This is a dangerous time for the empire, your grace.

  Sythics has returned to the City of Spires, and trade across our southern border has dropped considerably due to Icarus’ new stance. Trade with Altine, ever faithful and open to us, remains steady but their ships are under increasingly heavy threat from the Salazans.

  The leviathan Coast is more fractured than ever despite the increasing centralisation of power within the Wavebreaker dynasty – it is something we are actively monitoring and I know for a fact that concern at the highest levels is growing.

  I’ve heard precious little from the Bone Tower and the northern border, which I am taking as a good sign…but I have not reached my current position by trusting in things that were good yesterday to be good tomorrow. Should the worse come to pass; are we ready?

  - Intercepted communications between First Spider Archemia of the Desolate Empire and an unknown scribe, circa .277

  A grin split my face at the notification. A feat recognised by the system, level 45 achieved, multiple class and general skills above level 10…I was ready to break through the 2nd tier.

  I also had a new weapon, a named weapon, like the stories Sadrianna had shared as we travelled. I felt like Markuth Breeze-born, God-Cleaver in hand. It was a whimsical thought, but I found myself in a rather whimsical mood all of a sudden. Dansel’s gentle rumbling brought me back to earth though.

  “May I see it?” the woman asked, and I handed Resolution over with only the briefest hesitation. I could feel the link between us, strong as the north wind, and knew that it would return to my hand the moment I poured mana down that new connection. Still, I watched carefully.

  She handled it with reverence though, turning it over in her massive hands and admiring the way the light played over the lacquered surface of the wood, eyeing the grain and running her fingers along the grip. She nodded, once. A brief motion, much like her speech.

  “A good weapon,” she said, approval clear in her tone, then she passed it back to me. I tried to hide the flush of relief I felt to have it back in hand, but I’m not sure I was successful by the way her lips turned up on one side slightly.

  “That laminar shell you brought me was surprisingly durable. Are you done with it? I would be happy to purchase the rest.”

  I looked up in surprise at Dansel – it was the most I’d heard her speak in one go so far. “Ah…no. No, I had another request actually. I’ll need to see if we have the coin for it, but I was thinking of replacing my shield – it can’t stand up to the type of blows I’ll be receiving soon, and this material seems to perfect.”

  She nodded in understanding, and turned away to start packing up her materials. “Ask” she said over her shoulder.

  I hesitated. “I was thinking of using it like a sleeve. It is big enough to encase my forearm, after all.”

  Another languorous nod of her great head. She had a sharp mind hidden within though. “That wouldn’t work – you would lose too much mobility if it covered the whole forearm – elbow joint would be compromised. And if you removed enough to allow good movement of the elbow then you’d be compromising on protection…better to slice it in half. You could sharpen the other end – a gauntlet blade at the end of your shield.”

  She hefted an anvil heavier than my entire body over one shoulder while cocking her head to one side as if it was simply a mild inconvenience. “Could work,” she considered.

  I grinned eagerly. “Let me speak with my companions, see if we could raise the funds – how much would you charge for a commission like that?” I asked.

  “I’ll speak with your companion tomorrow evening – we will settle it once the work is done” she rumbled.

  “But I don’t know if we can afford-” I began, but she cut me off.

  “He can afford it.” It was said with a confidence that stopped me from questioning the statement. “Besides,” she continued, “I will keep what remains of it and deduct that from your price. You helped Ratter today with his class, and I would reward that.”

  That was a relief. I wondered idly around the large forge, helping to pack up for the day. “Who would you recommend I see for armour, Dansel?” I asked.

  “It’s Dansel of the Forge, not Dansel the Weaponsmith,” she grunted in response, and I smiled.

  “Not for complex work like this though. I need simple armour – the like that wouldn’t hold much interest for a smith of your calibre.” I figured a little flattery couldn’t hurt and was rewarded with a knowing glance cast my way.

  “Ratter can find you something from our stores – come back tomorrow.”

  I nodded absentmindedly, feeling pleased with what I’d achieved. It was a few moments before I realised Dansel was still staring at me, and I set down the chisel’s I’d been stacking away inside a chest made specifically for them.

  “This is our work, boy. Come back tomorrow.”

  “Oh! Sorry, I thought…well. Thank you for your help today. I will see you in the morning then. It’s Lamb, by the way.”

