*** Serif Shrine

His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. All around him, the beasts swarmed, though their ravenous focus had shifted toward the dying, muffled groans of his father. They were lost to bloodlust now, snapping and tearing at one another in their frenzy rather than waiting to share the warm meal. Serif’s white-knuckled grip remained locked on the broken spear shaft, its bone-white blade painted in the crimson hue of his father’s blood.

He knew he had to put as much distance between himself and the city as possible. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Warlock keeping pace, hovering ominous and silent behind him. The high, imposing walls of the Sixth and Third Tiers were still visible on the horizon, spurring him to dig deeper and force more speed into his aching legs.

He ran for what felt like hours, driving himself farther along the dark tree lines and into the open plains of the Sixth Tier. Only when the sun finally crested the horizon did Serif slow to a staggering pace. The underkin beasts feared the light; for now, that immediate threat had passed. Yet the looming shadow of the Tiers remained.

Had anyone seen him escape? Had a search party already scoured the area and found Sernan’s remains—or what little was left of them? Was that maniac Avaric Keda going to send help or kill him for his cowardice? Were they, or the Tiers, now fanning out across the outskirts to hunt for him or any other lingering threats? Where was he even going?

Questions raced endlessly through Serif’s mind, but one physical reality drowned out the rest: a desperate thirst. He could not recall a single time in his life he had run so far, or for so long. He knew the legends of the Third Tier Rangers—their uncanny tracking, endless endurance, and impossible pathfinding skills. If they were on his trail, he was in grave danger. The thought made him shudder, that at any moment, he would see a barbed arrow burst from his chest. He had to keep moving.

Having a five-foot, floating metallic construct at his side certainly didn't help his chances of staying hidden in the open plains. Serif looked back toward the city. Even from this distance, he could pick out the surviving pillars supporting the Third Tier perch—the few that hadn't been reduced to rubble. Beyond them, the Temporal Tower stood tall above the skyline like a silent sentinel, its stark silhouette blurring into the golden glare of the western sunrise.

Serif pushed on for another several miles before his body finally rebelled. His feet throbbed with a fiery pain, ruined by blisters. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. Surprisingly, his lungs weren't what had failed him—it was his body. His knees trembled with exhaustion, and the heavy sack filled with the dead orbs on his back had rubbed his lower skin raw, leaving a stinging rash.

The melodic clanging of the orbs provided Serif with a steady running tempo, but were now beginning to irritate him after so many miles of running. And they were dense and quite heavy. Serif kicked the sack away from him out of frustration. Hearing the clanging of the orbs again.

Serif sighed and gazed up. Serif met the observing gaze of the Warlock’s facemask—a pristine, glass-like structure that obscured where a face ought to be.

“I don’t suppose you know where to find water, eh?”

Serif caught a movement from the construct—an imperceptible tilt of its head he would have missed had he not been staring directly at it and in such a close proximity.

He took a startled step back, grimacing as the sudden motion shifted a burst blister. But the pain vanished from his mind as the Warlock turned its head away from him, scanning the expanse of the valley. A moment later, it locked its gaze back onto Serif, and with a sharp, precise movement, snapped its head a few degrees to the north-east.

Serif swallowed hard. He took a breath, hoping he wasn't misinterpreting the gesture, and pushed through the agonizing pain in his feet. Moving briskly in the direction the construct indicated, he soon heard the faint babble of running water.

Stumbling down a grassy embankment, Serif collapsed beside a clear stream and plunged his face into the current. The water was icy and crisp. He drank greedily, pausing only long enough to catch a ragged breath before plunging back in.

At last, he sat back against the bank, his throat finally quenched and looked up at the sky. He saw the three divine spheres and the star bathing the all of Shrine in its warmth.

“Uh—thank you.”

The Warlock offered no reply, remaining suspended in midair, staring down at him motionless.

Serif unlaced his boots and winced. His feet were a bloody mess. Sitting at the edge of the bank, he lowered his raw heels into the stream, letting the cold water numb the throbbing skin. To his shock, the angry red inflammation began to ease, the damaged tissue softening into a fresh, pale pink.

He had retracted the Admiral’s poker during the flight and considered summoning it now to trim the dead skin, but his hands were far too shaky; he was more likely to sever a toe than manage a precise cut. Pulling his steel dagger instead, he carefully worked the blade along his soles. After a few tense, painful slices, he cleared away the ruined skin and rinsed his feet in the current once more.

He couldn't afford to rest long. He had been still for too many minutes already.

Serif wrung out his wet socks as best he could. Tearing several strips of cloth from his sleeves, he wrapped his feet tightly before pulling the socks back on and wedging his feet into his boots. It was far from comfortable, but it was bearable.

Rising to a stiff walk, he gradually worked his way back up to a jog. He glanced over his shoulder—first to confirm the Warlock was still hovering at his back, and second to reassure himself that the city remained far beyond the horizon.

*** Sala Sailborn ***

“Dad!” Sala screamed as a thick, leather-bound hand gripped the back of her neck and pinched hard, yanking her backward into the mire.

She twisted, broke free, and screamed again. “Dad! Dad!”

The hand snagged her collar a second time, and a brutal left hook slammed across her jaw. Her legs gave out. She crashed hard into the soaked soil, taste of iron blooming across her tongue. Through the rain and mud, she saw her father forced over the ridge by a magical blast, while a mud-eater’s massive, grinding jaws locked around his shoulder. A second beast lunged over the lip after them, disappearing into the dark chasm below.

Sala spat blood and reached blindly for one of her krestreli. But her satchel slipped from her shoulder, hitting the ground upside-down and spilling its contents into the muck.

The man who controlled the construct stepped toward her, clutching a jagged, oozing wound across his ribs. At his flank stalked his Warlock—a tall, jointed frame of dark iron and brass, its central core pulsing with a low, unnatural violet light. Sala scurried backward, her fingers locking around the polished wooden shaft of a fallen kresteli. She hurled it with every ounce of strength left in her arms. The weapon cracked hard off the man’s temple, dynamic energy flaring before it ricocheted off course and fell short of its return arc.

It didn't drop him, but it staggered the brute long enough for her to scoop up the remaining three blades, shove them into her bag, and scramble back on her hands and knees.

A few yards away, two of the other mercenaries were locked in a frantic, swearing struggle, hacking away at a third mud-eater that whipped its spined tail through the wet brush.

The large brute clutching his bleeding temple took another heavy step toward Sala. Beneath his torn coat, the flesh near his ribs sagged, revealing a pale, fractured line beneath the bone—a wound that should have left any ordinary man dying in the mud. Yet he remained upright, his chest heaving with cold rage.

Before she could rise, the third mercenary—a wire-thin brute with grease-stained leather—leapt onto her back, forcing her face-first into the sodden leaves. A fifth man, a scarred enforcer with a missing ear, lunged from the side, grabbing Sala’s ankle and squeezing down on the joint like the jaws of a wolf. Sala kicked desperately with her free heel, but he bore down with all his weight, pinning her.

