Actor, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Drego sat in his room, carefully stitching together the fabric that would become his costume. He was auditioning for the role of Samyr Kes in a theatrical rendition of the Year of Blood and Fire in Flamekeep, if he got the role, it would be his first role in a major theatrical production. He'd been doing amateur dramatics since he'd entered school, and he'd been sewing from as soon as he was old enough to hold a needle.

Drego's first love had always been the theatre. Some of his earliest, happiest memories were of going to the theatre with his mother and his cousin. It always fascinated him, how these people would don costumes, makeup, or illusions (or a combination of all three!) and then get up on a stage and spin a tale. He was mesmerised every time.

He had some interest in the family business, his mother was a tailor, but his heart was always on the stage. His mother taught him regardless, being able to make your own clothes is a valuable skill, especially growing up in Thrane. They couldn't afford to waste material, it was better to repair damaged clothing than to discard and replace it. She never pressured him to follow in her footsteps beyond this, though, and he loved her for that. He loved her for many things.

Speaking of the Shadow, she knocked on his door.

"Come in!" he called out cheerfully, needlework always put him in a good mood. His mother entered, clad in flowing fabrics adorned with illusions she'd likely weaved herself.

"Still working on that garment?" she asked, picking up some of the loose fabric away from the needle to inspect the stitching, giving her son an approving nod. Even if he'd messed it up, she would make a show of appreciating the beauty in its flaws before telling him how to fix them. She was always his biggest fan, even when he made mistakes.

"Yes, I've got to get it ready for the audition!" he answered, giving her a cursory glance but trying to focus on the stitching she had just jostled by picking up the loose fabric.

"The audition isn't for a week yet, Drego. You've got plenty of time, dinner'll be ready soon. You can give it a rest for now, and we both know you'll be fine. After all, you can do something none of the other kids can do."

Drego looked up, as his mother took his hands in hers. "What's that?"

"You can make your own costume."

Drego sat in his mothers workshop, carefully threading needle through fabric, pulling the pieces of a costume together for an upcoming play. He'd become the resident costumer of his local theatre group, which he did in addition to performing. It was a good deal, he got to practice his threadwork (a skill that would serve him well when he took over from his mother), make beautiful garments, and they didn't need to blow their budget on costuming.

He was looking forward to the role this costume was for. He always saved his own costumes for last, wanting to make sure that if anyone was left without, it would be him. For this production, he was going to be playing a daring spy, a Brelish Dark Lantern. He'd always found spy stories interesting, he was fascinated by the idea of pretending to be someone you weren't, sourced from the same well as his love of acting. The idea of doing that and somehow helping his country in the war was enthralling.

Thinking about the war caused his eyes to wander involuntarily over to an unfinished garment. Chantalyn had been working on it, she was a much better tailor than he was, she didn't just make her own clothes but she designed them. She made patterns that could be reproduced, and she had such a mind for designing garments that were both practical and aesthetically pleasing (even when those weren't the same thing). Much like his mother inspired him, Chantalyn's success motivated him to do better, to explore new ideas and new ways of working with fabric. Lately, she'd been experimenting with small parts of armour in otherwise unarmoured outfits, adding just a little bit of protection but without making it look like armour. Steel plates sown into coats, a single armoured pauldron or gauntlet, a metallic crinoline. She called it "warrior princess chic".

Things hadn't been the same for Drego since Chantalyn left. She'd enlisted to join the Knights Templar after her 18th birthday, and Drego hadn't seen her since. It was such a strange sensation for him, for someone to go from being around him all of the time to suddenly totally absent. She wrote to him, every month, updating him on where she was and what she was doing, who she had met, the places she'd seen. Her training had been hard, but she was seemingly thriving in the military.

Flame, he missed her. He never felt the same way about his father, who'd also been absent for most of his childhood. It was even for the same reason, his father had been in the military for longer than Drego had been alive, and he'd only met the man a handful of times. He and his mother spent more time with his aunts, uncles, and cousin than he ever saw of his dad or that side of the family. Despite this, the absence of his father hurt him less than the hole left by his cousin's absence.

He wiped at his face. This was stupid, Chantalyn hadn't done what his dad had done. Chantalyn would be back, and besides, he had the stack of letters. He stared at the garment she'd left unfinished, and the metal she was going to incorporate into it, and Drego decided he was going to do something with it and present it to her when he next saw her. A gift of fashionable armour, for the most fashionable soldier he knew.

Flame, he hoped she wouldn't be mad at him for using her material.

984 YK

Drego had been hard at work for almost two years now, gathering material, working on it every chance he got between clients and schooling, but the gift was almost ready. He'd followed in his mother's footsteps and had learned enough magic to create glamerweave. He'd taken easily to magic, he had the talent for it without working particularly hard, it just seemed to make sense to him. His professors had been pushing him to pursue further education in the study of the arcane, beyond the ways that magic could be used to improve his tailoring. He'd been thinking about it for a while now, but he was torn between these multiple facets of his life.

His mother would support him regardless of his choice. She would be overjoyed if he pursued tailoring and followed in her footsteps, she'd be free of the burden of worrying about the shop, and she'd get to see him every day. She'd be just as thrilled if he chose to pursue magic, though, and he got just as much joy from spellcraft as he did when creating with fabric. Maybe he'd ask Chantalyn about it when he saw her, he'd heard she was on leave and would be returning home soon!

He took a step back, wiping the sweat from his brow, and examined his handiwork. To anyone elses eye, it would've been a beautiful piece of work, but Drego had spent too long with it, he was too aware of every imperfection. He saw the imperfect stitching on the corset, the small mistakes in his engraving on the pauldron and the wrist guard. At least he'd done a good job with the skirt, a thin see-through satin that showed off the scale mail tassets underneath, all framing the metal crinoline. On the opposite side to the pauldron was a strip of thin fabric that would go over the arm, framing the shoulder.