  “What is?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “My name – Lamb.”

  “Who gave you a name like that?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Nobody, really. I suppose I sort of fell into it,” I said thoughtfully. I couldn’t really remember how it had come about at this point. Some of the cuff comment by Jorge, most likely. Still, it was better than Runt.

  “Had I known that, I’d have never let you name that weapon,” she said with a sniff as she turned away.

  I bade good night to them after, and returned to camp, wand tucked into my belt loop and constantly probing at the new artifact link in my soul.

  It was late evening when Nathlan returned to the tent. I had been paying more attention to my mana senses ever since The Lost Grove, and perhaps it was simply an affect of knocking on the door to 2nd tier, or the diligent training paying off, but they were sharper than ever.

  As he entered, I felt a palpable sense of power billowing from him. It rolled off him in waves, like a sea breeze stirring through the tent. He’d been hunting, and doing so at an impressive pace. I grinned up at him from my position ensconced in a plush divan on the floor as he hung up his sword belt on the central pole.

  “Well hello, big man. Nobody told me The Sworn Triarchy had another member!” I exclaimed with faux-surprise.

  Nathlan smiled back tiredly – it may have been a fruitful hunting session, but clearly it was just as draining. “Hey Lamb. I take it you met with success at the forge?”

  “Aye, you could say that” I said, nodding. “I’d like to introduce you to Resolution,” I proclaimed as I stretched my hand out to the side. An invisible flex of mana through the pathway connecting the weapon to my core and the wand snapped into my palm from where it had rested against my leg.

  I noticed for the first time a faint blue-silver glow emanating from the burn scar on my hand. The tissue was still raw, the wound not yet healed, but my enhanced endurance and Mountain-Born working together to accelerate the healing process enough that it was no longer leaking.

  Vera had said it needed bandaging and had headed out to find a specific root that, when ground and mixed with fresh water, had a potent cooling affect for many bells. No doubt she’d be back at any moment with the tincture in hand.

  Nathlan whistled appreciatively, and then actually gasped when I shunted more mana down the link and enlarged the weapon to its full form. A mild-mannered scholar he might be, but he still had a hint of the childish exuberance to be expected of a young man. He hurried over and reached out for it, and I threw it over to him gently, grin on my face.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He inspected it from every angle, paying particular attention to the sharp, icy head as I spoke once more. “you’ve been busy too, by the looks of it. What are you now? Level 35?”

  He shook his head absently, clearly distracted by the craftsmanship of the weapon – credit to Dansel more than myself – and still intrigued by its strange colours and appearance. “Something like that, Lamb,” he said.

  I knew he was hesitant to share further details of his skills, even now. There was something in his past that cast a long shadow, something that constantly reminded him to hold something back, to not fully trust another with his secrets.

  “Any new skills?” I asked.

  “Yes – Truth is Found at the Edge of a Blade,” he said, grimacing slightly as if embarrassed by the name.

  It was my turn to whistle then. “Impressive!” I exclaimed, eyebrows rising with the words, until I frowned. “Bit of a mouthful though. I hope you don’t intend to shout it mid-battle?”

  He scoffed and waved a hand at me, and I grinned before continuing. “Seriously, that sounds impressive. How does it work? Anything like your domain skill?”

  “No,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “It’s more of a single purpose skill, and not exactly made for combat. I can…compel...the truth from somebody if I’m in a position of power over them. The skill seems to imply that it works best if that power is at the edge of my blade, though.”

  He shrugged apologetically, as if sorry he couldn’t give me more detail. I narrowed my eyes though – it sounded like he was a little ashamed of the skill to me.

  “Have you experimented with it yet?” I asked, and he shook his head after another brief hesitation. “Go on then, use it on me!” I demanded, excited.

  But he once more just shook his head, looking awkward and a little scared, though of what I couldn’t figure out just yet. “No, Lamb. It’s not something I will ever use on my companions. On my friends.”

  I hummed in thought. Clearly, I needed to approach the conversation tactfully – Nathlan was a skittish man at the best of times. But tact didn’t demand delicacy, and I thought of my recent conversation with Sadrianna. She had asked me outright what I was fishing for, and that directness was what allowed the following conversation to proceed with honesty from both of us.

  “What are you afraid of, Nathlan?” I asked quietly.

