Lyse remembers his first-ever trip with his father to Balfmia, the next town over a few dozen miles into the plains. He was fifteen at the time, and had just begun more rigorous training and learning certain techniques Gabbes thought best for him. Edlund had asked, almost too excitedly, to join them, but Wilbur denied, saying that the two of them are more than enough. Protecting the grain and corn they were going to sell would only require two hands to do so. Lyse was curious because he never knew his father to ever wield a sword. Sure, he helped him practice stances, but nothing beyond that. He never looked too far into it. He never seen him even take any blade or such for protection as he went. But, he allowed Lyse to take his sword.

They left that afternoon, Massua was a bit upset she wasn't allowed, but ultimately his mother told her off and put her to making bread. They got their two fastest horses, Wilbur said that they will be useful, and continued on. The purge that cleansed the lands of monsters was about a month ago, and even in that short amount of time, it is still potentially dangerous to move out in the open. Leaving the walls felt odd, the giant gate passing overhead as his father gave a greeting to the guards. Archers walked along the gangplank and staircases, staring either into the dark Forest of Silence, or the plains that stretched into Koraki. In fact, just a little beyond Balfmia is the border that separates Liontari from its sister country. However, a day and a half ride separated the two towns and a sea of rolling hills and boulders that housed dangers beyond man. He would be lying if he was not scared to his wits, his head constantly swiveling, even in broad daylight, to try and seize any possible threat. Not once did his hand leave his sword, and his anxiety only increased as the shadows grew from the coming night.

His father stopped at a seemingly random tree, atop a hill, not too tall, that made a neat camp location with a full view of their surroundings. Both he and his father dug a pit for the fire, as deep as possible to prevent it from being seen from afar, and constructed a tent around it with a large hole above to allow smoke to rise. These were few moments outside of advice on picking grain and corn that Lyse felt that fondness for his father. He tells him stories, legends, and epic tales that beguiled him. Stories he would have heard when he was five or seven, look back with nostalgia, and repeat to himself before bed. But these were not stories of these larger-than-life heroes slaying seemingly impossible beasts that made those who dwell within the plains, or even the forest, more like tenacious kittens. No, his stories were far more real, it seemed. Far more tangible, like his father was there. Lyse remembered he never wanted to feel like those heroes, like those knights, and have an adventure. His father, as he told him these tells, "Boldor of the mountains", "The Epic of Minseme", "The Witch and the Knight", he wore a similar, knowing expression. Neither sad or uplifting, but as if they truly were not larger than life, like the deeds were not as grand. Indeed a hero was out of the question for Lyse. But to simply be mighty, and be there for your family, is what he strives for.

The problem first arose almost an hour after dark struck. As the shadows grew to encompass the entire world, the monsters seemed to take to their roles as nocturnal creatures and began to bring life to the empty night. Every so often, his father would poke his head out of the tent, a stony face exiting and returning, and resume his telling of the cycle while roasting a rabbit on a metal pike. He was on the telling of "The Noble Thief" when they heard what was like the low rumble of thunder. However, there was no sign of rain, with the clouds clear, the two moons shining and the belt of shimmering brilliance across the sky still in view. No, the noise came from something alive. His father peaked out, slower than before, but quickly did he pull inside, and went to toss the heaved dirt onto the pile of burning sticks and straw. They were quickly encased in darkness, and the sudden beating in his ears almost drowned out the rising buzz. Fear seized him as he pulled his blade free, but a large hand clamped over his mouth and another grasped his sword and placed it flat on the ground He was shoved to the ground as the grumbling finally became omnipresent, the entire ground seemingly rolling under the beat of hundreds, probably a thousand lightless wings. The tent shook, not from direct disturbance, but merely the rush of wind that followed them. A few curious beaks pecked their holding, a flash of copper beaks reflecting the moonlight. Soulless eyes poking in, cawing at the two figures with reluctance before rejoining its peers. Lyse had never laid so still in his life than at that moment. And it lasts for several minutes as if the murder was somehow drawn to something and was feverishly searching. Finally, they decided that no meat could be found, and so flew off deeper into the plains and away from the road. Even then, another few minutes passed before finally, his father rose.

