“Her name’s Aletheia,” Captain said. “Her mother’s very worried.”

“I don’t know that name, mister, but I think I know your girl,” the Matron said. “She’s right upstairs, in room seven I think it is. Blonde one, you said? With yellow eyes?”

“Like a cat,” the Spearman said.

“I’d call ‘em more gold, really, pretty normal for a human, not too cat-like, but then I don’t know many myself. So you’re all workin’ for her ma, huh? She must be worried sick! I had no idea she was missing. Ya know, none of my kids have ever gone missing, but my own cat…”

Eris averted her eyes toward the ground, stood, brushed past a burly man in a brigandine, and slipped out through the inn’s front door. They were going to be found eventually. She knew it. She had told Rook, had she not? But even in her nightmares she anticipated six months of patronage might have bought them more time from the inn’s owners than a single sentence. But then Kaimas was a place with no maliciousness, where even the travelers who carried weapons meant no harm. The woman behind that bar thought nothing of the questions asked. Stupid, naïve, foolish woman. She would pay, and not by Eris’ hand.

Another mercenary kept watch outside the door. Smaller, a gambeson. Crossbow, loaded, propped against his leg. That made five total. Eris passed him by; but turning, saw he had no enthusiasm for his post. His eyes were shut.

A glance back through the inn’s windows. Captain still spoke at the bar. No doubt trying to persuade the Matron to take him to Aletheia’s room. It would not require much. Eris wanted to leave then, storm off and not look back—these catchers could have Aletheia and Astera, too, for all she cared. But they would not be satisfied there. They would want Rook, and Eris herself. So she could start running, but they would pursue, and then she would be outnumbered. And she couldn’t stand to leave Rook to his fate. It was perverse, but the thought of him being killed, or captured, upset her stomach. He was too useful to be wasted so.

And besides, all her things were in her room upstairs, and she had no money with her. She could not leave. That was the real reason to stay. Not for Rook. He did not matter to her. Not a bit.

She wasted too much time with idle thought. She knew her own room from its position on the inn’s second storey across from a tree in the cobblestone road. One window to the left was that of Aletheia and Astera; to the right, Rook. He was up there, she was mostly certain, and he could get her attention if she shouted. Yet she would draw the attention of the man with the crossbow on guard. Even he would not sleep through that.

Decisive decisions needed to come quickly. She could strike first, or levitate up to his window and let herself in, or…but her head still ached. The spellsickness had faded, but she was still not ready to exert herself, not safely. Any spell should be small. Directed. Simple. Something like…

Aethereal Voice. With Aethereal Voice she could send any speech she wished to anywhere she could see. Well, a light shined through Rook’s window and she could see beyond. She could cast her spell and send her thought to him and him alone; no one else would know.

She sliced a hand through the air, tapping mana into her veins. Energizing herself. She was well-rested; her Essence was charged, yet still she wanted to be cautious. She did not want to overcast ever again. Her muscles tingled with arcane excitement, numbness spreading throughout her body, like a narcotic slipped into her bloodstream. She thought of the message she desired to impart:

Antigone’s catchers have come for Aletheia. They are downstairs. Four, and another outside. I am in the streets. Prepare yourselves; they know you are there.

She focused on the point to send the words, then channeled them into the magic coursing through her. Any spectator must have thought her engaged in some strange Southern dance, but no sooner had the mana left her veins than she heard her own voice overhead, echoing, muffled from Rook’s room.

It worked. Eris caught her breath for a moment, pulling back her hair, but nothing more came.

Rook’s face appeared in the window. Then he disappeared.

The idle Crossbowman was leering at her. Eris’ manner of dress was intentionally provocative, although less so come Winter, but still she shifted her attire to better cover herself when she saw his gaze. It was the crossbow that made her uneasy. She still felt the shards of her jade ward in her side. The healer told all were removed, but she was not convinced. It was an irrationality to flinch, to associate a wound so viscerally with all weapons of the type that inflicted it, but even Eris was not immune to such foolish instincts.

“What are you doin’ out here?” he said. “Standin’ around?”

She folded her arms. Her loitering was suspicious, so she smiled and approached him. “I have been stranded in this town for some days. When I heard human men had arrived, I was desperate to come investigate.”

He was young, perhaps her age. Beneath messy matted hair his features were misshapen. Eris shuddered to draw near him, but she was an excellent liar—in performance, at least, if not the lies themselves.

“Were you?” he said.

“Indeed I was!”

“It’s a long bloody way out here, that’s true.”

