[40th Year of Foresai, Upper Fire Month, Day 16]

By the same token that did the cups of those present overbrim, sights, sounds, smells, and most critically tastes filled Valencia’s great hall, rendering it a sensorium in truest fashion. It was furnished at expense, befitting the glory of Re-Estize, although not quite the heights of lavishness achieved by the more private spaces of the palace. Neither would this happen, unless a King both foolish and spendthrift took the throne, for this space was meant to be a place of quantity and the abundance of those present was only surpassed by the bounty of food and drink being served.

Pint upon pint of high-blood flows here. How rare a thing this must be. Is it not frighteningly unlikely that I would be counted among such a number? To be near the apex of such a gathering? A chance of what, five against nine million, or an even more nigh uncountable sum when the multiplicity of those forgiegn to these lands are counted. Strange that I would now consider that, for I have been so surrounded by those of such exalted status all my life. That ought to have made these thoughts terribly obvious, no? Why now? I seem to have a growing ability to aim my critical considerations inward. How utilitarian.

Renner tried to arrest her thoughts, bringing them closer to the immediacy of the moment. She let the noise of the space pour into her, floating on the dissonant choir of voices. The banquet was itself in intermission, the second of seven courses having just been cleared. Renner could not be bothered to estimate a cost for the affair, but such was the glory - or in the colder framing of her mind’s materialism, the size - of the Kingdom that a feast would merely dent the coffers. Considering taxation rates, such events could be conducted in repetition and not break the breach to unsustainability, a rate of around six per year. Compared to this, the ball for Renner’s birthday was cost-conscious.

How could I have ever found normality in this? Perhaps repetition? The oftness of what we find fond robs the world of luster. Yes, in repetition there is not sustained euphoria but obliteration. Thus something like this could twist as it has; on the face of it a national pride, yet it slips into the quagmires of the most petty sort of thrusts and repostes. Ah, I have found the exit to this train of thought. Once again my feet brush the ground. To be the king of a kingdom of rats does imply a pebble of cunning, and I must say father, this is a brutal use of the manner of Abellion seating.

Renner shackled her mind to political realms; in specificity, to its spatial expression. Within the nobility, entire schools of thought existed on the matter of the arrangement of seats at formal events. Of such, this banquet was an instantiation of what was termed Abellion Seating. The term was crude, a rendering of the coming-of-age celebrations practiced by the horse lords and nomads of the southern south east so butchered as to border on unintentional insult and parody. The longhouses of the Abellion peoples necessitated via their construction a floor plan through which several halved and planed logs could run its length to serve as a mealspace. Filtered through distance, time, and apathy, this had turned into a tradition of the Re-Estize nobility. Renner, sitting at the most important of tables, fixated on the seating chart Ramposa had conjured.

The gall you have father! It’s intoxicating. Setting the space with six premier tables and then denying Lytton one, instead sticking him on a wing? In a greater torsion of the knife you stabbed at him, to have that sixth seat be filled with not another count or even a false marquis cross margrave, but the Knight-Lord and his Marshals? You couldn’t be more blatant! How captivating on your part. To have five of the six filled tables be filled with people who are nominally capable of passing as allies, it’s as if you have isolated Boullope as the only member of the Nobility faction.

The attendants had pushed together several tables end to end and used that to center the space of the great hall. With that as a throughline, a number of tables with gaps left between them accounting to proportional length of the central table were set parallel to it, these for guests of significant stature. Then on the outside of those tables there were more, faced perpendicular, for guests of lesser importance. At one end of the whole assembly fitted row after row of the least considered, and on the other, a separate table for the King and his family. The misunderstanding in the affair came with the central “long-table”, of which the adolescent sons of all those present would come to sit, only them doing so. Barbro and Zanac were excused from this, as were a few of the soon-to-be Counts and other firstborns to status. Renner cooled her praise of her father.