She screamed again—a long, ragged cry of agony. She wanted every damned underkin in the north forest to swarm them. If they had killed her father, she would make sure none of them survived the night.

“Shut her the hell up!” the brute with the head wound bellowed.

A heavy boot slammed into her face, followed by a torrent of wild blows. Bone crunched; her vision blurred into crimson.

The leader—a broad-shouldered man wearing a mantle of matted fur—strode over and retrieved a long, notched dagger from his belt. He knelt, wedging his filthy thumbs into her cheeks to pry her jaw open. Sala tried to snap her teeth shut, to bite through his fingers, but her broken jaw refused to obey, shifting with a sickening crunch.

He forced the steel inside. Sala felt the cold, sharp bite of the edge dragging across muscle.

The horror hit her all at once. Realizing what was happening, her body went cold. She stopped fighting, surrendering to the dark, and fell limp in the grip of the man holding her arms. A heavy, wet drop sounded against the damp soil beneath her face—a soft, horrific thump as the severed meat hit the leaves.

Sala let out a wet, gurgling groan, crushed under a wave of suffocating despair.

“That’ll shut ya up, you stupid slag,” the man pinning her growled, wiping blood off his wrist.

“You damned idiot,” the wire-thin mercenary spat, stepping back. “That might kill her.”

“Naw, these Fourth Tier forest inbreds are built of tough stock,” the leader grunted, wiping his blade on his trousers. “The tongue won’t grow back, but the bleeding’ll stop soon enough.”

“It better. Ya know who ‘er brother is?”

“Trillion, aye. Keda’ll pay a fleshmender to patch her up before we give ‘er over.”

“We’re supposed to bring the dad in too,” the scarred man muttered, eyeing the dark ridge nervously.

“Yeah, well, that ain’t happening now,” the leader snarled, delivering a vicious kick to the carcass of the slain mud-eater. “Bastard killed Charl and Brek, and took two of these fuckin’ things down with him. Real butcher, that one.” He motioned to the creature. “Carve out its heart so we can sell the shard, or even use it if Gerdy needs more juice. Let’s get moving. Our telemancer’s gonna be right pissed if we’re late.”

The leader halted abruptly and turned toward the Warlock, Gerdy. The construct lowered its cracked faceplate, its glowing central core flickering as a dry, synthesized hum echoed from its ribcage—a message being relayed.

The leader listened in his thoughts, his expression darkening, then let out a deep sigh.

“Got some bad news, boys. Keda’s pissed. He wants us heading south. ‘Parently a straggler snuck off with his prize—another warlock. Gerdy can sense the unit damn near directly south of us, moving east.”

“We killin’ 'em?” the wire-thin man asked, leaning on his spear from the exertion of the fight to bring down Wren Sailborn and the underkin.

“Missive says alive or dead,” the leader replied, checking his conduit and reattaching the wand to his belt. “Dead’s easier, of course. ‘Specially if we gotta fuckin’ walk all the way back north again. The Metrisei bastards shut our telemancers out. They be having a harder time getting ‘round.”

Sala’s face throbbed with a white-hot, agonizing heat. Her fingers curled weakly into the strap of her satchel, holding tight to the only thing she had left, before the darkness swallowed her whole.

*** Serif Shrine

Hours blurred into a grueling slog as Serif pushed along the soaring cliffs overlooking Shrine’s endless southern ocean. He kept a steady, agonizing pace, slowing only every few miles to silently appeal to the Warlock for another source of water. Which the Warlock obliged as before. By the time the day began its slow surrender to evening, his body was in open revolt. The sun dipped low toward the east, painting the sky and casting an amber wash across Serif’s sweat-streaked face.

As he navigated the crest of a ridge, his legs simply refused his commands. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the grassy soil.

“Why not just die here?” he rasped to the dirt, his voice raw. “Let them catch me. What a failure... what a fucking mess. Dammit. I was so close. Why did I listen to that fool? Why did I even run?”

He tried to slam his fist into the ground, but even that simple release was too much for his spent muscles. Instead, his hand limply twitched against the grass. He rolled onto his back, staring blankly up at the darkening expanse above. High in the twilight canopy, the Divine Three glowed with their distinct, vibrant hues—distant, cold, and utterly indifferent to his plight.

In his peripheral vision, the ever-present shadow of the Warlock hovered. Serif turned his head slightly, meeting its unblinking, glass mask.

“What should I do? Just lie here and die? Wait for them? What’s the point?” Serif gestured vaguely with his chin back toward the west, back toward the distant city. “You’re important, no doubt. That bastard definitely wants you... but is he even going to reach us before the Rangers do?”

He swallowed, his throat like sandpaper.

“Does he think I stole you? For what? I don’t... what am I even supposed to do with you? I don’t know how to navigate this place, let alone where Kasure Isle is—or any of the other settlements. Why are you even still here with me? Are there Underkin roaming these plains? Am I just going to be torn apart and eaten alive out here? Will they eat you? Can you even be eaten?”

His stomach answered with a hollow, painful growl.

Shrine was a world of abundance. During his frantic run, he had passed distant herds grazing on the horizon and flocks of birds wheeling overhead. Further north, where the sweeping plains tapered into thick timber, he knew there were fruit trees and wild berries. But the thought of trekking north was impossible; he lacked the strength to crawl ten feet, let alone forage.

“I should have just let him kill me,” Serif muttered, averting his gaze from the construct. He felt a sudden, strange prickle of shame—he didn't want this metallic watcher witnessing him in such a pathetic, broken state again. It watched as he plunged the poker into Sernan’s chest. It watched as he cried and kicked repeatedly to move away from the condemned man. His own father.

“If we’re all going to die anyway, why not here? Why not back there? What’s the damn point? Why go through all this trouble for you... and those other Warlocks?”

Closing his eyes, Serif focused his mind. He felt that familiar, icy rush coil in his mind as he summoned the Admiral’s poker. The weapon materialized into his grip, and he held it up against the fading sunlight, examining its lethal edge. But his arm trembled so violently under its weight that it collapsed back onto his chest. He gasped, instantly freezing, terrified the blade might slip and puncture his heart as it had done to his father.

He tightened his tired fingers around the broken hilt.

“Whose... whose weapon was this?” Serif demanded softly of the construct.

Silence was his only answer.

With a shuddering breath, Serif dismissed the poker. The act was becoming easier, more instinctive, though the phantom chill it left in his veins remained deeply unsettling.

“Any idea where we should actually be heading?”

Without warning, the Warlock raised its head, then snapped its mask back down directly at Serif. He flinched at the abrupt, archaic movement. Following the vector of the construct’s gaze, Serif pushed himself up onto his elbows on the grassy incline and squinted into the distance.

There, nestled in the vast dip of the valley below, stood the weathered silhouette of an ancient lignin fort.

“The hell...?”

At first glance, he thought it might be an active outpost, but the structure was clearly derelict. Even from this distance, he could see thick, untamed vegetation choking its outer ramparts and overgrown grass breaching its stone gates.

