, and that of your soulbound.”

He turned to walk away but, before he was out of hearing he looked over his shoulder and said, “I suggest you leave for the night. Return home and prepare for tomorrow.”

Knowing that there was much preparation that was to take place still in the inn, Mythril saw this for what it was. He wanted them gone, not only so that the guild could concentrate on what they needed to create for their raid, but so that he did not have to answer to any more queries with them present and able to retaliate. He needed to show that he still had the power over the champion to dismiss him, especially after he had risen against him,

“Are you coming, Jumin?” Selrah asked once she gathered her satchel and tidied the area in which she had been seated.

“Please, yes, let’s leave here,” he replied. “I’m bringing this with me.” He raised his tankard and stumbled towards the door.

As they past the table where Saga had been seated, Mythril noticed that neither she nor any of her party were still there.

He looked over his shoulder to give Sindre one final glance, and found that he was watching them leave, his face expressionless. Mythril opened the door for Selrah and Jumin, and followed them out into the chill rain of the falling dusk.