However, the operative phrase in that sentence is “as if”. There are several ironies here, but starting with the strings from which the valiant highbloods of this rodent Kingdom dangle, Vellen’s to Boullope, and Blumrush’s to El-Nix; that cuts the number to three. Second, the one you hold the most suspicion against, Raeven, is more loyal to you than Urovana. Ah, no the count is not out of six but seven. Even my brother finds himself on the strings of a marionette. How skilled can a hand with eight fingers dance a puppet? Once again the Six Gods find themselves a worthless venture. In a world such as this, there is no cause in worshiping the helius; love of the son is just as blinding.

The sound of doors swinging wide confirmed that the next course had arrived, Renner finding an odd congruity between its number and her thoughts. To think it held significance was to fall prey to delusion, and she chidded herself lightly on this basis. She did not bother spying the dish before a plate was placed in front of her, for to her, it truly did not matter. The royal family was to be served first, and this night, that included her sister. Vena Unsandra Telon Ryle Vaiself, or now named Pespea in place of her previous indicator of bloodline, was similar in appearance to Renner. Although not a stone-mason’s copy, and even if the eight year gap in their ages could be undone, she would look no more than similar to Renner. They had the same golden, flowing locks of hair - although tonight Vena was wearing an intricate top-bun in contrast to Renner’s plainer appearance. The Marquis had released his wife from her duties by his side, allowing her to sit with her father, brothers, and half-sister. Head chef Rennac made his appearance, and introduced the course to Ramposa personally, presenting him with the first plate.

“A wonderful great pheasant in a reduced-”

Culinary hack. Great pheasant is a bird without any true flavor on its bones. The meat of its lesser counterpart is a far more palatable occasion, not to mention tastier. You simply care about its size. How base.

Renner let the rest of that sentence blank. She disliked Rennac, and although she couldn’t place her finger on why she felt so averse, was sure she could come up with a firm backing to her intuition if she had the need too. Barbro, Zanac, Vena, then lastly Renner got their plates. The only thing of note to Renner was the wine pairing. She knew little of its constitution and could rouse in herself nothing more than apathy on the subject of its making, but it had a pleasurable taste none-the-less.

Almost puts me in mind of an apple. I wonder how that's done. I believe Urovana trades in wine, though surprising considering how northern his domain is. He must import his vintages.

Renner let her eyes drift to Urovana, his table stageright of the King, by her reckoning another nice touch of her father’s. Her eyes pierced past his wisined form to spy a man sitting on a table behind him, Keveleos.

Ah, him. I can’t harness an adequate explanation for your actions, count. To think a man so deep in the grasp of Eight Fingers would so publicly fight against their aims, not with talk but with action.

Renner was hit suddenly with a duel realization.

What am I saying? Is that not perfectly reasonable? Do my fellow highbloods not do the same thing on a near constant basis? Why do I assume competency in my enemies? Again, foolishness on my part. My assumptions are ripping at the seams. If what Evileye had spoken of approached truth, although likely stretched and warped through the chain of conversations which lead to it, it does seem plausible such a thing could happen. Factionalism in Eight Fingers. It seems almost optimistic.

She smiled a little wider, catching his gaze and nodding at him. He silently greeted back. There was no chance of them speaking to him until the end of the fifth course, for which there would be a break. Renner picked at her plate, taking a few exploratory bites. She deemed her earlier assumptions about Rennac completely correct, wishing the dish had achieved a more harmonious flavor. Even if it had, she had no intent to actually consume any of it in quality. Eating any of the banquet stages in depth was a task of monument, and such voracity was something Renner reserved only for Climb.

Ah, I understand. I fell prey to the image they attempted to cultivate. They project themselves as an intractable, indefatigable bastion of indecency. Of course that’s what they want their enemies to think of them. The witless dismiss their existence outright, but the half-witted fear them. What of the witful? Alliance? That could explain Fenthrop, although that would indicate him to be in the kinship of the vulpine creatures of this world. I think that not to be a hazardous leap. After all, he made that play with Nunia.