The brief respite—and the sudden spark of discovery—gave him just enough strength to haul himself back to his aching feet. Blood had seeped through the leather of his boots, staining them a dark, dull color, but the throbbing pain was no longer enough to stop him. The ruined fort was only a few miles away, settled gently on the far slope of the valley floor.

Serif let out a long, shuddering sigh and set off down the hill. His strides were slow and stiff, but for the first time since the slaughter, he moved with a clear destination. He had a purpose again, and with it, a stubborn, surging resolve.

He would survive this night. He would cross these lands, find what was left of Keda’s band, and get off Shrine once and for all.

*** Serif Shrine

Serif collapsed onto the makeshift bed, his body giving out the moment he reached it. His clothes were heavy, soaked through by the driving rain that had begun a few hours prior. Trembling with cold, he stripped down as best he could.

Someone had dragged dried grass and matted foliage onto the fort’s second floor to fashion a bed. It was neat and orderly and well made. It had clearly seen use before but not for several weeks, but Serif couldn’t bring himself to care about who had been there before him. Morning was fast approaching. The hike to this abandoned outpost had proven vastly longer than he had anticipated; it was as though the image in his mind had been warped. What had looked like a manageable three-mile trek had stretched into an exhausting trek twice that distance. Perhaps exhaustion had fueled a hallucination, or sheer desperation had distorted his sense of scale.

Yet, as he lay there, he felt safe. As safe as one could reasonably be in the wild. He fought with his boots, managed to kick off the one covering his most severely blistered foot, and gave up on the other. Exhaustion claimed him before his head fully settled into the dry grass.

When Serif finally awoke, the sun was high in the sky. Judging by the angle of the light, it was already late afternoon. A hollow ache gnawed at his stomach, and his throat was bone-dry.

He forced himself upright, moving slowly as white-hot pain flared through his lower back and legs—a soreness deeper than anything he had ever known. His legs buckled on his first step, causing him to stumble awkwardly into the metallic frame of the Warlock.

“Ah—sorry,” Serif muttered automatically, catching his balance.

He let out a dry, breath-tinged laugh at the absurdity of apologizing to an unthinking, emotionless construct. But even as the thought passed, he rejected it. The construct had saved his life. He knew it had hovered over him, watching silently as he slept through the daylight hours. Looking up at its polished mask was the very last memory he had before drifting off. It might not have possessed the instinct to defend him from an attack, but it had led him straight to water and to this refuge. Perhaps it wasn't entirely uncaring.

He could feel its presence—though feel wasn't quite the right word. He could sense it, an invisible pulse hovering at the edge of his awareness.

Serif paused, recalling the vivid image of the fort that had flashed in his mind while standing on the ridge. There was no physical way he could have spotted these ruins from that distance or behind those hills. He turned toward the Warlock, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Was the construct capable of such a feat? Could it project images directly into his mind?

His hand drifted instinctively to his chest, fingers pressing against the spot where he had absorbed that strange, burning orb.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where to find food, would ya?” he asked.

The Warlock remained utterly motionless.

When Serif had first dragged himself into the courtyard hours ago, he had been delirious with exhaustion. He hadn't checked the perimeter, nor had he cared if the fort was occupied or overrun by beasts. He had simply wanted to lie down and surrender to sleep—or death. But he had slept, and against all odds, he had awakened alive.

Navigating the lignin stairs, Serif stepped out into what had once been the central courtyard. The fortification was ancient. Its eastern stone wall had long since crumbled into mounds of moss-covered rubble, and the northern gate had been swept away by years—perhaps decades—of erosion and rain.

Then his eyes caught sight of a row of hollowed-out logs resting near the drainage runoff.

Serif hurried over and dropped to his knees. The logs were brimming with clean rainwater, set out deliberately by whoever had last inhabited the place. He plunged his mouth into the water, drinking deep. He felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude for the stranger who had left them. If he ever encountered the person who maintained this refuge, he owed them a debt he couldn't easily repay.

His stomach growled fiercely, demanding substance. Scanning the edges of the courtyard, Serif froze. Tended vines and low bushes hugged the inner wall, bearing a rich yield of berries, nuts, and thick, low-hanging fruit.

A garden. Someone had cultivated a living garden here.

Serif rushed forward, nearly skipping in his delight, grabbing a heavy, oval fruit from a sturdy branch. Drawing his steel dagger, he sliced into the rind. The tough outer skin yielded easily, revealing bright, sweet-smelling orange colored flesh beneath. He devoured it in rapid bites, juices running down his chin and onto his bare chest. He tore into a second fruit, then a third, consuming only the richest core of the flesh and carelessly dropping the rest onto the dirt.

Having gorged himself far past comfort, Serif sat back against the weathered stone, watching the sun sink through the gap in the collapsed eastern wall. His eyes drifted to the waste he had left on the ground—husk after half-eaten husk rotting in the dirt. He looked up at the Warlock, which stood quietly nearby like an attentive specter.

“Aye, don’t look at me like that. There’s plenty of it,” Serif said defensively, gesturing toward the lush greenery around them.

Despite his words, a sharp sting of guilt settled in his chest. Someone had taken great care to nurture this garden in the wilderness, and their foresight had quite literally preserved his life. He had repaid that grace like a ravenous beast. But what did it matter, really? That person was gone.

As the first drops of evening rain began to fall, Serif retreated back to the dry shelter of the second floor and let sleep take him once more. This time, he didn’t feel like death would be a better outcome.

By morning, the deep ache in his muscles had subsided to a manageable dull throbbing. He felt remarkably renewed—better than he had in days, minus the soreness. His mind felt refreshed.

Desperate to restore some sense of order, Serif washed his torn and bloodied clothes in the rain logs and wrung them out before turning his attention to the garden. He wanted to make amends for his greed the night before. Serif didn’t know how long he was going to stay, or even if he wanted to leave. And the gardens made a convincing argument for him to stay. The truth was, Serif didn't know the first thing about agriculture or tending crops. He simply did his best, using his dagger to prune away blackened, failing fruit and eating only what he removed so as not to waste the healthy yield.

He cracked open a handful of thick-shelled nuts from the outer bushes, but the moment he chewed one, an intense, bitter sharpness coated his tongue. He spat it out instantly, a sudden flash of panic hitting him as he wondered if he had just poisoned himself.

Determined to shake off the anxiety, Serif decided to build a fire. A small blaze would dry his gear and provide some much-needed comfort. He gathered dry scrap wood from the upper floor and struck his steel against a piece of local flint he found near the wall.

He labored for hours, striking again and again until his wrists ached and spark after spark died on the damp tinder. Looking down at the notched edge of his blade, he grimaced, worried he was doing nothing more than ruining good steel.

In the end, Serif went without a fire—and soon decided it was for the best. Smoke would only serve as a beacon across the dark plains. He wondered if the Third Tier patrolled this far out, or if their hunters actively ranged these borders. Surely not the Sixth, he reasoned. Their trappers and scouts stuck to the central plains, rarely pushing this far east toward the coast.

Yet the fear lingered, paired with a growing anxiety that the fort’s true occupant might return at any moment to reclaim their shelter.