“What was your crime, to deserve deliverance hither?”

He looked down to her feet. “Crime, miss?”

“A metaphor.”

“Oh. Well, I—I really shouldn’t talk about it, you know. I’m just an apprentice.”

“Truly?”

“Aye, that’s me.”

“But they gave you the crossbow; that is hardly a weapon for an apprentice.”

“No, miss, it’s easy, any fool can use a crossbow.”

“Could you show me how it works?”

He glanced up at her face. “I really shouldn’t, you should—your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“You’ve got yellow eyes, like the girl!”

Crossbowman was so surprised at this revelation that he nearly fell over. Just then the sounds of shouting broke out from within the Ancient Cheeseman. Eris looked inside, and she saw three arrows fly down the staircase.

“They’ve got nowhere to run, get them!” Captain screamed. “Iaron! Watch the windows!”

Crossbowman turned back to Eris, still wide-eyed. He was an Alp, an Algis, even a Zydnus—a man in the wrong profession. She struck. She wrapped her fingers around the wrist holding his crossbow and channeled heat; the hiss of searing meat followed. He yelped he let go easily. She pulled the weapon out of his hands, hit him with its butt, and leveled its crossed bows at his torso.

Weapons were beneath her, but there were needful exceptions.

She pulled the mechanism’s trigger.

The boy was so stunned that he did nothing but recoil as the bolt shot forward into his gut. It was nice to be on the other side this time. She had stood too close, the arrow didn’t accelerate to its maximum velocity before striking, but it was enough to shoot through his cloth armor and lodge in his gut. He fell to the ground.

A hand went for a dagger on his belt. His arms flailed about his head and he screamed in pain.

She hit him in the head with the crossbow’s but. “Die!” she hissed.

Still he moved. He swiped out at her with the blade of his dagger, nicking her right leg. She needed to get past him to join the fight, so she fell to her knees and wrestled for control of the dagger, wresting it out of his hands; his strength faded quickly, though not quickly enough, and she thrust it into his chest like a conquering hero who dips his sword into the earth.

She watched the life drain from his eyes. This, she realized, was how it felt to kill with steel instead of mana. With her own hands. No sickness or revulsion followed; no rashes burst out on her skin; she did not pass out. In fact all she felt was the tingle of victory, the sensation that she had won and someone else had lost. Weapons were beneath her—but they had their uses. She tugged the dagger back out of his chest and kept it in her right hand.

A stunned halfling stared at her from some way off. Whatever problems he brought were for the future; her attention turned into the inn.

Astera was fast with her bow. The Captain and Spearman took cover at the base of the staircase as arrows flew past their heads. A Swordsman, sheathed, was over the bar now; his hands were on Matron’s neck.

“Tell me another way up!”

“There is no other way up!” she babbled, “let me go! Help!”

Captain grabbed Hatchet, the last mercenary who carried a shield and wore a helmet, and pulled him forward, pushing him up the stairs. “Go!”

He lowered his head and charged—

“Stay back!” the voice of Aletheia came down the stairs. A flash of lightning followed—and a crack of thunder. The streak burned into Eris’ eyes, but she saw before she turned away the bolt strike Hatchet’s shield. He was lifted up off his feet and thrown backward to the far wall, flying across the room, hitting it hard, before tumbling down to the ground. He landed on his shield.

“Fuckin’ wizard!” Captain said. “Iaron!”

He turned. Then he saw. Eris saw, too—she saw his face, saw that he was old, scarred. There was no surprise in his eyes, only anger. A lantern hung nearby; he grabbed it off its hook, ripped it down, and threw it against the wall. A fire erupted; the wooden planks of the wall were consumed instantly. Matron screamed; Swordsman jumped back over the bar.

“Outside,” Captain shouted, “smoke them out! Watch the windows!”

He ducked past the staircase, dodged an arrow, and sprinted toward the front door.

Coming straight for Eris.

She scrambled backward and slammed the door shut—

Crossbowman was in the way, his legs on the threshold.

Captain was at full speed; his shoulder hit the door. Eris had one choice. She channeled all her Essence to hold the door shut, to keep it locked on its frame: she felt Captain’s weight batter against the wood, giving slightly, but her will was stronger than his muscle. He pushed; she pushed harder.

And harder. Harder. Raising on her feet, harder still: she needed the door to be shut, then she could lock it. She extended her arms forward, focusing on the mana she pulled from the air around her even as she felt herself being drained, pressing so hard that presently there came a snap—then a slam—and then the door was shut completely, closed against its frame.