Actually, that does remind me of someone, Raeven. He sometimes does openly act materially against the goals of the Royals, although I suspect this is only his cover. Not unsurprising. Although, that may be only a familiarity, not a congruity. “Reformists versus traditionalists” seems to be not an unparalleled dynamic in the politics of this nation. Certainly it has occurred in Baharuth. Evileye why did you so skimp on information? How am I supposed to engage in cognition for something you’ve given me nothing of besides the nomenclature? Aggravating in the least.

Renner sighed quietly, the clamor of the hall subsuming her voice beneath the surf of others. She had not found any adequate assemblage of what Evileye had said, and she feared simply needing to wait for their next meeting.

She was surprised when I mentioned their raid in E-Jundaskirk. I thought it was a reasonable approximation based on the rate of their activities, but they seemed to think otherwise. No, again I stake myself in the ground by expectations and performance of others. That deduction was obvious. Honestly, she’s far more readable over a Message link. It's a simple conclusion to make, but she must hide a rich inner world behind that mask of hers, her thinking abundant. I suppose any magic practitioner would need to suffer as such, or perhaps it be the byproduct of her breeding. Is she of some elucidated kind? Does she possess a blood that by its very presence bears knowledge? Perhaps that is reductionary.

“What do you think?”

Eh? Oh, of the meal.

“We so rarely have great pheasant. It's quite nice”

“I suppose. In truth, I’ve always thought its smaller brethren tasted better.”

Not untrue, Vena.

“I wouldn’t particularly know.”

Renner felt forced to maintain one of her duller personas. Such large events necessitated additional care to the keeping of masks, and unlike war councils where she could simply sit silent and look lame of mind, moments like this meant she actually had to back her facial expressions with speech. She felt no cause to expose herself.

“Well, I do. Ah, Renner?”

“Yes?”

“I did send you a gift for your birthday-”

“That kohl! Yes, I tried it on the next day. It was quite nice, although I fear I won’t get the opportunity to wear it often.”

“Eh? Ah, no that makes sense. Doesn’t particularly match the look you maintain.”

Vena pulled her mouth to the side, clicking her tongue as she did.

Ah, she didn’t think that gift out at all. Was I an afterthought? Plausibly, but more likely she simply found it and felt fond towards it, not considering my realities.

“No, I love it! It’s quite nice.”

“In any case, it did feel inadequate on my part to not give you something in person while I was here. Would you want to come hit the districts with me tomorrow? Supposedly there’s a hatmaker from Arwintar who moved here to one of the upper quarters.”

Not a horrible idea, but there is to be a followup war council tomorrow, and it's not as if I could be released. Nor would I want to.

“Well, father mentioned that there would be some more discussions-”

“Ah, yes. You still have your duties as the one princess who’s still in Valencia.”

Is that a jab, envy, or a synthesis of the two? I wonder what Pespea is like. Not the face he bears in politics, but the one he shows to you. Is he caring, considerate? He engaged you at age eleven, married at twelve. Yet he did not make you bear children until sixteen, no? Surely that speaks for something, it must. Not like how it was for-

“Say, Renner, you spy that man over there, filed between my husband’s and Bolloupe’s table?”

“Yes, I see him.”

Ah that’s some son of a baron. Lord Jelka’s, I believe. Not our darling defensive coordinator, but perhaps a distant relative.

“I have it on good authority that he's to marry our sister in law.”

“The sister of… Gilbert?”

“Yes, the very same. Anyway, I was thinking of pestering my husband to release me to such an event.”

Renner giggled lightly at her eldest sister’s framing, inwardly feeling a sense of foreboding.

“You speak of yourself like a housepet.”

This was the first time this year that Renner had actually spoken aloud a true thought of hers, less than was usual for her. She typically managed to make it a semiannual occurrence, finding opportunities to sprinkle in more accurate reflections of her inner world. Renner made no habit of it, for she knew it would be dangerous to do so on anything but the most limited of scales. Of course, she had pitched her voice lightly and with a wry undertone, her timbre hiding the fact that she had just expressed a genuine observation.