He resolved to leave at first light. Tomorrow, he would pack his sack with as much of the garden's fruit as it could hold, drink his fill from the logs, and trek north. The Kasure Islands lay somewhere in that direction; he could only hope the silent Warlock would guide him.

Descending to the courtyard one last time, Serif drank a massive quantity of water, ensuring he was thoroughly hydrated for the long journey ahead.

He fell asleep early into the evening, exhausted, bored, and eager to let rest finish mending his body.

Sometime in the dead of night, Serif jerked awake, his bladder aching with urgent pressure. Stumbling blindly through the dark fort, he made it to the stone threshold of the courtyard, unbuttoned his trousers, and began to relieve himself into the darkness.

Then, a sudden, bizarre sensation rippled from the Warlock—a subtle vibration in the air that made the hair on Serif's neck stand on end. He froze mid-stream as a cold, sharp voice sliced through the silence.

“Who are you to be pissing on my doorstep?”

It was a woman’s voice, tight with dangerous irritation.

“Whose Warlock is that? Who are you? Why are you here?”

Serif remained completely motionless, holding himself in place, terror seizing his throat and hands clenching. Cautiously, inch by inch, he turned his head to scan the darkness. Standing near the ruined archway to the eastern exit of the fort was the shadowy silhouette of a woman, a longbow drawn and notched directly at his chest.

The Third Tier. They had tracked him. He was going to die right here, with his dick in his hand.

“H-hello,” Serif stammered, his voice cracking. “It appears you have caught me at a disadvantage.” Serif laughed nervously. “I was just leaving, actually. Just finishing up here–”

“Who are you? Don’t move your hands.” she demanded again, stepping forward, the deadly tension of her bowstring holding steady.

“Ah... Tersen! My name is Tersen.”

“Which Tier?”

“Ah, no Tier. Tireless, in fact. Unaffiliated would be a more apt term. I’m just traveling through. Kind of a lost sort, you know? I mean—I’m a bit turned around,” Serif rambled. “I’m headed north, to the Kasures, to trade and—”

“Shut up, fool. You’re no tradesman.”

“Aye, indeed. You caught me! I’m more of a salesman than anything.”

She moved closer, closing the distance with silent, predatory grace. Serif’s eyes darted instinctively toward the upper floor; his steel was sitting uselessly beside his bedroll—or rather, beside her bedroll.

Then he remembered the Admiral's poker.

Serif slowly released his tense grip, his mind racing. Turn swift and thrust it into her chest, he thought, calculating the distance.

But the moment he began to pivot, the woman slammed her foot brutally into his lower back. The force launched him sprawling out across the courtyard's damp, soiled grass. Serif scrambled to turn, panicking as he tried to summon the cold rush of the poker, but his fear choked out his focus.

Before he could center his mind, that same booted foot smashed hard into his face.

The world burst into a blinding flash of white. Groaning, Serif blinked through tearing eyes to see the Warlock hovering silently above, while the woman loomed over him, a slender dagger with a wicked, curved edge glinting in her hand.

Hands grabbed him roughly, yanking his arms behind him and violently flipping him onto his stomach. Serif was surprised with how strong she was. Although Serif wasn’t a particularly large individual by any consensus, but he had never been so man-handled by a woman before. She was definitely a Ranger from the Third. 

A heavy knee drove down into the back of his neck, pinning his face into the dirt as rough cord bit into his wrists.

“Now,” she growled into his ear. “I will ask you one last time. Who are you?”

“Tersen! I told you, my name is Tersen!”

“Which Tier, Tersen?”

“I work for my father!” Serif gasped against the soil. “I’ve done runs for both the Seventh and the Sixth—”

The woman hissed in disgust, applying more pressure to his neck.

“Tersen what?”

“Tagerly! Tersen Tagerly! My father is a merchant and business owner on the Fourth Tier—he crafts shard-jewelry and mechanisms! Clockwork and lock mechanisms. He is affiliated with Master Rennell. Surely you must know of his work, yes? Yes! I act as his courier to the Seventh who often procure our wares.”

The lie slipped out with practiced desperation. Serif hadn't entirely fabricated the background—he had taken odd courier jobs between the tiers—though his primary work had always been rooted in the Fourth. But after mentioning Master Rennell’s name, Serif winced at the image of seeing him sliced into two equal parts. The sheer violence displayed by the berserker left a frightening mark on Serif’s psyche.

Serif shook the thought away. He had to focus now. “As of now, I’m independent!” he blurted, words tumbling out in a frantic flood. “Trying to stake my own claim, seeking trading partners with the coastal settlements near the Kasures! Truly, I’m just passing through! I got lost in the storm and took shelter here for the night. I mean no intrusion into your space—it’s a lovely space! The garden is remarkable, really, I must say. You have an incredible knack—a green thumb, if I may say—” Serif’s voice trailed off when he saw the disgusted expression on the ranger’s face.

She yanked him violently up by his bound arms. Serif cried out as a sharp, tearing pain shot through his shoulders, made all the more humiliating as his unbuttoned trousers slipped down past his hips, pinning his knees together as he stumbled forward.

Roughening his pace, she dragged and shoved him awkwardly up the rotting lignin stairs—Serif hopping and tripping over his own tangled waistline—before throwing him heavily onto the second-floor lignin floor, opposite her bedroll. Serif’s gaze immediately flicked toward his scattered gear, specifically the sheath holding his steel dagger.

The desperate glance did not escape her notice.

With practiced efficiency, she looped a second cord around his ankles, binding his feet tightly to his wrists behind his back. Leaving him completely trussed and helpless, she stood up and began to strip off her outer armor. She placed her longbow and quiver upright against the wall, then unbuckled her leather belt.

A hot flush of embarrassment and acute awkwardness washed over Serif—made infinitely worse by the fact that his own trousers were still unbuttoned from his previous interrupted action. His bare ass on full display. He quickly averted his eyes toward the wall. He wanted to keep an eye on his captor, but he desperately needed to project humility and prove he wasn't a threat.

“I’m sorry, m’lady,” he muttered to the wall. “I’m truly just a traveler. A salesman.”

“Travelers travel with warlocks?

“On occasion, yes, certainly, no doubt.”

“Do they now?” she asked, her voice dry and utterly unimpressed.

“I... I purchased it weeks ago in the city,” Serif stammered. “Well, strictly speaking, it belongs to my family on loan from my father. I like to think of it as my own, though I haven't fully paid off the debt. Perhaps one day—”

A cold scoff cut him off, followed by the soft, heavy rustle of cloth pooling on the stone floor.

“Please, I beg of you,” Serif continued, his mind working furiously to weave a believable tale. “Once you are... presentable—not that you weren't presentable before, of course! I, too, prefer comfortable attire after a long journey—but perhaps once you're comfortable, you might untie me? So we can discuss this reasonable misunderstanding like rational adults? I truly mean you no harm whatsoever, on my word and the word of Tagerly & Sons’ Designs. A reputable brand and well-known house within Shrine.”

If he could just calm her down, he might be able to steady his own racing pulse long enough to manifest the poker.

