Vance had seen many commanders in his life, but the one who stood before him resembled none. Looks more like an outlaw if you ask me. He laughed a little and pointed in secret, only for Kathi to smile back at him—this time her idiotic smile signaled mutual understanding. Her pale lips moved and spelled without sound, “Scary guy.” Fairuz cleared her throat disapprovingly, but Vance still nodded and laughed again. He was not only amused by Kathi’s crisply accurate description but also glad that he was getting along with her. The Seraph seemed to be developing some unexpected trust for him; they seemed to be on the same wavelength—recalling their shared ordeal in the forest, sharing a lax attitude toward the present, mocking uptight Fairuz in private.

Indeed, whenever Vance ridiculed Fairuz, he seemed to be earning himself more affection from the Seraph. But perhaps this was not the only reason that she liked him. It was their conversation about the dwarves that had made her feel at ease around him. She had told him that she had no personal reason to hate the dwarves, that they were demons in humanoid bodies, that they were the root of evil; and he had seemed to agree without contesting her logic. This reaction, along with his low level, made him seem less of a threat and more of a sympathizer, whom she could soon indoctrinate into the teachings of Samuel Ackard. Because he never contested her beliefs, she felt that he belonged to her.

But this twisted trust still needed to develop flavor, and so for now Vance did not make any rash attempts to exploit it. He instead let it age at its own pace and turned his attention to matters more pressing. Scary guy is an understatement. Commander Lyon approached in chainmail, gauntlets, and greeves. He was two meters tall, in thematic alignment with Earthgate Forest. His blond hair was long and disheveled, and his beard went all the way down his chest. The left eye was missing from his face, with a vertical claw mark stretching across the now empty socket. The wrinkles around this scar indicated that he was in his forties or even early fifties, but he didn’t seem too old to swing the large two-handed sword on his back—a mammoth weapon with a leather-wrapped grip.

Samuel Ackard would probably call this a “human-and-a-half.” Vance chuckled.

“I am Lyon, former Commander of the Beaucourt Town Guard and present Commander of Fort Hamadryad,” he said, with a deep voice that rose in growls and sunk in grunts. “I’ve served these lands for 30 years, and I’ll serve them for 30 more. What brings you here? If you’re chasing glory or fame, there’s none to be had. If you seek gold, there’s a shedload … but few live to spend it.”

“We’re not here for fame or gold, Commander,” Maxwell said, trying his best to stand tall. “We’re here to serve the lands and the people.”

“And to lick my ass, I suppose.” Lyon spit on the ground.

Maxwell seemed flustered, and words suddenly failed him.

“Do you have any casualties?” Lyon continued. “Dead or injured?”

“No, sir … though our Pyromancer, Fairuz, was severely injured. We healed her in time, but she might require some further attention.”

“The tunnel mages can take a look at her. The rest of you, to my office.”

Commander Lyon disappeared into the fort again, and it was up to his men to escort the party inside. Through the awe-inspiring gate, across a void that was dedicated for wagons and carriages, up a flight of wooden stairs, Vance walked as if he were an archaeologist exploring an ancient monument. He mapped the fort inside his head and assigned to each room its most plausible usage, but the map eventually grew too complex for him to retain, and so he was only left with a general impression. There were as many staircases as to lead a heavens-guided prophet astray—wander, wander, wander, among identical wooden walls, into narrower, narrower cracks, lured by the light of a magical lantern or odd spell.

Fairuz disappeared along the way—she was taken to the Observatory on the seventh floor, where the Light Mages could examine her injuries. Meanwhile, Vance, Maxwell, and Kathi stepped into the commander’s office on the fourth. Past the tagless door, there was a wide table with one chair, an Ezran lamp, a modern Sporometer, and a detailed map of the forest trade route. The room was rather minimalistic, and the only other furniture comprised a tall mannequin, which stood in plate armor and held onto a two-handed sword. Maxwell was naturally drawn to this display before Kathi pulled him away. He took a few moments to regain social awareness. Then everyone gathered around the table where the commander had been waiting.

“You’re not the brightest bunch, huh?” Lyon said, fiddling with a gold letter opener. “Bringing a Pyromancer along on your mission.”

“Fairuz has perfect control over her powers,” Maxwell rejoined.

“That’s what they all say before they wake their inner Otmar.”

Otmar? If Vance had heard right, Commander Lyon was referring to an event from the history of Engelsburg—the Fire of Kin. At the start of the Second Age of Zephyr, as the world prepared to welcome a new era of peace, Prince Otmar of Engelsburg rounded up his brothers and sisters and imprisoned them in the Black Tower. Then, although his mother cried tears of blood and begged him to stop, he still set the tower ablaze with his Pyromancy. The throne became his, but the wind blew the dark flames, and they spread, and by the time they were extinguished, half of Engelsburg had already burned to the ground. This Lyon knows his history … He’s more well read than he seems, and he might be an Engelian like me. I should be careful around him.

“Trust me, sir,” Maxwell laughed. “Fairuz won’t start any forest fires.”

“We’ll see about that,” Lyon grunted. “So what do you want from me? Speak! I haven’t got all day. There’s cargo to recover.”

“We have something that might help you with that, sir,” Maxwell smiled.

Kathi nudged Vance, who presented the map that he had been making.

“We’ve mapped the locations of the fallen victims and lost cargo.”

Lyon took the map and examined it with a cross expression. He furrowed his eyebrows and felt his beard. Then he called for one of his men, who took away the map to copy it. It was a clear sign of acknowledgment—an indication that the party had done useful work. And the words that followed, although spoken in a harsh manner, indicated that there was growing room for cooperation.

“The attack occurred exactly 78 minutes ago, somewhere north of the fort, in the direction of Beaucourt,” Lyon said, alternating his gaze between the three adventurers. “The tunnel was suddenly starved of Mana. That’s what the mages said. I’m no mage, so I didn’t care for niceties. Talk to them if you want to learn more. What I can tell you is that it was fast. A bee sting. That’s what it was. The attackers timed it while we were transporting our biggest shipment in three days, so I’m sure they had eyes on the route. Spies. Vermin. And we don’t have the resources to hunt them down.”

“Did you pursue any of the attackers?” Kathi said.

“I sent a squad of 30 riders north.”

“Is that enough, sir?” Maxwell said. “To face the dwarves?”

“It’s all I can spare,” Lyon said, before he pointed to the map. “The logistics of this place are a nightmare. We’re closer to Cromsville, but we’re forced to get our supplies all the way from Beaucourt. Because of some political nonsense.” He spit into a small jar on the ground. “I have a total of 180 men at my disposal. Just 180 to hold the fort, secure our supply lines, and escort the gold cargo. And you’re telling me to send them out on a wild-goose chase? Better call the orcs, I say. Call the orcs, and save me the headache!”

“We understand you’re in a tight spot, sir,” Maxwell said.

“Tight spot? Oh, it’s much worse than that!” Lyon shouted, disgruntled and provoked by Maxwell’s sympathy. “I never thought there’d come a day when I’d be commanding peasants and giving counsel to silver-spooned adventurers. But here we are!” He spit again into his jar. “You’re the third party to arrive, and if you don’t stop asking stupid questions—‘Is that enough, sir?’—if you don’t stop asking foolish questions and start doing real work, you’re going to be the third party to leave in coffins. Do you understand?”

“We do, sir, and we’ll do our best to be of assistance.”

The wrath of the commander wasn’t appeased, but before he could continue his rant, there was a knock on the door, and one of his men entered apace.

“Fredrick’s squad has returned, Commander!”

“Empty-handed, I suppose?”

“No, sir, they brought back witnesses! Survivors!”