Crossbowman’s legs were severed at the knee.

Working quickly, Eris looked the gaps in the door over, examining its frame, and she sealed it with Hold Portal. A loose binding would suffice—it did not need to hold for long.

Through the inn’s windows, the fire grew. She felt very clever. She was tired now, almost exhausted, but not sick; she stepped backward, then looked to the upper storey windows:

“A fire is set, jump!” she cried. No response came. Except…

Crashing. The shattering of glass. A hatchet’s blade hit the inn’s window, followed by a shield, clearing away shards. Smoke poured out at once. On the other side now she could see the lobby clearly. Rook and Astera seized on the confusion. A true melee erupted. Rook fenced with Captain; Astera danced with Spearman; Aletheia wrestled, hopelessly, with Swordsman; and all behind were the flames, growing stronger by the second.

Hatchet toppled out through the window. He tumbled over himself, onto his shoulder, then his back. Eris’ first instinct was to strangle him or incinerate him or do something of the sort with her magic but she doubled over at the attempt—her Essence was too drained, she was exerting herself too much. She nearly turned to run, but then she remembered. The dagger! She had it in her hand, like a quill forgotten after a long night of writing. There was no better time to use it.

She pounced on Hatchet as he struggled to stand. He fell back down to the ground. She lowered the point just as she had before and plunged it into his heart—

The point was caught by mesh beneath his tunic. Mail armor. She was no expert brawler; the moment of hesitation was all he needed to land a punch on her jaw and knock her over. He dropped his axe, but she too dropped the knife. They grabbed each other’s arms on the ground and wrestled in the dirt, growling like dogs.

She kneed him. Her knee met metal plates. He kneed her. She gasped in pain. Her moment of hesitation was enough. He went for the dagger, lifted it up and drove it down into her—

She caught his arm and deflected the blow, rolling away. The blade found her forearm instead, her left forearm, slicing it open from wrist to elbow. She didn’t feel anything, she only saw the blood. But he was off-balance, and her own fingers found the heft of his hatchet. She swung it at his head with no sense or care or caution.

The back of the blade hit him hard. He toppled over, still moving, but went mostly limp atop of her; she squirmed out from beneath him, stood, raised the axe, and brought it down on his torso again.

This time the mail broke. She didn’t bother going further. She stepped backward, looking at her arm—

Torrents of blood poured down her wrist, onto her fingers, pooling around her hand. She grasped the wound, as if it that might do something, but it was much too long—but shallow toward the elbow, likely not so terrible that it would kill her from exsanguination. She knew no magic for healing. Few did.

The fire spread outside. All the Ancient Cheeseman immolated. For the first time Eris noticed the shouting and screaming of halflings around her. Through the broken window she watched the dying gasps of the melee:

Rook took grazes on the arms and legs in his duel with Captain; he was outmatched as a swordsman, but he was taller and much younger, and he knocked the older man out with a punch that followed a parry.

Astera danced about Spearman. Eris did not know a good fencer from a bad, but the elf moved faster than any man could hope to counter, even with the longer weapon. A hand caught the heft past the point. Her sword ended all.

Then there was Aletheia. She bit the exposed flesh of Swordsman’s finger and slipped away, back up the stairs, and he followed—then they both disappeared. Once Rook was free he sprinted after them, and Astera too, through fire and out of sight, and Eris was left no choice but to turn her attention to the windows of the upper storeys and hope they found some way down—

That was when she turned.

A halfling with a helmet leveled a spear in her direction. She recognized him at once. He was the guard of her arrest. Behind him were congregated at least a dozen more concerned citizens, and every single one carried a sword, a club, a spear, an axe, or a bow with attendant arrows. Some even wore armor.

“We’ve given ya Big Folk plenty of opportunities,” his accent, comical, farcical, absurd, and contrasted with the brutality of her double homicide, and his helmet catching the reflection of the fire before him, was almost too surreal for Eris to believe, yet still he continued, “but now I think it’s time ya came to see the judge.”

His voice was tense and terrified. This time, she thought, there would be no bacon. There was hatred in the eyes of these people—fear, or else she would be dead already, but true hatred for her and the destruction she and her companions had brought to their tiny village.

She stepped backward. Glancing over her shoulder. No sign of her party.

“I am a powerful magician,” she said, “take one step closer, and I will level your entire village!”