“How many others are with you?” she asked. Her tone had shifted—less overtly hostile now, but sharp and analytical.

“Others? None! Just me and the Warlock. It manages my ledgers and inventory—as constructs do. We—”

“Tersen.”

The calm authority in her voice made Serif freeze.

“Yes?” he squeaked, sensing a razor-thin window for negotiation.

“Your friends are out there,” she said flatly. “And if they set foot in this fort, I will slit your throat before I go out to kill them. Do you understand me?”

Serif turned his head sharply toward her, but instantly snapped his gaze away. A beam of pale moonlight pouring through the high arched window illuminated the chamber, revealing that she had yet to don her tunic.

“I swear to you, I am alone!” Serif whispered desperately, his thoughts spiraling in panic. Could it be Keda’s men tracking him down? Or something far worse? “Look at my belongings! There’s no one else here! If there are souls out in those hills, they’re strangers to me—and certainly no friends of mine!”

A heavy silence stretched between them. Serif held his breath, hoping she was scanning the perimeter and coming to the obvious conclusion that he was, in fact, entirely alone.

“Look there—my steel. It’s the only meager protection I have. Used primarily for starting fires, and it’s not much good even at that.”

The Ranger stalked the perimeter of the outpost’s upper floor before stepping back toward Serif, her boots silent against the aged stone.

“You’re a ranger, then?” she asked, scowling down at him. “A Third-tier ranging this far from the city?”

She scoffed, her gaze narrowing. “How long have you been here?”

“A day at most, I swear! My boots were none too kind to my feet during the trek from the city a week or so ago.”

Their eyes locked in a tense, unyielding stare.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Serif offered, letting out an awkward, breathless laugh. “I’m sorry we had to meet under such... strained circumstances. Certainly I deserve it, no doubt.”

“You deserve far worse for pissing on my front lawn.”

“Aye. Truly inconsiderate of me. May I know your name?”

“No.”

“I see.” Serif exhaled a weary sigh. “Understandable. Come morning, please send me on my way and you will never see me again, I swear it.”

“How many are you waiting for?”

Serif sighed again. “Zero. Absolutely no one knows I am here, or even that I've ventured this far from Shrine’s walls.”

The woman offered a low hm of consideration. “So if I were to turn you into fertilizer for my garden, there wouldn’t be anyone coming to search for your remains?”

Serif swallowed hard against the dry lump in his throat. “I’ve enough fertilizer in my pants already, m’lady. I’d be most willing to jettison that from my trousers as a modest contribution to your lovely garden.”

Ignoring him, the woman began to dress, indifferent to his presence. Serif didn’t know how to interpret her disregard—whether she trusted him enough to turn her back, or if he was simply marked for death anyway, making modesty pointlessly irrelevant.

“Your Warlock,” she started, pulling a tunic over her head to cover her exposed torso. “Why is it always staring at you?”

“It’s an older model. Defunct, they said—lacking a few key adjustments. That’s why I was allowed to leave with it. It’s not particularly valuable and takes a great deal of time to perform minor calculations, but it’s the only companion I have out beyond the walls. Aside from you now, of course,” Serif added, squeezing out a forced smile and a meager chuckle.

“Right.”

“Perhaps we can rest, and in the morning you can examine me further, see that I’m no threat, and send me on my way—”

“I’ve already examined far too much of you.”

“Then I beg, please examine my Warlock and see for yourself that it is a simple machine.”

The woman cinched her belt tight and stepped toward the hovering construct. She nudged its metallic shoulder, and its glowing gaze snapped instantly to her.

Serif blinked, startled by the construct's response. The Warlock looked significantly older now than it had moments earlier—weathered and pitted, as if it hadn't seen a drop of oil or a technician's touch in years. It certainly hadn't looked this derelict in the Vaults, nor during their frantic escape.

“Please be gen—”

“Warlock,” the Ranger commanded sharply. “Display contacts. Display most recent communications. Sort by the most recent date and time.”

Serif stared at her in amazement. He had no idea such a command structure was even possible with the ancient machine. A quiet relief washed over him as the faceplate remained blank and dormant.

“Aye, it has been malfunctioning lately, you see?”

Before he could finish the thought, Serif gasped, scrambling to mask his shock as the faceplate flickered to life. An array of glowing glyphs projected brilliant, ethereal images and text into the air before her.

She read intently for several long moments, her sharp eyes scanning each illuminated panel. Serif’s jaw went slack.

“This is your father?”

Serif was still in shock, the words catching in his chest.

“Fool. Is this your father?”

“Uh—sorry, I can’t quite see from this angle.” Truthfully, Serif could clearly make out the small floating portrait of an older man who shared his likeness: greying curly brown hair, sharp blue eyes, and weathered, tanned skin.

Serif squirmed against the uncomfortable bindings—a purely symbolic gesture he hoped that his captor noticed. “Yes, that’s him.”

“And your mother?”

Another image was placed next to the first. Serif’s breath hitched in his throat. It was a flawless projection of his mother—a face he had slowly lost to time, blurred by years of neglect and quiet sorrow. An image he had deliberately avoided summoning, terrified that seeing her again would break whatever resolve he had left.

“She looks young,” the Ranger noted. “Is your father some sort of pervert?”

Serif shook his head, letting out a faint, sad laugh. “No. Well... yes. But my mother simply aged gracefully.”

“Warlock. Resume duties.”

The construct chimed faintly and complied, snapping its focus back to Serif as its faceplate faded to black.

“How old are you?”

Serif continued to stare at the construct in silent amazement. None of that had been real. Whatever dialogue and messages it had displayed were entirely fabricated. How had the machine even possessed the awareness to weave such a lie?

Serif cleared his throat, forcing his mind back to the present. “Soon to be twenty–”

The Ranger turned away and straightened her bedroll against the far stone wall. “In the morning, you should send a message to your mother. She misses you. There are several unread missives in the queue.”

“I—” Serif stammered, his throat tight. “I will do that. Thank you.”

He eyed the dormant Warlock suspiciously. The visage it had conjured was most definitely not Sernan. It was his mother, yes—but as he remembered her from his youth, not as she would appear today.

“Perhaps... you might untie me now?” Serif asked softly. “I can quickly pack my belongings and finish my business at a polite distance, far from your outpost. Truly, I regret disturbing you. No harm, no foul on your end, of course.”

He harbored a faint hope of freedom, though a darker, desperate thought crossed his mind—the possibility of sneaking back inside while she slept to slit her throat. He could cut down her trousers to fit his frame, and that long, deep-green cloak she wore was clearly enchanted and masterfully woven. It would prove invaluable for the brutal trek north.

Serif suppressed the thought with a weary sigh. She was vastly stronger than he was. As much as he had practiced moving unseen through the alleys and shadowy streets of the city, he doubted he could slip past the razor-sharp senses of a seasoned Ranger—especially one who suspected hostile eyes lurking in the surrounding hills.

“If you cannot or will not untie me, I understand,” Serif murmured. “I will simply sleep, and when you wake, I will take my leave if it pleases you.”

