Argent stepped out of the temple, stretching until his joints popped. The evening air hit cool and clean, carrying the smell of smoke, stew, and wet earth. The outskirts camp was alive again, clattering pots, laughter, and the distant clang of mugs.
He started toward the stewkeeper's area, mind already spinning.
How do I use these elements? he thought. I felt them settle inside me, but how do I draw them out?
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, focusing first on his heart, where he'd felt light and shadow burn their way in, and then on his palms.
"I can feel them," he muttered.
He stopped walking, shut his eyes, and concentrated. A faint white glow sparked to life in his left hand. In the right, a small orb of darkness, soft and slow, like smoke made solid.
He blinked. "Okay. That's… something. Not much but a start"
The lights faded when he relaxed, leaving his palms empty again.
Guess it'll grow stronger the more I use it. That's what she said, anyway. The hazy… person? whatever that was.
He rolled his shoulders and kept walking. The smell of stew got stronger, thick and spicy. The sound of laughter grew louder.
Mugwort stood over his massive iron pot, muttering to himself, ladle moving in tight circles. The man was covered in soot, hair wild, apron singed in three places.
"Ah, the prodigal corpse returns!" Mugwort cackled without looking up. "You smell better than yesterday! Marginally."
Argent smirked. "Evening, Mugwort."
It's nice coming back to something and to have someone waiting.
"Evening? Bah. It's morning somewhere. Maybe in the gods' own kitchen, where they simmer our souls for flavor. Speaking of flavor, don't touch the pot, it bites today!"
Argent shook his head and glanced around.
Ward and Ferric sat nearby, laughing over a keg. The thing looked like it had been "borrowed" from somewhere important. They were taking turns pouring into dented tin mugs.
Ferric grinned. "Ward here claims he did more damage than me. Says his shield cut bones."
Ward raised his arms up like he was holding his shields and made a motion. "Proof's in the outcome."
Ferric snorted. "You're just mad because you didn't get the killing blow."
"Neither did you! I softened him up good though."
"Sure," Ferric said, refilling both mugs. "Next time I'll just stand there and watch you soften one up on your own."
They both laughed and clinked drinks.
A few feet away, Rime and Ember were seated side by side, half-drunk and half-arguing.
"I had fifty-three percent contribution on that second fight," Ember said, slapping her cup on her knee. "That's more than half."
Rime rolled his eyes. "Fifty-three? Great. I had fifty-two on the one we actually killed."
"Yeah, but fifty-three is more than fifty-two. Do you even know math?"
"Yeah, I know math. But mine ended with a corpse. Yours ended with a nap for both of us."
They both cracked up, laughing loud the whole camp had to have heard.
On the far side of the fire, Veyra and Veryn were talking quietly. Her voice carried, soft but steady.
"I wasn't ready," she said. "Even knowing you'd come back. Seeing it happen…" She trailed off, looking into the fire.
He took a slow drink. "Yeah. Dying doesn't get easier. It's… off-putting."
She nodded, then smiled. "Still. It's fun, isn't it?"
That earned her a grin. "Yeah. No expectations here. No noble duties. No plans waiting for us back home."
"Just today."
"Just today."
They clinked mugs and drank.
Argent smiled, then frowned. Something was off. He scanned the group. Ferric, Ward, Rime, Ember, the twins…
"Wait," he said suddenly. "Where's Ryn?"
The chatter stilled. Ember looked around. "Huh. I figured she was running late."
"I didn't see her during the fight either," Ferric said.
Argent's stomach dropped. "She was with me. Helped me during my fight with the giant. She died first." He looked toward the temple. "She should've been back by now."
Ward's joking expression vanished. "Then we go look."
"Yeah," Argent said. "I've got a bad feeling."
He glanced around and spotted a rusted hatchet by a woodpile. Picked it up without thinking.
The others watched. The moment they saw his face, the laughter stopped. Ferric set his mug down first.
"All right," Ferric said. "Pairs. We'll cover more ground."
Argent nodded. "Good. Stay in pairs. I'll go alone. If something's wrong, I'll signal."
And he started walking.
The camp grew quieter the farther he went. The laughter faded into the hum of wind through tents and ruined walls. He passed the temple again, scanning for signs. Nothing.
Think, Argent. If she's not back… where would she go?
Then he remembered: her voice, shouting "I'm out!" during the fight. Arrows.