They didn’t believe her—they knew her, everyone had seen her here—yet they hesitated all the same. She had just enough energy left for one last trick: she looked to the air above the crowd’s head and cast Aethereal Voice. The words came as a boom loud enough to shatter glass:

“Do not test me, or more shall die!”

They all jumped, yet to her surprise none routed. But the effect was had. They stayed back.

“There’s gonna be a whole lot—a whole, whole lot more of us soon,” the watchman said. “So you just watch what ya say now. W-w-w-we will use it against you in court, ya hear?”

Another glance. She needed Rook. The cut stung in the cold winter air, worse each second.

He heard her plea.

The glass in Astera’s room exploded outward. Shard rained down onto Eris’ head. A man came flying through the window. He flailed helplessly through the air and landed so close to the gathered mob that they had to part to avoid being hit, and when he hit the ground it was with a splattering crunch of broken bones.

One backpack followed and landed beside Eris. Then another, and another. A sack. Then she saw Rook, bruised and bloodied and blackened with smoke. He stepped into the frame of the window—and fire licked against his feet. So he glanced at Eris, and he jumped.

She fell to her knees and caught him. Catching a falling man, a man who weighed two hundred pounds in his armor, was much harder than lifting a standing one. Even without any force on her muscles she was crushed by the mass, but she softened his fall just enough that he hit the ground with only a heavy thump, and he was back on his feet before she was.

Astera came next. Aletheia wrapped her arms around her back and together they scaled the side of the building. She made it seem easy as she dodged fire, leaped between beams, and lowered herself to the ground. Astera looked fine, but Aletheia was beaten badly. All of them, Eris included, were covered in blood. The party gathered their packs.

“You’re all under arrest!” the watchman shouted. “So just stay put, ya hear?”

“Get out of our way!” Astera said. “We won’t hurt you, but you must leave us be!”

One halfling with a sword shouted, “You Big Folk think you’re better than our laws, think you can break ‘em just because you’re an elf!”

“We did not start this fight. The culprit lies dead at our feet,” Eris said.

“You’ve caused us nothing but trouble for months,” another halfling said.

“Please, we don’t want to hurt anyone, just let us go!” Aletheia said.

“I am more than happy to hurt whoever gets in my way,” Eris said. She coughed at the smoke pouring forth behind them.

Rook stepped forward. He raised his hands as if to surrender, but still wore his sword. “We accept banishment. We’ll never return to Kaimas, on pain of death.”

“That’s for the jury to decide,” the watchman said.

“No. Those are our terms.”

The mob fell silent. Some number of them shrunk back. The way down the street was clear, narrowly; they began a backward retreat, unwilling to show their rear, but once they were beyond the limits of the village, past the hovels and huts that marked the outer parts of the town, they sprinted down the road.

The camp they made was so distant and remote off the road that even they would struggle to return to it come morning. Nowhere else would be safe, lest halflings came in their pursuit. They still might. None of Rytus would be safe. Nowhere in Esenia would be safe, in fact, not so long as they travelled with the girl and her elf. That was when Eris made her choice.

She treated her own injury. She did a poor job, much worse than Astera might have, but she did know a thing or two of alchemy. The peninsula was littered with magical plants. Like its fauna, its flora were suffused with mana, and more hybrids with more strange properties than could be counted were known to the Magisters of Pyrthos. With the leaves off the right tree and the petals from the right rose she ground a salve that dulled the pain and would ward off infection. Her bandages did little more than soak the blood, and her arm itself was almost unusable due to pain, but she would live.

Asking for help did not occur to her. She was much too angry for that. At first she was too exhilarated from the battle, too swept away with excitement, to think clearly about what had taken place. But given respite she sharpened. Given respite, she realized all her warnings had come to fruition, and the price they paid was a steep one.

Eris was easily flustered. She was often angry. But never in her life had she been so furious. Some risk were worth taking—for power, for magic, she would do anything. But for Aletheia? A cut on the arm was too much, to say nothing of her reputation, her money, her books, her room. In their packs had been most of their things, not all, but even one lost drachma seemed hardly worth the reward. She was a useless pre-teen girl. And for her, they had almost died. And for her, they would almost die again, and again, until she was gone—or they themselves were.

This was how she felt upon their return from Chionos, but now everything was different. Now she was outnumbered. Guinevere and Zydnus were dead. Their fortunes were far declined. Just as she had then she tried her best to isolate herself, so she wouldn’t make any decisions she might regret, but that night her desire proved impossible to subdue. She gave in. She went to speak with Rook.

Her words had been carefully recited for maximum outrage. The others were close enough to hear; so let them.