She offered only a low grunt and closed her eyes. “Too dangerous out. A few mud-eaters prowling, and probably a band of highwaymen camped half a dozen miles off.” She paused, turning a critical gaze onto Serif.

“I don’t think you’re the type to survive out there.”

Serif exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to wince. He really needed to finish his piss. Yet beneath the burning discomfort, a subtle wave of relief washed over him. The Warlock’s masterful ploy had worked. The ranger no longer saw him as a threat—merely a fool traveling alone.

He strained his neck, searching the upper floor for his gear, but she had moved everything well out of reach and sight. His steel was nowhere to be seen.

Serif rested his forehead against the cold, lignin floorboards. He wished he could somehow pull up his trousers and tuck his sensitive bits back in, smiling faintly at the absurd thought of asking her to do it for him. That would most certainly sour this budding trust, ensuring their remains ended up as fertilizer come morning.

But what did it matter anyways? He was most likely going to die if she peppered him with more questions.

“Is it possible you could pull up my pants? This is rather humiliating,” Serif said with a disarming smile.

“No. I’d rather have you feeling vulnerable.”

“Your strategy is being employed quite well, m’lady. Perhaps you can loosen the bindings around my wrists? I fear I may be losing feeling in my hands.”

“You’ll live.”

“That’s sounding more and more unpleasant–”

The ranger held up a sharp hand, signaling absolute silence.

It was then that Serif felt the strange, prickling sensation in his mind as well. The Warlock was hovering just above him, completely forgotten and ignored—much as one might ignore a dusty bookcase or an old shelf in the corner of a room.

After several long, suffocating moments of silence, Serif dared to whisper. “What do you hear?” But to Serif’s surprise, he could almost see a group or a gathering forming outside of the fort in the courtyard. He looked up at the Warlock and wondered if it was the construct conjuring those images or his own imagination.

The ranger hissed beneath her breath. She retrieved her longbow and quiver in a fluid motion, then crept toward the opening, peering hesitantly over the crumbling stone wall.

“Shit.”

“What, what is it?”

“The highwaymen.” She turned sharply, eyeing Serif with sudden, dangerous suspicion.

Serif’s heart hammered against his ribs as a flush of panic warmed his neck. He watched, horrified, as the ranger’s hand drifted toward the hilt of her hunting dagger.

“Wait–” Serif began, but a booming voice cut him off from below.

“Good day! Or early morning, I suppose,” the voice echoed up from the stone courtyard. “We know ya in there. Send out the ‘lock and we leave ya be. Do it soon and we leave ya be. Terry along and we be coming in.”

The ranger paused, slowly easing her hand away from the dagger.

“Seems like they saw you coming here. Damn you, Tersen. You ruined my little piece of solitude.”

Serif opened his mouth, but found himself entirely at a loss for words.

The ranger peeked over the apron of the window once more, then melted back slowly into the shadows.

“How many?” Serif asked.

“Seven.”

Serif almost relieved himself on the spot. The nagging urge to piss had instantly escalated into an outright emergency.

She peeked again, her brow furrowed. “Five.”

“Seven or five? How many?”

“Girl. Young. Chain round her neck. Warlock. Big man, four others.”

It was definitely Keda’s forces out looking for Serif and this twice-stolen warlock.

“Quick! Untie me. I can help.”

She answered with a scoff, then the ranger sprang up. An arrow was already nocked, three more held tightly between her knuckles. She drew and let loose—one, two, three, four arrows in rapid, terrifying succession. From the courtyard came a sudden scream of shock and pain, swiftly followed by a wet, gurgling gasp.

She sprinted toward a window on the opposite wall, leaving Serif thrashing uselessly against his bindings.

“Wait—hey! Wait. Untie me!” Serif hissed after her, but the heavy twang of another bowstring drowned out his plea.

“You’re a dead man, you stupid bastard!” a coarse voice bellowed from the courtyard below.

A sudden, blinding detonation rocked the ceiling of the second floor, showering the chamber in dust and splinters. One of them was using a conduit to fire back at the ranger. This is very bad, Serif thought, panic tightening in his chest.

He needed his steel. Turning onto his side, a sharp spike of agony shot through his bound shoulders and knees. The knots held his wrists pinned tightly behind his back, lashed securely to his ankles. He rolled again, craning his neck until the tendons strained, but he still couldn't spot his pack in the gloom.

Then, like a spark striking flint in the dark, the image flashed into his mind: the Admiral’s Poker.

Serif forced himself to relax. He closed his eyes and calmed his frantic breathing, though in doing so, he realized with a jolt of horror that he was creating a warm puddle beneath himself and soaking the trousers around his knees. He exhaled a sigh of bitter resignation.

“Hi guys, I’m actually on your side,” Serif mused silently to himself. “There’s a ranger in there. I’m not with her. Yes, I am in fact covered in my own piss.”

He forced his focus back to the immediate peril. He needed to speak to them—or put as much distance between them as his legs could manage—but first, he had to cut these damned bindings. Ignoring the concussive twang of bowstrings and the chaotic shouts echoing from below, he channeled every ounce of his willpower, conjuring the poker into his right palm.

What if it’s trapped within my consciousness? He hadn't practiced summoning and dismissing the artifact. What if I can never manifest it again? A cold wave of dread washed over him. He cast his gaze upward at the hovering Warlock and grimaced, wondering just how pathetic he looked at this moment.

“Hi,” he whispered desperate. “I need your help again, please.”

The construct remained motionless, maintaining its empty, unnerving stare. Serif groaned, tapping his forehead rhythmically against the floorboards in sheer frustration. At least the urgency in his bladder was gone. He exhaled slowly. He was going to force the weapon forth, whether his mind wished to cooperate or not.

Gritting his teeth with a low growl, he flexed his right hand—numb and turning a sickly shade of blue from the lack of circulation—and suddenly, the jagged, broken spearhead materialized in his grip. The unexpected weight shifted, and its razor edge sliced sharply into his palm, forcing him to drop it instantly.

Serif winced, rolling uncomfortably onto his back. He felt around blindly for the weapon, grimacing up at the rafters. His fingers brushed the sharp bone-like material, slicing the tip of his forefinger in the process, but his bleeding hand finally closed around the rough hilt of the broken spear. Bracing himself, he dragged the dangerously sharp relic against the coarse hemp, sawing with delicate, painstaking precision. The angle was wretched with his hands bound behind him, but the ancient edge bit deep, and the fibers parted like wet thread.

Next, he cut his ankles free, Serif dismissed the weapon back into the recesses of his mind. An overwhelming wave of relief washed over him, accompanied immediately by a stinging tide of shame as pulled up his soiled trousers and buttoned them up.

Peering through the shadows, he spotted the ranger furiously defending the eastern perimeter of the structure. Tucked behind a crumbling lignin pillar nearby rested his personal belongings. He scrambled across the floorboards, retrieving his travel bag and his steel dagger.

Weapon in hand, he hurried toward the stairwell, but stopped abruptly at first landing.