“Eh? Sister, I never knew you to be a comedian. I’ll have to tell Zanac to give up his laurel for most clownish Ryle.”

“Our youngest brother?”

Vena laughed far more genuinely than she had at any point previous tonight, Renner giving a preformative chuckle in tandem. She rarely got the opportunity to poke jabs at Barbro, but she felt herself robbed of the humor her sister was so indulging in. A combination of the noise of the hall, her distance from others - for the family sat in the order of Zanac, Barbro, Ramposa, Vena, and Renner from stage left to right - and her low tone had saved it from reaching the ears of anyone but Vena. Vena being her sister made this all the easier, the pair of them sharing an experience of greater congruence compared to their brothers. Ramposa turned to look at the pair, an aged smile growing on his face. He loved the laughter of his daughters. Vena and Renner smiled at him, knowing this would assuage him from asking the content of their moment together. Vena turned back to Renner with a forlorn twinkle in her eye.

- Start of TW Material

“Lulara would be there.”

“Yes.”

“It would be good to see her again.”

“Yes.”

Their middle sister was a rough subject. They both found speaking of her uncomfortable, doubly so for her husband, Count Gilbert Educlen Gell Selusa. For all that Renner feared Vena’s fate as the wife of a do-nothing Marquis, Lulara was a different matter.

How you, father, could ever make the mistake to marry her to that man I will never understand; nor will I forgive you for. Vena gets little freedom - I’m sure of it - but her? Gilbert has shot so far past the conventions on the other side of liberty. She’s practically livestock for that man. After that ceremony, she was wiped from the face of the earth. I’ve only seen her… what, thrice since? The last time. She had that smile of hers on her face, that mask she wore. Not inherently unbecoming for a princess, but the way she trembled at the sound of his voice. Her eyes.

Renner could no longer hold her anxieties on the subject down, and she shuddered at the thought. She was not simply afraid of what happened to her sister, she was terrified. It was both from the combination of her age when it had happened and the reality of the event that had made it such a scarring experience. She had been too consumed in herself (and in her newfound toy in Climb) when Vena was married to find it truly disturbing, too disparate in age to interact on a regular basis. Lulara had been a different story. Only two years older than Renner, they had actually played together as children; and although Renner struggled to relate to her as she did with all who surrounded her, the memories held at least a little warmth. She made it to age twelve before a suitor approached with a competitive offer. At the time Renner knew nothing of it, and even in retrospect did not have the stomach to learn of it, but Gilbert’s had been a clever ploy - whatever it had been. The result of it had been her marriage to him.

It’s strange, after it was finalized, her and he simply vanished into the æther. He never comes to events like this anymore, events which by all rights and responsibilities attached to his title he should be attending. He is a count, no? Why does he so flaunt obligations like this, even if not codified in written law? She was not just wiped away from it; no, the earth opened up and swallowed her. She’s been hollowed, like that of a shell. What’s left was not the being I knew, but simply her body. The flesh and nothing more.

The experience, even by proxy, was formative.

I can’t let that happen to me. Even if I cannot get myself Raeven’s son, I can deal with a Pespea, a Lytton, a Blumrush. It can’t be a Selusa. Never a Selusa.

Renner could not abate her turmoil. She took a sip of her wine, and was disappointed to find it that it had emptied into her mouth.

A second cup, then.

- End of TW Material

—

Lakyus paced back and forth, visibly agitated. Their prisoner was proving tough to crack.

This is isn’t typical of Assassination. Security tends to have more resilient men. Blame it on the viciousness of their training, and that of Six Arms. Maybe he’s a transfer? Those can happen. Either way, we need to break him fast enough; don’t want to release Fenthrop into a trap.

