Things moved quickly the next day. We journeyed out into the marshes with Vera to meet with whatever remnants of the resistance still existed all these years later, and there we encountered a strange phenomenon.

  The marshes of the Western Marchlands were in many ways their most precious resource, or at least hid those resources within their cloying embrace. They were strange places at the best of times, marshes – the blend of water and earth lending the landscape the inscrutability of the former with the enduring nature of the latter to create a truly dangerous mix.

  A place where one was always out of their depth, liable to be snagged and snared by strange currents and sucking bogs, while also unable to drift about freely, constrained by the confining density of scraggly walls of damp brambles and ivy-wrapped branches.

  What elevated the marshes of the Marchlands from difficult to navigate to truly dangerous, were the mists. For some reason, half-silver mined nearby allowed one to resist their strange temptations, and so Jorge’s earlier purchase of half-silver for our disguise actually came in use.

  Obviously, the full load could not be provided at such short notice, but he had gone to inspect the goods at one of the mines locally that morning, and had come back with some minor trinkets. Warding stones, they were called, which was a strange name for something that was not in any way a stone, but semantics aside, they did seem to work.

  A small piece of half-silver on your person and you could enter the swamps and pass through the mists as normal. The swamps were still dangerous to regular people; Marsh Gators and other wildlife present that could tear the leg off a grown man in a heartbeat before he even knew they were there, but at least those were material dangers that could be fought against directly.

  The creeping mists acted like sirens with a life of their own. They swirled and eddied and confused, causing terror and drama and delirium in all those not appropriately warded by half-silver. Generations had grown up in the Marchlands, hearing folk tales and fire-lit stories about the ghosts of the marsh, and many of their myths and legends involved brave heroes stalking the depths of these grey, watery places, finding great treasure within.

  The modern era had breathed truth into the myths, for much of the wealth of the Marchlands came from excavations of the marshes. The mining operations for half-silver that had so demolished many a hillside and employed many a villager were mostly a by-product of protecting workers from the mists and enabling the thorough exploration of these ancient, untouched places.

  Trinkets, weapons, armour, fine goods, and even scrolls from eras past had sat undisturbed for many centuries, hoarded by the miserly mists. These were found and sold on markets far away at the heart of The Desolate Empire, and sometimes even further. There were also the magical grasses that could be ground up and used in many dishes, conferring a taste that those of wealthier demeanour seemed to appreciate. In either case though, the marshes held many secrets that made men rich.

  It helped me understand how this country worked, as I entered the marshes. It was immediately apparent how many people would need to be involved in large-scale exploration of such a wild place, and I had previously observed how places that relied on extraction in its many forms, particularly the labour-intensive kind of extraction such as here in the Marchlands, were most prone to be ruled by tyrannical leaders and administrations. It was a fledgling theory of mine though, and I knew I was ignorant enough of Tsanderos that I couldn't make sweeping generalisations like that.

  We journeyed out into the marsh, protected from the mists by our half-silver trinkets, and waited in the clearing we'd been told to meet. It hadn't slipped my mind that this could in fact be an ambush prepared by the duke and his men, but Jorge didn't think it likely. Looking at Vera and the way her hand kept twitching towards the broadsword now strapped to her waist, I did get the distinct impression that she would relish the opportunity though, whether or not it would spell our doom.

  No poisoned arrows and magical attacks came flying out of the mists that shrouded the clearing though. Simply a lone figure.

  He was tall, gaunt in the face in the way that many of middle age who had suffered severe malnutrition and starvation in their youth had; empty cheeks, staring eyes, as if he were simply a skull with skin stretched taut over its surface. The effect was made worse by the swirling mists, and it seemed for a moment, as he stepped towards us, that a skeleton itself came leering our way.

  Vera seemed to recognise him though, for she threw back the hood of her cloak, hand falling from the hilt of her blade, and started to stride forwards, a wide grin splitting her face.

  “Fandar!” she said. And there was a joy there, a camaraderie embedded within those words that I doubted anyone but this man, and those who had started that rebellion long ago, would ever hear.

  Fandar, for his part, stopped still, rooted to the ground. “So, it's true then,” he said, voice husky and surprisingly deep for such a gaunt man.

  Pale knuckles and long fingers emerged from the sleeves of his cloak, and he reached towards Vera. They embraced in a warrior's way, slamming forearms together before slapping each other heartily on the back, and I was surprised to see Vera not holding back. The man was tougher than he looked for he didn't stumble as I would have expected someone to when taking a blow from Vera's powerful fists.

  “Took you long enough,” he said as she pulled away, and she nodded, looking down.

  “Yeah,” she agreed with slight husk to her words, and I winced at the rebuke in his tone. He reached out to grip her shoulders though, shaking her until she met his gaze.

  “But you’re back with us now. You ready to fight?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “I heard that the duke has found an Ashkanian Vault here in the Marchlands. I couldn’t allow him to get his hands on it,” she said.

  Fandar raised his eyebrows. “And how the fuck did you hear about that, Vera? I thought you were on the other side of the continent? Got the impression you weren't coming back after Sternsbridge,” he said.