He was still holding Lyse's sword, the blade looking more like a real weapon in his hands and a worried expression on the hole in his tent that showed peaks of what was out there. His eyes worked to outside, and over the plains, possibly searching for the direction they may have gone before cursing himself.

"Fate choke me, they are attracted by the smell you fool," he mumbled frowning at the heap in the middle of their tent. He took the half-roasted rabbit and chucked it far down the hill. Immediately, three to four shadowy wings flew from the tree, and in seconds the piece was gone, and the figures scattering. He sighed. "Looks like we go hungry till morning, Lyse. Fate has it the hunters did a lousy job this year."

They hunkered in their shell of a tent till the morning came, and the sun was high enough to where the creatures of the night retreated to their homes. Thankfully, their grains and vegetables were kept safe, not many of the beasts were into barley, so it seemed. They managed to sell what they had at the markets relatively quickly. A day and a morning they had everything sold or promised, and his father satisfied. Lyse looked back at these moments, even now as he rode through more dangerous land and uncertainty. That rush he felt lingered. That moment of honest care his father gave made him tearful when he thinks back on it, even as an adult. Edlund expresses how scared he must have been, and he was. But, it was because he was so close to his father, his father being there that made him so grateful his father allowed him to come. It made him feel even a bit awful Edlund was unable to have such moments, none that he remembers.

Two days into the ride back to BrokenArrow, they stopped at a clearing that was indistinguishable from all the others. Enough space for all the horses, tent, and a dependable perimeter. Lyse's nerves had been active ever since they left the capital, and was only getting worse as time went on. He can only think back to that rough encounter with eight of those Talin members attacking them at once, and them barely scraping by with the aid of a Thirian. He doubts that they would both be alive without her healing, that they know with a fact. Just one of the assassins was on par with a freshly trained knight, and that scared them. What would be next? Will they send ten, a dozen, or more? What will he do then? It almost made him wish to sleep in a less noticeable area, but of course, they made strong words against this.

"Like hell, I'm sleeping in a tree," Edlund was already halfway through setting a tent, Gray, and Elena already complete and setting lanterns outside. He cursed as a fastening unwind. "Have faith that we can handle it, at least. Or will you force us to turn into birds like those of Aetos?"

He sighed, taking a seat outside of his own tent not too far from the fire. Elena and Gray sat adjacent, preparing pots and rations out for cooking. "We'll have to have watch two at a time. We'll have to watch each other's backs as well as those who sleep."

"I guess I'll take up first watch then," Gray set up a pot, pouring water and began to make what appeared to be a stew with various vegetables and dried out meat rations.

Elena turned to Lyse, seeing him begin to fall into his thoughts like before. She moved a little closer but ultimately sided against it as her cheeks became warmer and she became aware of two other presences. However, she shifted uncomfortably and watched him chew his nails vigorously.

"You have not talked much of your home," she noticed. That shocked him out of his thinking, looking at her now as if she had thrown mud at him. But it was Edlund who answered.

"What is there to talk about," he backed away slowly from the rickety tent as if it was going to combust into flames at the slightest brush of a hand. He finally sighed as he took a seat between Lyse and Gray, and eyeing the stew hungrily. "Farming village. A nice brewery maybe but nothing to write to your father."

"We do have a few nobles attending the local training grounds," Lyse offered, considering.

Edlund snorted. "Please don't remind. I have no problem with royal blood, one of our best from was the governor's daughter, but you could smell resentment a mile away. Imagine a unit full of Dagmyre, and you got out to experience."

Elena sighed. "Guess we had similar experiences then."

"I doubt training in the capital was any easier in the plains?" Lyse asked. "I mean, the plains get rough. Especially through the summer. But things seem tame compared to the capital. Experienced any manticore's raiding cattle, or perhaps a basilisk or two running amok in the square?"

