Argrave hadn’t spoken to Galamon much at all since Garm was lost to them. Argrave couldn’t deny he was upset Galamon had gone behind his back so blatantly. They sat cross-legged amidst the sand dunes, the night sky above. The chill of winter had set in; they were well into the heart of the cold season. There was an awkward air between the two of them. It reminded Argrave of a dispute with his brother or father—they’d just avoid each other, saying only words that needed to be said…

“You look better,” said Galamon.

…until they started talking again, like nothing had happened at all. Maybe it was unproductive.

“I feel better,” returned Argrave.

But even if it was unproductive, Argrave liked things this way.

“That’s good,” nodded Galamon, white eyes focused on his armor. It was already well-maintained, but he kept it impeccably so.

Argrave stared as his hands moved, rubbing sand and oil against his armor for reasons Argrave couldn’t begin to guess. He looked around. Anneliese was taking care of something, while Durran read Garm’s writing, even now—the tribal seemed to be enchanted with it. Though Garm had left some writings related to the soul behind, Argrave still felt hesitant to read them for some reason.

His mind wandered, and he wondered what it was like to wear armor all day. Brows furrowed, he turned to Galamon.

“You think I should learn how to fight?”

Galamon paused, then turned his head towards Argrave slowly.

“…put Durran down easily enough,” he noted with the faintest smile, then focused back on his work.

Argrave laughed a little, feeling some strange mix of pride and shame. “I bet he could take me down twice as quick if the aggressor and defender switched places. But seriously… It’d be good to be versatile. If things go south…”

Galamon polished, but Argrave could tell he was thinking of an answer.

“The southron elves put it well. Magic has no ceiling.” He looked at Argrave. “Focus on it, you’ll keep getting better.”

“But things happen,” Argrave held his arms out, then uncrossed his legs. “Good to learn a trick or two, no?”

Galamon took a deep breath. “For you…” his white eyes scanned Argrave. “Your frame got bigger. I used to be your size… long time ago. I could give you advice for some things.” He shook his head. “Even still, I’d focus on learning to be agile. Magic will always be more powerful than a blade. Just dodge, get distance, obliterate them.”

“Let’s hear this advice, then,” Argrave suggested eagerly.

“Eat more,” Galamon said plainly. “You eat like a bird.”

Argrave hadn’t been expecting that. He’d been shoveling food into his mouth for the past month to the point of vomiting, and the idea of eating more now wasn’t particularly pleasant.

“Like a bird?” Argrave repeated, drawing lines in the sand. “Must’ve never seen a pelican.”

Galamon said nothing in response.

In truth, Argrave didn’t fancy the idea of learning how to fight. The few hard knocks he’d taken hadn’t been pleasant. He still shuddered when he remembered getting his cheek caved in by Induen, or the battle with Quarrus. Getting up close and personal offered the potential of a lot more of that.

Besides, Argrave would much prefer to focus on what he was good at. He could read a book for hours and have a blast, but exercise was different. Whether before or now, he never cared for weightlifting or running. He didn’t care about looking well-built, either. Dressing nice, wearing jewelry—that was the easier route.

Something caught his eye—Anneliese returned. He smiled and waved, and she waved back, walking towards them. His thoughts returned back to exercise, but with Anneliese’s presence now involved. His opinion started to take a sharp turn.

“I think I want to build myself up a little,” he said decisively, watching Anneliese.

Galamon looked to Argrave, then spotted Anneliese as well. The big elven warrior laughed quietly.

“Something funny?” interrogated Argrave, watching Anneliese as she rummaged through her backpack for something. She picked up her small Brumesinger, moving it aside, and then reached deep inside.

“Sometimes, you do something for someone, and they don’t even know it,” Galamon shook his head. “A nice feeling.”

Argrave looked at Galamon, puzzled.

“Regardless… hope you two stay happy,” he concluded.

“Well…” Argrave scratched his cheek, embarrassed. “You and me both,” he finally said. “Thought you might be against this sort of thing.”

“Why?” Galamon asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You seem like the ‘you stick with your own people!’ type of guy,” Argrave shrugged.

Galamon laughed loudly, startling Argrave. The man had a scary, grating laugh that would be right at home in a horror movie. Eventually, he settled down, scratching his cheek. “Long time ago, you’d have me completely right.”

“What changed? Living in exile?” questioned Argrave.

“Saw the worst of the Veidimen. War… awakens the worst,” he shook his head. “When war consumes the land, rapists, butchers, sadists—they all come out of the woodworks like rats fleeing from a burning building.

“Then,” he continued, putting his gauntlet back on. “I came here. I realized… things are just the same. You have good people… and terrible people,” he finished. Galamon stared at Argrave for a long while, white pupils steady. “That’s part of the reason I let Garm do what he did. I recognized him.”

Argrave tensed when the sore subject was brought up, saying nothing.

“The two of you are good,” Galamon concluded. “Not to mention… quite compatible.”

Argrave didn’t really know what to say, but Anneliese walked up, a book in her hand. Argrave’s Brumesingers jumped free from his clothing, surging before her feet. She stood before him, staring down.

“It grows late,” she greeted. “We ought to retire. An early morning awaits, especially if we intend to reach Otraccia by the end of tomorrow.”

Argrave nodded. “You’re right, little lady.” He stood up and stretched, and his druidic bonds returned to him. “Let’s go.”

#####

Durran stared out at the city of Sethia. Perhaps that was not accurate—he stared above Sethia, at the clouds looming above it.

Argrave had to prod him to get his attention. The tribal warrior turned his head to Argrave quickly, stunned and blinking quickly.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just…” he shook his head. “Never seen clouds over Sethia before.”