Gagaran threw a sucker punch at the man, his head rapidly twisting and bouncing back from the torsion. He grunted and spat out the slag of a tooth suspended in a vile mixture of spit, stomach bile, and blood. It didn’t get far, simply staining his binds a brownish red. His face was alight with colors, the sites of contusions morphing into unpleasant blues, blacks, and purples. This was not her first strike, and would not be her last. His voice was weak, but was underscored by a strong determination.

“You… didn’t even… ask a question that time.”

“Whoops. Guess I forgot.”

“Aren’t you… going to at least ask my name?”

“Does it matter?”

He hung his head, but even that didn’t provide respite from the pain. His chin was split, and more blood spilt from his face onto his bonds. Lakyus finally felt prepared to continue. She inwardly thanked Gagaran for giving her a little respite from the brutality.

I don’t know why I’m letting myself get so worked up. I was this way earlier, too. Gave that embaressing fucking speech, but they all seemed to buy it. I think I’m really starting to hate these bastards. I have more will to end this fight than I did when we started. Who knows, maybe this is the personal growth Gagaran is always talking about; although I get the feeling she wasn’t talking about bitterness. Ah I need a line. “Let’s try this again”? Yeah, let’s go with that.

“Alright, let's try this again. Why were you lurking out there for two days straight? Fenthrop can’t possibly be that valuable, no?”

“We… we were trying… trying to get your autographs.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment too long. Lakyus eventually had to snap her fingers, Gagaran only then throwing another slug into their quarry’s face. Lakyus gave her a quizzical look.

“Sorry boss, I didn’t know what an autograph was. I thought he was finally answering.”

The man broke out laughing, quickly earning himself a third strike. Lakyus turned away, rubbing her face in frustration. He vomited from the pain. Evileye could not stop herself from prodding at Gagaran for her mistake.

“Musclemounds, you don’t know what an autograph is?”

“I don’t! Tia, Tina. Back me up here.”

“Yeah I don’t know either.”

“Same.”

None of you are cosmopolitan at all.

“Next time we’re in the capital I’m taking you to a theater.”

“Affirmative, Evil Boss-”

“Fiendish leader.”

Another laugh, another strike.

“Oy, loverboy, what’s so funny about that?”

“Off… to see… the capital?”

“Aw, of course darling. You want the Women of Mystery to bring you back a souvenir?”

“You fucks… ‘friends’ of the… royal family? I bet… you play them for fools. Esp-especially that… bitch.”

Lakyus felt the hair on her neck stand stock straight. She turned slowly back to the man, a grin fighting its way through the swelling and bruises. She spoke first, her voice low and rage filled.

“What did you say?”

“Isn’t that… what you do? Every month… one of you packs up… to go see her? Pops down… to Valencia. The… fucking… Princess?”

His breathing was labored, and although he tried to laugh again, after the expulsion of air it turned into a horrid coughing fit. More blood came up, the man desperately trying to pull down gulps of air between the fits and starts of his respiration. Lakyus snapped her fingers again, and his head bounced once more.

“What do you know about the Princess?”

“That’s… what got… your attention?”

Snap. Strike.

“What do you know about the Princess?”

“She’s… just a tool… right? Makes… sense… gives you… the excuse to go to the palace…”

“What do you know about that?”

“Why… should I-”

Gagaran struck him again, shattering his nose further.

“I…”

His head sunk lower, his twitches and jerks weaker and less often. He was close to death, voice trailing off.

Fuck! No matter what we do, they fear Six Arms more than us. Rumors of the horrible things they do permeate the entire organization. There’s nothing we can do here without resorting to more brutal technique, and I’m not comfortable with anything more than a beating.

One of their last actions had netted them half an interrogation report penned by Security, likely by a member of Six Arms themselves. Half of it was burnt beyond recognition, but the tortures they described committing - inflicted on one of their own, no less - had made everyone with the exception of Evileye sick.

Disemboweling is one thing, but forcing a man to do it himself lest he be killed? That path would be easier. Gods, I’m getting delusional. No, we can’t do anything like that to him. Shit! I need a careful bluff here. Make him think we would treat him as bad.