Should I go back up and try to kill her myself, or just run? he weighed frantically. I can say I was captured, that I had to flee initially, and the Warlock just followed me. I didn’t plan to steal it or betray anyone. In fact, I even killed the ranger attacking you guys...

Decision made, he spun around to head back up, intending to wait until the ranger was occupied with a shot to stab her in the back. But as he turned, he collided hard with the Warlock hovering motionless a few steps above him, staring down at him with blank indifference.

Above them, another arcane blast rocked the ceiling, raining hot sparks of arcane energy down onto him.

Yeah. Probably a bad idea.

He pivoted on his heel and darted down the steps. Rounding a narrow corner, he slipped out through the rear western doorway, only to skid to a sudden halt in the dirt. Standing a mere few yards away was one of the mercenaries—a drawn broadsword in his fist and a fletched arrow protruding from his bloody neck.

“Whoa! Hi. I’m actually on your side,” Serif stammered, raising his free hand in surrender. “That’s a Third Tier ranger up there, I think. Yes, this is the warlock. We can leave.”

The mercenary cocked his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He gestured sharply with the tip of his blade toward the dagger in Serif’s hand, pointing down at the mud. The intent was clear: drop the steel.

“Yeah. No problem. I’m no threat. I’m with Amir and his reavers. Well, I was.” Serif glanced over his shoulder at the hovering construct, taking a deep breath to steady his pulse while praying his grim suspicions wouldn't prove true.

Serif tossed the dagger into the dirt.

Without warning, the mercenary charged.

Of course, Serif thought.

The sellsword’s blade swung high above his head while his free hand clamped down desperately on the spurting wound in his neck.

Serif launched himself forward directly into the charge. In a fraction of a second, he conjured the poker into existence, bracing his palm against the jagged base of the broken shaft. He drove the thrust straight ahead with all his weight, sinking the spearhead deep into the man's chest.

The mercenary’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. He stared down at the ancient bone protruding from his jerkin, then coughed a dark, warm spray of blood directly into Serif’s face. His knees buckled, and he slid backward off the crimson blade, hitting the dirt lifelessly.

Serif wiped the red mist from his eyes, gasping for breath. He wondered just how many times that trick would work before someone saw it coming. Then again, no one ever expected a man of his stature—and obvious, wretched poverty—to be concealing an artifact of such terrifying power.

He reached down and scooped up the fallen broadsword. Any steel with reach was better than his dagger or a broken spearhead he couldn’t summon half the time. He looked at the broadsword and frowned. He didn't know the first thing about proper swordplay but it was better than nothing.

Keeping low, Serif moved stealthily into the garden’s thick foliage to observe the courtyard. Through the brush, he spotted the lead mercenary—definitely one of Keda’s men—with an augmented Warlock hovering just behind his shoulder. The man held a conduit wand, drawing pulsing power from his construct before unleashing a stream of deadly arcane projectiles into the upper floor of the fort. He ducked back into cover, pulling viciously on a heavy iron chain attached to a young girl’s collar. Her face was a bloody mess, her wrists bound in iron shackles.

Two other mercenaries crouched behind stone cover in the courtyard, while a third had just slipped through the fort's main entrance.

Serif racked his brain, trying to recall what the ranger had said about their numbers. Five. There were five mercenaries. One was definitely dead by his own hand. That left the leader, the two behind cover, and the one sneaking inside. He noticed one of the men in cover had two arrows buried in his chest, grimacing in agony.

Serif looked up at his Warlock and sighed. He was crouched deep in the bushes, while the five-foot-tall construct hovered right out in the open above him.

“Dammit, man,” he whispered angrily. “Can you not crouch? Or walk? Or hide?”

“Go around the side!” the leader barked at the arrow-riddled mercenary.

“Heath already went that way!” the man spat back.

“Aye, go and see what’s keeping him, then! Kill this bastard!”

The wounded mercenary sprinted around the perimeter wall, and Serif froze in sheer panic. Surely the man would spot the construct hovering over the bushes, directly above him. But as the mercenary rounded the corner, he looked straight toward Serif’s hiding spot—and kept running right past, his right arm hanging limp at his side.

They didn’t see the Warlock? Serif glanced back at his construct and noticed its surface rippling, taking on the exact hue and texture of the surrounding stone and foliage. It was using some manner of active camouflage. Incredible.

“Heath’s dead!” the mercenary screamed from around the bend. “His body’s here!”

As the mercenary leader peeked around his cover to investigate, a stray arrow grazed his face, tearing a bright, angry line of crimson across his cheek.

The mercenary near the body knelt to inspect the fatal wound. “He was stabbed! Someone else is—”

Serif erupted from the bushes, rushing headlong at the tall, wiry man. He drove the broadsword straight into the mercenary's gut, the momentum crashing them both hard against the lignin wall. The wiry bastard groaned in agony, but then growled; he slammed his forehead violently into Serif’s face.

Pain exploded behind Serif’s eyes as both men reeled back. Serif stumbled, ripping the broadsword free. The mercenary surged forward, executing a wide, desperate sweep with his spear that whistled inches from Serif’s throat. Serif hit the ground, losing his grip on the heavy sword.

Acting on instinct, Serif drew his dagger and hurled it. The blade struck fast, sinking deep into the mercenary’s uninjured shoulder. Serif scrambled to his feet, nearly falling over from the dizziness. His throw was sheer, dumb luck. Serif snatched up the broadsword, and wobbled forward. He lined his body up and lunged. The mercenary tried to limp back toward his allies, but Serif ran him through from behind, pinning him against the stone wall.

Closing the distance, Serif slammed his knee viciously into the man's groin, seized the hilt of the dagger embedded in his shoulder, and gave it a cruel, twisting wrench.

Always make the cut hurt more, Sernan’s voice echoed in his mind.

With a ragged snarl, Serif repeatedly drove the dagger into the man’s lower back, carving open the flesh just above the embedded broadsword. The mercenary collapsed in a heap, motionless.

Serif exhaled, his chest heaving with haggard breaths. He retrieved his broadsword and quickly searched the corpse, his fingers brushing against a hard, brightly colored shard in the man's tunic. A shard from an Underkin. Incredible. This single prize would easily buy his passage off of Shrine.

Backing away as stealthily as he could manage, he retreated into the garden and scrambled over the outer wall. He needed to run—far and fast.

“Which way should we go?” Serif asked the Warlock. He knew he wouldn’t get an answer, but he needed to process his thoughts aloud. Facing west led toward the city. A direction he most definitely did not want to go. North meant crossing the open field, where the leader with the conduit wand could easily blast him to cinders.

West. Then north.

Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the air—a woman’s shriek of agony from inside the structure. The mercenary who slipped indoors must have reached her.

Dammit. Should I just leave? Serif paced back and forth, torn between self-preservation and conscience. She was a bitch, sure, but she didn’t kill me.

And then there was the girl in shackles. That poor, wretched girl. But what could he do against the leader? The bastard possessed a Warlock he could actually command, alongside a lethal conduit wand. Yet, Serif recalled the leader was already wounded—something had taken a bloody chunk out of his side. The man looked nigh immortal carrying a wound like that, much like Keda had when he fought with half a dozen enchanted arrows buried to the fletchings in his torso.