Argrave pondered that. Springs, rivers, and such still existed in the mountains, and it was a bit difficult to believe that clouds couldn’t be blown over Sethia. Presumably, the Vessels’ presence in the city had something to do with that—the air around them always felt dry, after all. The clouds could be taken as a sign that the city was truly free.

From such a distance, Argrave could not deduce how well the city was doing underneath Titus. What he could notice, though, was that Aurum, the tower of gold, had been completely taken down. The other two remained standing, but construction around them implied that might not be forever.

“Wait until you see snow,” Argrave pulled Durran along. “Crazy stuff. It’s white, cold, and it turns into water.”

“Pfft,” Durran laughed, regathered. He followed Argrave, and the two of them joined up with Anneliese and Galamon. They passed through a narrow bit of mountain, and beyond, the place opened up into the small town of Otraccia.

The place seemed much, much busier than before. All in all, the place didn’t seem as gloomy as before. Argrave looked around. The southron elves noticed them, and though caution was their first reaction, many recognized their party.

A woman stepped up, crossing her arms before the four of them. Much of her jet-black skin was concealed by thick equipment, likely intended for a forge.

“So, you’re the reason my father can’t walk anymore,” Iltuda began.

Argrave turned his head. Once his eyes fell on her, she visibly flinched. He was taken aback by that reaction, but he realized his eyes—Garm’s eyes—must have surprised her. Considering her own eyes were pitch black, he was a bit offended.

“That’s a very pleasant greeting, Iltuda,” Durran spoke before Argrave could. “Set a hostile tone right off. Very prudent. It’s like you’re eager to meet your maker.”

Durran stepped forward, and her eyes widened again—evidently, she’d not expected to see the man.

“Durran,” she greeted, taking off her thick forge gloves and holding her hand out. He shook it. “Why are you…? A great many people are searching for you.”

“I imagine,” he nodded. “They found a spike that fits me perfectly, and they can’t wait to put my head on it. I’ll pass. A friend of mine told me that’s a miserable experience.” He looked back to Argrave. “Argrave, this is—”

“Iltuda,” Argrave finished. “The best blacksmith for the southron elves.”

Though she hesitated, she did eventually hold out her hand to Argrave. He shook it.

“Durran knows this, but… don’t take the rudeness to heart. Our people only say what we really think to people we trust.” She shook her head. “My father said good things about you. All of you. He’s been saying a lot, lately, considering he’s chair-bound. Wants me to forge him a new leg.”

Argrave nodded understandingly. “If it’ll keep him quiet…”

She laughed. “I see you catch on quick. Or maybe you already got used to the way we talk, what with dealing with the old ones.”

“Argrave!” called out a familiar voice.

Responding to his name being called, Argrave turned his head. Florimund strode out of the crowd. Argrave stepped past Iltuda, moving to greet the man. He raised his hand up, and Argrave raised his. They swung at the same time, catching into a handshake.

“Gods above…” he noted, staring at Argrave’s eyes. “Those eyes… this is that change you were talking about? Being Black Blooded?”

“Yeah,” Argrave nodded, though it was only a half-truth—it was easier to let him believe what he wanted than explain things.

“You look… better, somehow,” he continued. “More robust. With those eyes, you remind me of some of the half-elven children. The ones that had kids with the golden-eyed tribals. Black on the outside, gold pupils…”

“Sharp instincts,” Argrave nodded. “I am a great deal healthier.”

“That’s good.” He finally released Argrave’s hand. “I’m glad you came by. I thought you would refuse our favor, in part.”

“I never refuse anything free,” Argrave shook his head.

“Hardly free, considering you dealt with the Lord of Silver,” he shook his head.

Argrave smiled. “Speaking of looking better… it looks a lot more lively around here,” he glanced about.

Florimund looked around, taking in the sights. “Things… things are…” he paused, then looked back. “I told you I felt hopeful, before. That feeling has only gotten stronger.”

Behind, Durran furrowed his brows, but Argrave continued oblivious.

“How so?”

“That city of Sethia… Titus has emerged as the undisputed leader. He linked the southron elf war relics to other local leaders within the city, used it to seize their assets justifiably. He rounded up all of the relics and returned it all to us as a show of good faith. Might not be all, granted, but…”

Argrave raised a brow, surprised.

“Trading has already begun,” Florimund continued. “And it’s been equitable. His men have even protected some of us from the more deplorable, elf-hating humans.”

“What about the tribals?” Durran pressed, stepping forth. “What’s happening on that front?”

“I don’t know much,” Florimund shook his head. “Apparently, your father has recovered. And… a lot of people are moving to Sethia. The conditions within the city… I haven’t been,” Florimund shook his head. “All the people who have say conditions are nice. And that big, golden monument has been torn down. Titus minted coins with it.”

Argrave didn’t know what to think of these developments. It was so far removed from what he was familiar with… and all within a month. The possibilities running through his head were infinite. Durran seemed deeply bothered by the news—this was the man who’d very nearly framed him dead, and he was hearing nothing but praise.

“Since you’re here… I take it you’re taking us up on our offer? Imbuing some of your weapons with southron elven magic? Iltuda has been practicing,” he pointed.

“That’s right,” Argrave nodded quickly. “And… Galamon’s armor needs repairs, if you can manage that.”

“Done. You are more than welcome to stay here while this happens,” Florimund spread his arms out. “This new hope I feel… it comes in large part because of your efforts.”

“Good,” Argrave nodded. He had been hoping for this. There was much he needed to do, least of all cement their party of four’s plan for the plague.