“Minor Cure Wounds.”

Some of the cuts and bruises on his face sealed, his form being bolstered with at least a little vitality. Lakyus pulled her hand back and evaluated the repairs she had made to his body.

“Maybe you think we can’t be compared to your task masters. That when we release you to the prison system, they’ll simply snatch you up and make you suffer tenfold for everything you let slip here. Maybe you’ve read the reports and shuddered, or perhaps witnessed these ‘interrogations’ yourself. Tell me, do you know how many of your comrades we’ve released to the whims of judges and jails?”

The swelling had receded enough on his right eye for Lakyus to peer into it, her leaning in to do so. It burned with hatred, a loathing of the woman in front of him.

“Twenty-Seven. Do you know how many we’ve captured alive?”

His eye widened, understanding the meaning of her words.

“Thirty-six. Tell me, would you be willing to make the count of those who came into our hands alive but never left ten?”

The numbers Lakyus gave were true, although completely misleading. Three of those nine had been suicides. Another four had been unintentional deaths, prisoners dying of wounds accumulated in the process of their capture on the journey back to their keep.

I hope this works.

Chardel’s eye darted, moving desperately from place to place. Lakyus continued to look into it, a near perfect rendering of intimidating and coercive tactics. He fluttered it, closed it, and after a few moments opened it. His mouth quivered open, spittle dripping out.

“Fuck… you.”

Lakyus closed her eyes, vexed beyond what she had thought possible. The final two of those nine had been like this, willing to die for the cause, true believers of Eight Fingers. It was devastating to do, but to not kill them and instead release them into the infernal engine of the legal system would have been worse. If Eight Fingers knew that the Blue Roses would release them alive even if they didn’t talk, no one would cooperate. Evileye had done the dirty work then, and Lakyus sighed, knowing her associate would need to do so tonight as well. Lakyus spoke once more, her voice robbed of any force or emotion.

“Evileye.”

“No.”

Evileye’s retaliation was confusing, and Lakyus could not help but chafe at her response.

“Do you need me to do it? You were the one who agreed to handle this-”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Evileye suddenly pulled herself in close to the prisoner, and in a completely unexpected act, violently removed her mask. Throwing it into a corner, she leveled her eyes with that of the prisoner.

“What are your orders?”

The voice bored into Lakyus, and it took her a few seconds to recognize it as being Evileye’s. A ring she wore on her left ring finger rapidly changed color from a translucent white to a deep red. It indicated the presence of compulsion magics, a warning to let others know that the bearer may be spellbound. Everyone but Evileye and the prisoner shuddered at the noise.

“Observe and monitor the movements of the Blue Roses.”

His voice was monotone, robbed of all color and defiant timbre. A slack smile curled on his face, a look of intoxified endearment.

I had no idea Evileye was an enchantress, or at least party to those magics. Why hasn’t she been using this before?

“Your orders were not to tail and waylay Count Fenthrop?”

No, if she was an enchantress she would have been using those spells. It's too useful to not do so. This is something else.

“Those were our original orders. We received new orders this morning via message spell. To monitor the movements of you, and report to the Death-Spreading Brigade if you attempt to depart.”

“Who is the Death-Spreading Brigade? Are they a component force of the Security Division?”

“No, they are unaffiliated highwaymen who accept contract work. They have skilled bladesmen among their ranks.”

Evileye turned away from the prisoner, towards Lakyus. For the first time, Lakyus saw her face.

It’s not squat like a gnome or halfling, nor are her features sharpened like those of an elf. She looks like a twelve year old girl, human at that. Her skin is pale, far more than it should be. Eyes are a tame burgundy, not natural. Could she be a Rainbow Eye? I wasn’t aware any of them still existed. No, that doesn’t explain what she said earlier about her age. Rainbow eyes don’t have such an extended lifespan. Could she be-

“Lakyus, is any of this making sense to you?”