The weapon pile.
He changed direction, jogging now.
When he reached the edge of camp, the moonlight caught movement ahead. Three figures. Ryn, cornered against a half-collapsed stone wall. Two armored men and a robed figure stood in front of her. Their clothes bore a strange sigil, a pyramid encircled by flame.
Argent's gut tightened. He approached fast, staying low.
The robed one spoke, voice oily and calm. "Child, do not resist. The Unnamed welcomes those who walk the Ascended Path. Through death, through trial, through rebirth, you will find salvation."
Ryn's jaw was tight, one hand half-raised in defense. "I said I'm not interested."
The robed man smiled thinly. "Salvation is not a matter of interest. It is destiny."
Argent's voice cut across the space. "She said no."
All three turned. The one in robes blinked. Ryn let out a shaky breath, relief washing over her face.
One of the armored men snorted. "New blood. You don't know who you're speaking to. Look closely at this symbol. We are the Ascended Path, the chosen of the Unnamed One."
Argent kept walking forward, hatchet in hand. "Don't care who you are. She's coming with me."
The robed man's smile didn't fade. "I am High Inquisitor Seymoore. This girl seeks salvation. She will walk with us."
He nodded to his knight. The man grabbed Ryn's arm hard, wrenching it upward. She winced, biting back a cry.
Something in Argent snapped.
A flash of that moment where she saved him, the sword coming down, Ryn's facing him, her grin before she vanished in light.
He didn't think. He moved.
The second knight barely drew his weapon before Argent raised his empty left hand. A sharp burst of light erupted from his palm, blinding white. The knight staggered, shouting, eyes seared.
Argent was already there. The hatchet swung once, clean, heavy. Metal met flesh where helmet met neck. The man's head came free, the body collapsing with a thud.
Argent blinked, breathing hard.
So this is what twenty-six power feels like.
Seymoore's calm broke. His face twisted. "You've made a grave mistake, child. You and your friend will die here, and again at the temple, and again, until repentance takes root."
Argent let out a small, incredulous laugh. "You can try."
Before anyone could move, more footsteps echoed around them. From the dark came six figures, shapes Argent knew instantly.
Ferric, Ward, Rime, Ember, Veyra, Veryn.
Ward spoke first, voice low. "You think we're scared of dying?"
Ferric grinned. "Then you clearly haven't heard of us."
Veyra crossed her arms. "We don't care who you are."
Veryn followed. "Or what power you think you've got."
Rime smirked. "You might kill us a few times, sure. But one of those deaths, we'll get you. One cut. One stab. One death at a time. Slow. Painful. Cold."
Ember hesitated, realized everyone had already spoke, and blurted, "Yeah! You… ugly face!"
There was a pause, then barely contained laughter from everyone, especially Ryn.
The Inquisitor's frown deepened. He looked at his remaining knight, then at the eight faces staring back. He exhaled through his nose. "You've made a powerful enemy tonight."
Ferric rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Let's start a list."
They turned and left, vanishing back into the night.
Argent jogged over to Ryn, who was rubbing her arm. He rested a hand on her shoulder. "You okay? When you weren't at camp, I had a bad feeling."
Ryn smiled, cheeks flushed. "Yeah. I'm fine. I just came to get more arrows. Wanted to be useful."
Ember shouted from behind, "Next time, come get me! I'll help!"
Veyra smirked. "Don't leave me out either."
Ward hoisted his mug like a toast. "Come on, let's get back. The alcohol's getting warm."
The group started heading back toward the fire, voices rising again, laughter, teasing, the clatter of boots on stone and mud.
High on the hill overlooking the outskirts, Grey stood watching. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable.
Mugwort stepped up beside him. For once, his voice was steady. "I'm glad you didn't jump in," he said quietly. "You would've started a war with the Path."
Grey exhaled. "They handled it. Besides, what are you doing up here? You weren't thinking of joining, were you?"
Mugwort's tone stayed calm. "Those children are special. They'll need help until they can stand on their own."
Grey's shoulders stiffened. "If I'd start a war by stepping in, you'd burn Precipice to ash."
For a heartbeat, Mugwort just stared ahead. Then he grinned, the madness creeping back into his voice. "Ah, but ash makes for a wonderful stew base, you know! Adds body and spice!"
He twirled his ladle like a cane and wandered back down the hill, humming off-key.
Grey stayed there, silent.