  Vera sighed. “That's a long story, we'll get to that in time, I'm sure. You alone?” She asked, and he shook his head.

  “Benson's girl's with me. Remember her? No more than a sprite by the time you left, but she's good with a bow, and smart besides. Don't think you'll know the others.”

  Vera nodded, lowering her eyes slightly. “Can they be trusted with the details of it all? We’ve got a plan,” she said in a low voice.

  Fandar spat to the side before laughing. “More than you, I'd wager Vera,” he said, quietly.

  “What does that mean, Fandar?” She asked, and her tone was no longer so forgiving, a new light coming into her eyes, or so I imagined from where I stood behind her.

  “Don't give me that,” he said. “You left. These boys and girls? They stayed. That counts for something.”

  He held her gaze for long moments, neither of them speaking, before he spoke again. “Why did you come back now? How the fuck did you hear about the duke's plans? Who are these fuckers you’re with, huh? Clearly I trust you – I'm here now, after all – but I do have some questions.”

  “Questions,” Vera said. “It's been ten years – I'd be shocked if you didn't. But me and mine,” she said, gesturing to all of us behind her, “they're good. I understand the caution, but don't be rude, alright?”

  He nodded. “Questions, questions…let’s start with this; Where did you go? Why did you leave?” he asked, but then spoke again before any answer could be given. “We heard you were defeated but... You fucking killed them all, Vera. You won. You were the hero of Sternsbridge, and you left without warning. And what's worse is you never fucking came back. Not once.”

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  His shoulders had drooped slightly, and I thought I saw the faint outline of a slender woman behind him, half-hidden by the mists as they danced and swirled around us.

  Vera sighed. “That's not how it was. Sternsbridge was a clusterfuck. We all died. I... I don't really know how, but I survived. And yeah, the Lions ran, but they came back. We never could, Fandar. It was just me left. We were done.”

  She looked up at the sky for a moment before coming back down to earth once more. “We killed half a company, and they killed all of us. I was the only one left at the end of it and we had no fucking territory. We had no men to hold the ground. All we had was me, and all I could do was kill. Couldn't even fucking control it by the end, Fanda. If you'd been there, you'd be dead too, and it might not have been them that killed you.”

  She looked him dead in the eye as she spoke, each word husky as if clawed from the depths of her soul and leaving marks the whole way up her throat to get out into the light of day. “You understand? I've spent ten years trying to recover from fucking Sternsbridge. They didn't leave me alone, you know? If I'd come back, you'd be fucked too. They've chased me all over the continent, and the only reason I'm back now is because they wouldn't stop chasing me. I had lions crossing the Unclaimed Peaks after me less than a year ago, or so I thought.”

  “Bullshit,” he said loudly, his voice echoing around the clearing, though the mists did much to deaden the sound after it travelled more than a few metres. “The lions are not what they once were, Vera. They're divided. The courts are bickering once again, and the lions are sent against each other as often as they're sent outside against us. No way they could spare the manpower for an expedition like that just for your head.”

  “Oh, aye,” Vera said. “Turns out that one wasn't actually for me. It was for him,” she said, gesturing at me. “You want to know how we found out about the duke’s ruin? It’s because he sent the Lions after god-touched, and we happened to be in the area to pick one up before they got to him.”

  He blew out air through his cheeks. “Hell of a coincidence, that,” he said calmly, though I didn't miss the implication.

  Jorge stepped forward then. “I think I might have an idea how that slots together, but before we come to blows throwing accusations one way or the other, perhaps we should sit down. I think a few explanations are in order, aye?” he said.

  Strangely I didn't feel his calming influence brush over us this time. He was being careful. I supposed that any magic influence at this point would be more inclined to turn Fandar against us than to our cause.

  Turns out Jorge needn’t have worried. It was less suspicion lacing Fander's words and more sadness. Shame, perhaps, at having been unable to continue the rebellion once Vera left, or simply a feeling of betrayal at being left behind that he needed to expunge through harsh words. Vera and him, after a while, walked to the corner of the clearing just out of earshot and exchanged words that seemed to calm them both.

  Eventually, the young woman Fandar had mentioned and that I had caught glimpses of throughout their conversation, emerged from the tree line, bow still in hand, though at Fandar's calming words she began to unstring it and sling it over one shoulder. A couple young lads and another woman followed her, somewhere in their early twenties, and they all bore weapons, all looked like they knew how to use them. All seemed to bear the signs of living out in the wilderness for long periods of time as well.

  I briefly wondered if all of Fandar's companions were hiding out in the wilderness like Vera and her gang had used to, but I was swiftly disabused of that nation. The fighters, the true fighters, numbered no more than two dozen, and stayed exclusively in the wilds, moving around the Western Marchlands and sometimes into the Riverlands too.

  They relied on an information network and the generosity of some who were just as committed, though still stayed in the settlements. It was my summation that the rebellion had been utterly crushed by this point. Just over a score of warriors, and maybe a dozen more willing to share information, did not make a state tremble with fear after all.