"No," she admitted, graciously taking a bowl from Gray as he prepared three more. "But have you ever seen a dragon?"

She did not know what was more amusing, their look of shock or the jaws hanging open as if walking into a surprise attack. There was a child-like wonder in their eyes suddenly, as if she had riled up memories of stories she must have been taught when she was that young. Yet, dragons were indeed in stories to her, neither to Gray or any who lived within Silondras.

"You've seen a dragon," Lyse spoke. It was not a question from what she could tell. She liked seeing that wondrous smile, and his eyes lighting up with excitement. "What type of Dragon. I only know that dwell in the Silondron Range going east. A Black-footed or was it a Crimson Scale?"

"We see Black-Footed all the time in the valley," Gray said, a bit considering as he passed out bowls. "Their scales are worth ten times their weight in gold, teeth twice even that. They make for fine blades. But Crimson Scale, may not be worth the effort really. They're far too aggressive to be worth the struggle. But anyhow they typically go fifty gold a scale, a handsome reward if you are able to slay one."

"They are a bit of trouble for some villages north, and other territories to the east," she said, stirring the murky liquid with her spoon. "My father slew one long ago. A horn still hung atop our fireplace. Lost an eye and nearly an arm for it. But he treasures that day. He gave me this for my fifth birthday."

From around her neck, she produced a jagged looking red scale, as red as the bloodiest dawn. It was reflective, catching some of the light of the flame and appeared to glow in the faint light. Lyse recognized it from sketches of books he read. It was most definitely the scale of a Crimson Scale dragon. He thought back to the pictures of its skull, faintly like that of any lizard, but twisting goat horns rimmed with spikes and bright colors along it's back, each as long as a man's arm and as keen as the blade he sat across his lap. His father told stories of them, the type of monster the hero would save a comrade from. Vicious as any animal or beast had the right. Thinking about his father, he thought back to how familiar his words had been. Had his father fought a dragon before? Nothing was out of the realms of possibilities. Even his mother could have fought a dragon. Leaping through the air, transforming into an armored lion while clawing at the snout of a fire-breather.

He noticed, finally, the boyish smile he had, and cleared his throat. "My father once slew a young drakon in the fields. Helped with a Nemean lion, although he told me he only distracted it with far off arrows. But the blacksmith of our village crafted this blade with it for thanks."

He patted the leather sheath, plain and bare of any ornate engravings, but his initials placed on the pommel. It was a blade he carried with pride, even knowing more of his father and mother. Where he comes from. Besides the very pendant he held, this was like a family heirloom on its own.

"Was your father a swordsman?" Elena asked. She remembered the blade in action. No enchantment as sever as the ones she and Gray held, but no less deadly in the right hand.

"Yes," Lyse said, at the same moment that Edlund said "No". Edlund shot him an almost surprised look, but said nothing, taking another spoon full of dinner.

"My father fought in the war," he went on, trying to keep his words from shaking. "He was . . . a farmer who became a knight in Silondras as well. My mother his advisor. "

He did not know why, but it was hard to speak those words. He always knew them as farmers. Even if he was told so by the very king of Liontari, it was hard to confess it to other people. Like he was admitting a lie he was holding for all his life. The looks on their faces was not all that reassuring to his thoughts. From astounding to thoughtfulness, as if this was expected. That last one came from Elena, the other from Edlund. Gray's expression set firmly in the middle as he stirred the pot.

"I should have guessed," Elena said. "No wonder, you must have had steady teaching with such parenting."

"He didn't teach me a thing of the sword," his voice was thoughtful, yet hard. He stared into his bowl. "Only of trading, farming and herding. Like I said, he was a farmer at heart."

Everyone caught on to the slight hurt in his voice, and Elena saw the frown worsening. She wanted to change the subject, but not make it too obvious. "What of your mother, surely, she was not a farmer as well?"