“This must stop.”

He stared at the black sky. “The night? Chart course for Darom.”

“I am not here to joke.”

“I’m not joking.” His voice suggested otherwise. “Why not Darom? It’s remote, with work for adventurers, places to explore, though I hear the days are long.”

He was inviting jocularity; it was always day in Darom. Eris would not participate.

“Do you think that is it? That we now discuss our next destination?”

A sigh. “What else? We survived.”

“Some more intact than others. Had I not alerted you to the intrusion of the mercenaries, we may not have. That was luck.”

“Then the Lucky Lioness has our side; some would sleep easy knowing that.”

“Neither you nor I believe such superstitions.”

“If our luck holds out, maybe we should start.”

“‘If,’ would you care to find out?”

“Maybe we have already. You’re always talking about goddesses.”

“Stop it! Be serious, for once in your life. You know why this happened. You know who is to blame, and you know what will happen next time.”

Silence—for only a moment. “I don’t know,” he said, “and neither do you.”

“I know with the certainty that the moon will set and the sun will rise. They will be back for that girl again, and we will pay the price.”

“Life is full of prices. They put them on everything, with little spots of ink. For my part, I pay for what I want and ignore what I don’t—and sometimes what’s expensive is still worth having.”

“You are right. There are prices on everything. Yet now you bargain with gold you do not have, though you cannot see the costs yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let me make it clear to you: you may have them, or me. Not both.”

He sat upright. “What?”

“Their presence imperils both of us. I will not suffer it. So I am giving you a choice. Them, or me.”

She had been preparing this ultimatum not just all day, but for many weeks, even months. She felt comfortable delivering it now, for she knew his answer. She knew he had to choose Eris. He loved her; thus, to get what she wanted, she had to be aggressive.

“How do you ask that?”

“We are not here to be a runaway’s babysitter. Aletheia will be our deaths.”

“After everything we’ve been through?” There was shock, hurt, surprise on Rook’s voice; so much that Eris was taken aback, almost made to feel guilty—almost

“Everything we have been through has made me value your life. This is the choice you must make if you mean to preserve it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Make your decision now.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.”

“Eris. Go to bed. Don’t do this.”

“It is too late for that, Rook. Make your decision.”

His eyes were wide. Sad, even. He took no joy in the words that followed. They were honest, almost revelatory. “You’re a selfish bitch.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but we’re both the better for it. Shall we pack their things?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Go.”

“‘Go?’”

He stood and pointed out toward darkness. Now he sounded angry. “If that’s how you have to be, leave.”

Now Eris was shocked. Her mouth hung open. She was wracked in disbelief. “You are choosing THEM?”

“Yes.” His voice was quiet.

“Do you think I am bluffing?”

“Are you?”

“No.” She gritted her teeth. “Please. Rook. Be sensible. You must see the madness in this.”

“If this is your choice, if this is how you’re going to treat me—then I’ve made mine. Go.”

She stared at him. This scene had played out in her mind ten thousand times, and never once had she ever considered him, the man who was so clearly in love with her, choosing what was so clearly the wrong answer.

Eris was furious. She screamed.

“You wretched, foolish, pompous idiot! You—you cannot be serious. You are insane! You do not know these people! Why—why do you protect them?

“Please. Just leave.”

She was shaking.

“So be it. Take your fortune. You will suffer the fate you deserve. You all will. I hope it comes quickly and painfully.”

She didn’t know what else to say, so she screamed in frustration, and she left. Just like that. She stormed away, and only when she was far enough away that she could barely see their fire in the distance did she find the wherewithal to shout, to yell, with all her throat:

“I hate you all!”

The fury she felt was so all-consuming that it left her exhausted after only minutes. She found a tree in the darkness and collapsed against it, shaking, in shock, desperately doing everything she could to rationalize what was said. But she didn’t regret it. She liked Rook. She liked looking at him and talking to him. But he was not worth her life, and if he was determined to jump off a cliff, she would not follow him. There were other dashing young men, other adventurers, others just like him. He needed her more than she needed him. So she didn’t regret it. She didn’t regret it. She didn’t regret it at all.

She did regret, however, forgetting her pack of things back at the campsite. That she regretted deeply. That was very stupid. But she would look too much the fool to return for them now, so lost they would stay. She would simply have to deal with the consequences.

And after the day she’d had, she needed no bedroll to sleep.

It was more than luck, then, when she woke up the next morning to a quiet Rytusian forest, and she found, at her side, her backpack, with all its things packed away, left for her.