  It was no surprise then that they heard our plan with interest. There was scepticism when we first outlined it, but we won them over eventually, just as I had won over my own companions the night prior. It was agreed that Fandar and his men and women would join our group in the assault once it was time.

  Interestingly, the thing that won them over wasn’t the strength of our plan or our arguments. Instead, it was the strength of our arms. The rebels all knew of Vera’s prowess – she was a local legend after all, the Butcher of Sternsbridge in the flesh. Jorge was unknown, but Fandar had stared into his eyes for a few moments, and something had passed between them. When he stepped back, Fandar vouched for his strength, and when combined with Vera’s support, the others quickly accepted his position.

  They were much more sceptical of us. Vera and Fandar eventually told them all to shut up and mark out a ring, and I raised my eyebrows in surprise. It was apparently an old ritual from the early days of the rebellion, where each new member would have to run the gauntlet and face a half dozen of the old guard to prove their worthiness and commitment to the cause. It was obviously more ritualistic than anything, as the fights were only ever to first blood, and win or lose, they had no real affect.

  But this felt different. As Nathlan walked into the circle and faced down a man half a decade younger but several feet thicker – or so it seemed – I felt a buzz enter the air, as if the mists were charged with power. They certainly seemed to swirl in anticipation.

  Nathlan quickly won though. His swordsmanship was leaps and bounds above the rebel – a man named Jassine – but rather than react with anger, as his squashed and brutish features suggested, he seemed to look at Nathlan with awe. Immediately after their bout, he approached to ask for guidance, and Nathlan threw a perplexed look my way before nodding hesitantly.

  Fandar had only brought four fighters with him, so the full ritual couldn’t be completed, and he seemed to be satisfied with Nathlan’s showing, and gestured for the two men to discuss nearby.

  Jacyntha faced a small man that reminded me uncomfortably of a rat by the name of Brixby. He twitched regularly, his nose prominent and hooked, and his hair a messy brown bird’s nest upon his small head. Daggers gleamed at his hips, and judging by the bandoleer of glass vials slung across his chest, I got the distinct impression that even a fight to first blood against him would normally be to the death were he to wish it.

  I may have been wrong and he was simply an alchemical healer, but everything about his appearance and manner screamed ‘poisoner’ to my eyes. Jacyntha managed to keep him at range with her great-axe though, and the one time he broke through her guard and got in close – an impressive feat considering her speed and range advantage - she used her superior strength, courtesy of her empowerment ritual, to slam him to the floor.

  She recovered before he did, and he conceded the match, rubbing his side in pain but otherwise taking the loss well. I saw the way he eyed her up afterwards, and I got the distinct impression that her striking appearance smoothed over some of the sting of failure.

  Sadrianna faced the archer, and her greater level and experience showed its worth. She was also a nightmare match-up for an archer, with her Unorthodox Movement skill and shield to help her avoid arrows, and the fight ended as soon as she used Markhor’s Rush for the first time with expert timing, closing the distance between them in a flash.

  Then it was my turn. The only opponent left was a meek girl who looked not even in her twenties yet, and I could feel was no more than peak 1st tier, unlike the others who had all at least gained a 2nd tier class.

  She looked at me through narrowed eyes, drawing a curved hand-scythe from behind her back. It was a farming tool, not a weapon, and I looked at it curiously. She would be unlikely to do much damage with that unless her opponent stood still and let her, in my opinion, but I did my best not to underestimate her all the same.

  A moment later, she took a step forwards, and I felt the distance between us shrink. It was as if I was temporarily unable to focus on anything but her as space warped between us. Each step brought her three steps closer, and I blinked in surprise to realise she had somehow managed to affect my mind.

  End of the Hunt was now within my control rather than the untamed beast it had been previously, so I needed to activate it myself. I did in a heartbeat, mana rushing down the activation link, and suddenly the effect cut off.

  The girl – Tamil, Fandar had said – immediately leapt back in panic, her eyes going wide and the effect broken. I took a step forwards, hatchet snapping into my hand from where it had rested in my belt loop before the girl spoke up.

  “That’s enough, I yield,” she said in a clear voice.

  I stopped immediately, deactivating my aura skill and returning my hatchet to its place on my belt. I nodded to her in respect, glad I wouldn’t have to beat up a younger, weaker fighter in front of their peers to prove my worth, before I returned to stand with Sadrianna and Jacyntha.

  I felt eyes on my back though, heavy with intent, and turned to see Fandar looking at me from under the dark ridges of his skull-like visage.

  “Wait a moment, boy. You’re the one to enter Castle Ryonic, aren’t you?”

  I bristled at his tone, but nodded stiffly despite it. He hummed in thought.

  “I’d like to take your measure myself, if you don’t mind, of course.”

  I glanced at Vera askance, but she only looked hard at Fandar before turning to me and giving me a nod. I saw a faint smirk at the edges of her mouth, and she said, loud enough for all in the clearing to hear, mists or no; “Show him who you are, Lamb.”

  I turned back to the skeletal man before me, spear slipping into one hand and Resolution unfurling to its full war-form. My blood began to flow faster, breath deepening in preparation for a real fight. I didn’t even realise I was smiling.