  It was just us in the tent. Vera was out hunting for my burn salve; Jorge was apparently meeting with Ventus and Arynia – Sadrianna’s parents – and the barbarian woman was spending her last evenings with friends before she left for a dangerous expedition.

  His face closed off, thin eyebrows drawing down in a heavy frown and I winced, hurrying to make my point.

  “It’s plain to see that something happened to you that brought you here. Seems Jorge has a habit of collecting lost and broken people, and its no great leap to realise you’ve got something you’re running from, or at least something dragging behind you. I don’t know what betrayals and tribulations you’ve been through, mate, but if you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”

  I hadn’t intended to give a long-winded speech, but he hadn’t opened back up yet, and I wasn’t willing to let this lie between us.

  “I literally fell out of the sky with no past – I have no secret allegiances, no motive or means to hurt you. The two most powerful people I know have known you longer, and while I have slightly more personal power than you right now, its marginal and likely to be corrected within only a few weeks.

  He sighed, turned away, looked back. Turned away again. Eventually his thin shoulders slumped, and this second sigh was weary.

  “I don't trust you, Lamb. I don't trust anyone.”

  I would have been stunned by the words, had I not been prepared for them. When you backed people into a corner emotionally, they said things with an edge. You had to brace yourself, or risk being distracted by minor cuts. They’d heal quickly if you left them alone, but dwelling on them only made them fester.

  “I…I don't know how to anymore. Unless I can confirm for myself their intentions then how do I take that leap?”

  I shook my head, speaking softly; “That's not trust, mate.”

  “But isn't it a start?” The anguish in his eyes when he looked at me then was gut-wrenching.

  He was ever so slightly taller than me, I realised. He spent so much time hunched over, unless he held a blade, that is. I’d always thought it was a relic from his scholarly past - spending so much time hunched over scrolls in a dusty library - but now it occurred to me that it might be intentional.

  “Fuck it, maybe? I don't know Nathlan, I'm just as lost as you are. But I know I felt better when I decided to trust you all. Sure, you might betray me, but if Vera decides to kill me, there’s not much I can do about it, is there?”

  I plopped back onto the divan behind me, letting out a sigh as I did so. Difficult conversations were easier when you were sitting - it was a universal truth. Perhaps something about the reality of not being able to just stride off made people a little more careful with their words?

  Nathlan followed suit, unconsciously by the looks of his far-away expression, sitting in Jorge’s ‘old-man chair’ as I had started calling it.

  “So you just…decide? To risk it all? No contingencies, no backup plans, no assurances?” The scholar asked.

  “Yeah, pretty much. It's only trust if you’re vulnerable, Nathlan.”

  “But that's…” he blew out a breath.

  “Madness?” I finished for him, a wan smile slipping onto my face. “Aye, but that's what trust is, mate. Giving someone the means to ruin your life, and then watching as they don't.”

  I laughed then. “Gods, that was almost profound, wasn't it?” I said, and he punched me gently in the shoulder.

  He leaned back but still didn't seem convinced. I tried one last gambit.

  “Okay, how about this…you take that blade there and use your skill on me. Ask me anything, confirm away. But once you’re satisfied, you are gonna tell me what screwed you up so much.”

  I held his gaze, and saw the flinch as I asked about his past. Still, he didn't look away. Moments passed with the only sound the soft hissing of our breath before he nodded.

  “Alright Lamb, but I warned you.”

  He said it like a dire warning. I sat back, tucked my spear back into the belt loop at my waist, and tried to relax. He’d shed his scholar’s cloak that he wore like a disguise, and now stood before me a swordsman once more, blade bare and kissed by the gentle light of the tent.

  A whisper of steel parting air, and then the edge was at my throat. It was a fast move, and I’d had little time to react as he closed the two meters between us in a flash. I didn't move, and let the slowed time of Check-Step fade away.

  “What is your name?” He whispered.

  I swallowed, feeling the blade move backwards just a hair as my throat bobbed. It soon returned to rest against my skin.

  “I don't know, Lamb for now I suppose.” It was the most honest answer I could come up with. Lamb was a placeholder until I found something more suitable. I’d been thinking of it more recently, now that I was starting to have a place in this world.