“-No, it's not. Evileye… are you-”

“A vampire. Yes.”

Lakyus could muster no response, her mind wiped clean by her comrade’s honesty.

An undead? A Gods forsaken undead? Do I draw my weapon and slay her now?

“Why would you report that to the Death-Spreading Brigade?”

“So they could intercept you.”

No; even if she is forsaken by the Gods, Rigrit trusted her.

The mood in the room damped even further at his answer. Confusion gripped the four mortal women present, both over the allegiances of their companion and at the responses of their enthralled prisoner.

Rigrit trusted her, and that’s all I need as assurance. Her vampirism has not stopped her from being a close ally. She’s taken to our jobs as hard as any of us. Her magics have saved my companions and I’s lives on many occasions. She’s dedicated and practical, certainly the same caliber of adventurer as the rest of us. Ah, this is something we’ll need to hide from the guild. There’s no way they would let her into their midst if they knew as she was.

Lakyus looked around and watched the faces of Tia, Tina, and Gagaran closely. They were coming to the same conclusion she did, their faces regaining the lost confidence that had ebbed away over the course of this interrogation. Lakyus felt her strength begin to wax. Gagaran finally found words to address what had happened.

“Shorty, have you been holding out on us this entire time?”

“...I was unsure how you all would take it.”

“Yes, but it was Rigrit who put you on this team.”

“I know, but still-”

“Look, I know you don’t often get along with us, you and I especially. We’re all very loud people, and you’re, uh… ‘subdued’. But like, you kill the bastards we get hired to kill with the same amount of dedication the rest of us do. Hell, you probably do it better than us sometimes; and honestly, that’s all I care about.”

“I agree.”

“Same.”

Well said, still I ought to say something.

“Gagaran speaks for all of us. You needn’t prove yourself any further. We trust you Evileye, you’re part of this team.”

“...I use this as an outlet for my thirst.”

That’s not entirely surprising. I always wondered why you snuck off on missions.

“Hey, look. I prefer you feeding on those Eight Fingers bastards than just the people of the Kingdom.”

Evileye evaluated them with a cold expression. Her face did not show any clear emotions, but her eyes gained a twinkle that was not there previously.

She’s probably not capable of feeling anything more to us. Still, hopefully she at least trusts us.

“Gagaran, Tina, Tia, Lakyus; thank you.”

“Yeah, of course shorty. Now, ‘all things well to be’, we should probably figure out why the fuck this skulk knows about us and the princess.”

“Agreed.”

Evileye pivoted back to the man, his one open eye still without any light within it.

“Upon interception, what would the Death-Spreading Brigade do?”

“Fight you.”

“Do they have any who could match us in combat?

“Brain Unglaus.”

Gagaran chuckled at that response.

“The Southern Blade Seeker? To think he fell in with mercenaries.”

“Highwaymen no less. Did you ever face him, Gagaran? He fought in the Grand Tournament.”

“Nah Boss. He was in a separate bracket. I would have faced him in the final match, but Gazef knocked me out before then.”

“Yeah, a good thing too; you would have made a horrible Warrior-Captain.”

“Oy! I resent that.”

Gagaran stared off wistfully for a moment, before turning back to Lakyus.

“In truth, if he has retained even part of his skill from that day, he’d be formidable. I don’t want to stand against that ‘Flash’ strike of his, much less so if he’s improved it.”

“I agree. I’m unsure how I would block it myself. Still, it doesn't add up.”

“Fiendish Leader is right. They can’t have thought to end us with such a force. Even if they count Unglaus among their number, each of us could at least hold him off.”

“I concur. Does Eight Fingers leadership think that the Death-Spreading Brigade could defeat us?”

“No.”

What? Why engage us at all then?

“Then what is their purpose in assaulting us?”

“To delay you from reaching the city of Re-Estize.”

“Why would you need to delay us?”

“To prevent you from attempting to stop the assassinations of Gazef Stronoff and King Ramposa the Third.”