Somehow, she managed to worsen the frown, till the point he seemed to want to retreat within his tent. But instead, he looked down, thoughtfully to his chest. He must be staring at the pendant now, the or she saw glow when he slept. It must be magic, she had thought, but what was a farmer doing with it? She had not questioned it, making it out to be some heirloom or good luck charm provided by some Torlakian Mage before the war. The design definitely blended it to be Torlakian, although she guesses some metal workers in Aetos could produce something similar.

"I do not know much of my mother besides what she has told me," his tone and face softened like clay suddenly, almost a smile returning. "She'll be waiting for us, in Broken Arrow. I wish to ask her something rather important. Especially if we are to rescue my sister."

"And what is that?" Edlund asked, handing his bowl back to Gray so it can be refilled. He tried to seem uncaring, but his furrowed brows betrayed him.

"That has to stay between us," his words were slow and deliberate, the tone he used when he wanted his point to be expressed without shouting. Like a commander, or general pointing out where troops should march, Elena, noted. Like a master weaponsmith, teaching his apprentice how to hold the tongs without branding himself. They believed him. At least that whatever he wished to speak about was very important to him. Edlund knew that he wanted to see his mother more than anything, or at least must. It was clear that something else was on his mind, but he also doubted that he would tell them. At least right now. He has never known Lyse to hold secrets for long. Just until he can trust them to keep it. But how long will that be?

(X)

There was a bit of confusion amongst the squires, who lined up in neat rows determined by their height and age. Two columns just under two dozen each. Their assortment of chainmail, brigantine, gambeson and plate. Axes, swords, hammers, and spears laid across their chest or in their hands. It was not usual that they were called in full armor, with whatever weapon they chose for battle or in these rows unless something important was happening. Of course, this was not the source of their confusion. No, it came from one standing amongst the six knights that had been teaching them for years now. Rarely did they have visitors, or those who would come and watch them unless it was the local noble girls and women, just passing by to deliver food or refreshments. But the one standing amongst the knights exuded that same aura any knight does. that same stance of power, and look of command. She was tall, almost at eye level with eh shortest of the captains and taller than most of them. Her long, sun colored hair was tied into a ponytail worn by women who became soldiers, knights or archers. Her hands, however, were encased in the iron, claw tipped gauntlets identifying her as a sage.

"Hope you had a restful evening," a man beside sir Gabbes, a cheerful looking fellow with a thin face and curved lips strode among the lines. "Of course, for those who failed to come to the aid of the village, I do not blame you for having sore backs. But we do have a blessing of a special guest, joining us for today's intense drills."

The women stepped forward, and some jaws hung as she introduced herself to them.

"My name is Celia Opal of Liontari," she said to them. Most could not believe her eyes. They had thought she looked familiar, but there was no way a farmer's wife, someone who seemed so timid could be so fierce looking. None of them even realizing how the other knights held her in reverence "I will be training beside you in your exercise."

The knights took this as if it was an everyday occurrence, not batting an eye or daring to make a comment. It was clear that had a hard long talk about this long before she came here. Celia had decided that she put down simple gowns ad weaving, and took back up the gauntlet and sword. She must, as she saw it. The attack happening the way it did was as much her fault as those who put the torch to the town. So, running a few miles and lifting pounds should be the least she should do. Indeed should couldn't lift as she used to, but she felt herself regain something that at once felt lost. She outpaced all the squires at least in their endeavors. Running twenty times faster using the techniques taught to knights. Toppling boulders as easily as pushing away tall grass and jumping high enough to catch a stone tossed by one of the knights. When it came to combat, it was apparent she would not be a level match for any of them, so or of the knight's participated as an excuse to remind the squires of sparring courtesy. One of which was not to draw a real sword, although he pointed one at Celia who stances herself low. He must not have expected her power or skill beforehand or at least underestimated her, but within the first few moves, it was apparent that he misjudged. She nearly clawed his eyes out before he took things seriously, and began practiced faces with her. Nothing too extravagant, just a test of agility and skill. Again, she was not as good as she wished. But she was always a fast learner. Surely a few weeks in training will bring her back to what she once was, back to the warrior she once was, still is.