  Perhaps forging my spear had played a bigger role than expected. It was a little ridiculous, after all, to spend more time deliberating over a weapon’s name than my own.

  Nathlan nodded, eyes intense and not at all distracted by my strange admission. “Who scares you the most out of our companions?”

  A strange question, but I imagine he wanted to establish a baseline. “Vera” I answered without hesitation.

  A weight pressed down on my throat, constricting and squeezing. I felt the blade push deeper, through my skin, through my windpipe, into my very soul.

  I panicked and gasped out, “Jorge! It's Jorge!” And the spiritual weight abated. The blade was still resting against my bare neck, no blood marring it's surface and no slice breaking my skin.

  “You feel it now, yes?” He said, eyes catching mine. They were gleaming in the candlelight, a manic light echoing within them. I didn't like it.

  “Have you ever betrayed someone, Lamb? Truly, deeply?”

  I hesitated. “I don't know.”

  Nathlan tensed, and I felt the sword bite, a shallow line of fire marked across my throat. But the spiritual blade at my nape didn't move.

  I met his eyes, taking in the fervour in their depths and matching it with my own earnestness. “Not in this world, at least.”

  A pause, and then the blade withdrew. Nathlan sheathed his weapon and scurried back to his seat, the imposing swordsman disappearing within an instant.

  I breathed out in relief, and lifted a hand to feel the stinging cut on my neck. I saw Nathlan wince and go to apologise, and I held up a hand to forestall him, blood staining my fingertips. Nearly a cruel gesture.

  “There’ll be plenty of time for recriminations later. First; are you satisfied? Can't say it was a pleasant experience, but I'd rather do it again right now than in a week when you realise you missed some questions.”

  He shied away from my stare and nodded awkwardly after a moment.

  “Nathlan…” I trailed off, unsure what to say. Had that not been enough for him? Did he still harbour some seed of doubt? But no. I recognised then the gentle shaking of his shoulders and realised abruptly that he had turned away to hide his tears from me.

  I moved towards him and tried not to see the desperation in his face as he looked up at me. I wrapped him in a hug. Gods, he must be lonely.

  Vera returned not long afterwards and caught my eye through the tent flap. She hesitated, and I thought she would leave quietly before Nathlan had noticed, but she surprised me. She strode across the woven reeds that covered the floor of the tent, and stopped to loom over both of us from where we sat. To be more accurate, Nathlan sat in the big chair, and I was perched on the arm of it, awkwardly leaning over to give him a hug.

  “Up” she ordered, and I frowned at the tone. Not exactly the time for uncompromising, far as I was concerned. Nathlan had been training with Vera for longer than I had though, and so he was already standing before his brain had really understood the order. The moment he was on his feet, strong arms steadied him.

  Vera was made for war – her entire body spoke to that fact. Scars across her knuckles, strong forearms for grasping weapons and turning blades, legs thick as trunks to propel her through an enemy's guard and a block of a head made for crushing skulls. It seemed she was also made for comforting friends too, though, for the moment she hugged Nathlan, the scholar seemed to vanish.

  Her muscular arms enveloped him, and despite his supposed height, she crushed his head into her chest and held him tight. I couldn’t see his face, but I could practically feel the relaxation seeping into his bones by the set of his shoulders and the way his back stopped its dramatic heaving almost immediately.

  She’d told me of her brother, and calmed me when I had been in the midst of an identity crisis all those moons ago in the Wandering States. Now, she soothed Nathlan as well. She was made of hard edges, but there was a deep well of compassion hidden within that I doubted many ever got the chance to experience.

  We spent much of the evening afterwards just talking after that. A jug of sweet wine was passed around between us, and we took turns sharing stories of our past. Vera spoke of her escapades in the Sunsets – mostly the early years with her brother – and Nathlan spoke of his childhood on the Leviathan Coast, and his fond memories of his weapons-master. I mostly remembered moments spent travelling with them, but they listened regardless as I retold stories they’d been present for.

  It was a ritual after all, a reaffirming of our trust in one another. To share stories and drinks was an age-old human practice, and it felt like something significant took place within the tent that day. I had already committed myself to action on behalf of Vera, but that night I re-examined that commitment once more, and realised I would fight for Nathlan and Vera more than any specific goal.

  Friends. Companionship. A reason to belong. Was there anything more worth fighting for?