Serif looked to his Warlock. He knew it wasn’t judging him—or at least, he hoped it lacked the capacity for judgment. It was merely observing. Always observing.

“Dammit. Fine.”

Serif leaped back over the wall as fresh sounds of combat echoed from within the fort. The leader was alone now, and the ranger had two new problems of her own to contend with. Serif collected his nerves. Sure, he had just murdered two of the leader's men, but perhaps the man could be reasonable. Serif was just defending himself; he was a victim in all of this, after all. He had the Warlock and the sack of inert orbs. He and the leader could simply strike a deal and walk away.

Serif emerged from the bushes a short distance from the mercenary leader. The leader's Warlock immediately snapped its cracked, but otherwise featureless face toward him, and Serif froze in his tracks.

The mercenary leader turned from the upper floors of the fort to face Serif. His face twisted in a murderous scowl.

“Hello! This is rather awkward, isn’t it?” Serif called out, throwing the broadsword to the ground and then holding up his hands in surrender. “So, I surrender! I don’t know who that is up there—some ranger, quite rude, in fact—and I would very much like to return this Warlock to you.” Serif gestured toward the hovering construct. “And these orb things, too.” He bounced on his heels, letting the artifacts clang loudly in his sack.

Blood still trickled down the leader's left cheek where the ranger’s arrow had grazed him. He stared at Serif in sheer incredulity.

“Did you piss yourself, boy?”

Serif looked down at his stained, damp trousers. “Aye, funny story, that.”

When Serif raised his eyes, the conduit wand was leveled directly at his chest, its tip glowing with a violent blue light. Serif instinctively dove backwards to the dirt as the projectile rushed above him, detonating against the garden wall, sending stone fragments and bruised fruit cascading down upon him.

Serif growled, rolling through the dirt and leaping to his feet. Seeing a second projectile gathering energy in the wand, he threw his dagger with all the strength he could muster. The hilt bounced harmlessly off the leader's chestplate, but the sudden impact jerked the man's aim. The blue bolt shot wide, arcing harmlessly into the sky and over the cliff into the endless sea.

Serif looked toward the broadsword he had dropped during his roll, then slowly raised his bare hands.

“Look, I’m unarmed!” Serif took a hesitant step forward, spinning in a slow circle to show his empty grip. “I’m unarmed!”

The construct drifted faithfully behind him.

“Where is the Warlock, you stupid bastard?” the mercenary growled, scanning the empty ground behind Serif.

Serif glanced over his shoulder at the hovering construct and sighed. Of course—it was still camouflaged.

“It’s hidden,” Serif said carefully. “Camouflaged.”

He doubted the this mercenary would buy that explanation, but the leader merely blinked several times before cracking a broad, toothless smile. “Aye... I see ‘er now.”

Serif wondered if the mercenary’s construct could pierce the illusion. Glancing at the enemy Warlock, he saw its featureless head was indeed fixed directly on the space behind him.

“See? No harm, no foul,” Serif urged, gesturing toward the courtyard behind them. “I was merely defending myself against your companions.”

The leader’s expression hardened, and he leveled the conduit squarely at Serif's chest. There was no distance to close, no trick left to play.

Damn. What a wretched way to die, Serif thought bitterly. Stupid asshole.

Movement flared in his peripheral vision. The young girl in chains emerged from the shadows of the doorway, iron links clattering against the stone as she drove Serif’s fallen dagger straight up into the mercenary leader’s backside with vicious, frantic force.

The leader went up on his tiptoes, unleashing an agonizing howl.

Serif stared in stunned shock. The girl was wrenching the blade at brutal, erratic angles. The leader swiped backward with a roar, striking her full in the face and sending her sprawling into the dirt.

This is it.

Serif charged. He called out mentally for the Poker, but nothing materialized in his grip—his focus was entirely shot. Driven by desperate momentum and with no time to try again, he lowered his head with a growl and tackled the mercenary leader, both of them crashing through the threshold into the fort's courtyard. They thrashed wildly on the stone pathway, Serif taking several stinging blows to the face. The mercenary was significantly larger, and brute strength quickly won out: he gained the upper hand, straddling Serif’s stomach and jamming the tip of the conduit wand under Serif’s chin.

Serif squirmed frantically as the wand began to hum and glow, but the girl in chains leaped with both feet, planting a desperate kick square against the mercenary leader’s head. He tumbled onto his side. Reaching out, Serif gripped the hilt of his dagger—still embedded in the man's backside—and squeezed it tightly, trying to wrench it free.

Before he could twist the blade, the enemy Warlock unleashed a concussive pulse of violet energy. The shockwave blasted Serif backward; his fingers slipped from the hilt, pulling the blade free as he tumbled across the pathway. The girl in chains was thrown back as well, but because the leader’s wrist was bound to hers by iron, he was dragged violently along the stone beside her.

A leather satchel tore free from the leader's back, spilling what looked to Serif like polished, curved wooden sticks across the floor—throwing sticks, designed to return to the tosser after arcing through the air. The girl scrambled through the debris, seized one of the heavy weapons, and mounted the mercenary. She brought the wood down repeatedly, landing heavy, crushing blows that cracked against his skull with unnerving, unnatural force.

Serif looked up to see the enemy Warlock raising its hands, gathering another violet blast to tear the girl from its master. He tried to call the poker, something anything, to throw it at the construct—but the energy suddenly fizzled and went silent.

Looking back, Serif noticed his own Warlock staring intently at the enemy construct, radiating a faint, humming vibration. It was actively suppressing the magic, locking the construct's abilities in place while the girl rained down her brutal assault. Even as his skull fractured, the leader managed to raise the charging wand, but Serif lunged over slamming down his dagger into the forearm of the mercenary and ripped the wand from his failing grip. He stood back and aimed it at the mercenary and thought how ridiculous that idea was. He hadn’t the slightest clue how to employ its magical properties and tucked it into his waistband.

Serif thought to pull the girl off, but she was in an absolute frenzy, driving down hit after hard hit. Blow after blow, the mercenary leader’s legs twitched in spasmodic agony until his body finally went limp, yet the strikes never slowed.

Heavy, dragging footsteps echoed behind Serif. He frowned, fearing the remaining mercenaries had returned to finish the job. But as he turned, he saw the ranger stepping into the courtyard. She was badly wounded, clutching a bleeding gash in her side, her quiver entirely empty save for the wicked, curved dagger glinting in her hand. She halted, her gaze shifting from Serif to the girl, and then back to Serif.

Serif offered a sad, tired smile, shrugged, and walked slowly to the low stone wall of the courtyard.

He let out a long exhale as the wet, squishing sounds of the girl's vengeance finally slowed to a halt. He turned his eyes away from the ranger, briefly weighing whether to summon the Poker for one last desperate stand. But he was simply too exhausted.

Instead, Serif relaxed his posture, leaned back against the stone, and watched the lingering violence come to an end as the morning sun rose higher into the sky.