It was beautiful, and practical...ish. More useful in a fight than most ballgowns would be, but still not primarily armour. It would communicate what he wanted, though, that the wearer was as beautiful as they were terrible. The last step before it was ready would be to imbue the enchantment into the glamerweave, to make the corset sparkle silver. Chantalyn was always going on about the sparkly silver flame in her heart, and Drego would make that as obvious on the outside as it was on the inside.

Drego and his mother sat in the coach as it made its way down the streets of Flamekeep to his aunt and uncle's home. Chantalyn was back from the front, at least for a while, and Drego had been buzzing with excitement to show her what he'd been working on. Now that they were on the way there, however, that buzz had turned into a dreadful, droning hum that filled his stomach with anxiety. What if she hated it? What if she beheld the outfit he'd spent the last two years constructing for her, and twisted her face into that fake smile people use when they've received a gift they don't like but don't want to hurt the givers feelings. Drego had always been good at reading faces, he saw through it every time.

He didn't think that sounded like Chantalyn, but she'd been on the front for two years now. War changed people, Drego had seen it happen enough, and who could say the person he was going to see was the same person that left him two years ago? He voiced his concern to his mother, but she laughed in that way she always did, a laugh that said she wasn't dismissing his concern, but that she wasn't worried.

He didn't have time to dig into life's questions, as the coach juddered to a halt outside of the Sarhain house. He cleverly hid the gift inside of an extradimensional space inside of his gloves, couldn't give the game away. He wasn't really sure why he did this, but it felt right at the time. His aunt and uncle didn't greet them at the door, but his cousin came out to meet them. She was wearing a simple cotton dress, which immediately stuck out to Drego as odd. Chantalyn's wardrobe had always been extravagant and full of personality, and this was...not that. Perhaps the war really had changed her.

"I just totally missed you all way too much!" she beamed down at him. Even now she was taller than he was, and he wasn't sure he had much growing left to catch up. "They said that I'd fought so well that I was allowed to come home for a visit! We pushed the Brels back far enough that they aren't too much of a threat right now"

Drego's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. As the sentence went on, Chantalyn's voice rose in pitch, and she covered her mouth with her hand as she mentioned pushing the Brels back. Drego wasn't sure why, or even how he was so sure of it, but Chantalyn had just lied to him.

Chantalyn never lied to him.

Instinctively, somehow, Drego knew that he couldn't show that he'd caught it. He brushed it under the rug, and went about the herculean task of updating his cousin on all of the news she'd missed. He'd been studying magic! He had a real talent for it, and his professors thought he'd go far if he kept at it. Outside of his lessons, he'd been helping his mother in the shop, working his magic into the fabric to create illusions. He could make clothes with patterns that changed! He'd discovered a real passion for the use of magic to create these little joys, and it was so easy for him! Like putting needle to thread, he could sew enchantments together to create wonders.

As he explained all of this to Chantalyn, at a moment when she looked away, he summoned the box from his gloves. Another magic trick, one she wouldn't expect, and he basked in the look on her face when she turned back to him and noticed the box. She opened it, and the colours within washed over at her. She took the gown out of the box and held it up to the light, before pressing it to her chest.

"Can...can I wear it?"

What a question! He'd made it for her!

"Of course you can! It's for you. It's beautiful and dangerous, just like you!"

Chantalyn disappeared, practically sprinting out of the room to go get dressed. Drego looked to his mother, who reassuringly smiled at him. "See? Nothing to worry about"

Nevertheless, Drego couldn't help the anxiety welling as they waited for his cousin to return. An eternity later, she glided into the room with the air of a dignified noblewoman. She spent several moments strutting around like a peacock, and Drego couldn't help the smile that plastered itself across his face. She took him by surprise a moment later, pulling him into an embrace and actually lifting him off the floor.

Words cascaded out of her like a waterfall, and Drego didn't quite catch them all between her hurried speech and the tears. He caught the important part, though.

"I've just felt so ALONE, it's been so hard. Drego, you MADE this? And it's so fucking PERFECT!" she took in a big breath, practically gasping, before launching into another scramble of syllables that Drego struggled to keep up with, ending in a practically shouted "TEMPLAR!?"

Tears streamed down her face as she hit an arrest in her emotional energy. "I wish I could take you with me. You are like, so good. And smart. You shouldn't let your talents go to waste"

"You shouldn't let your talents go to waste."

Drego idly spun a sewing needle between his fingers, passing it from one hand to the other as it made its journey across his knuckles. He'd been thinking about his cousin's words since he saw her. She was struggling in the Knights Templar, he'd put together what she'd said in the throws of emotion. It wouldn't be a quick solution, but there was only one way that he could think of to alleviate that loneliness. She needed a friend.

Drego made the decision then and there, he would enlist the next day.

984 YK

Drego was nervous. He'd made up his mind that he was going to do this, but that had been much easier yesterday when he was alone in his room, and not waiting in line to speak to the recruiter for the Knights Templar. He'd arrived at the church all full of flame, conviction fueling his steps, but the waiting was beginning to gnaw at him. It was giving him time to question his choices, consider his options. Would this actually help his cousin? He could express an interest in joining the Order of Kloinjer, but there would be no guarantee that he'd actually be sent to the same locations as her. His doubts were coalescing into a knot in his stomach, as the anxiety over such a momumentous decision fought against his desire to do something.

"Don't let your talents go to waste."

That was what Chantalyn had said, she believed he could be more than just a tailor, more than an amateur actor at the theatre. He could certainly do more for this country by joining the templars, even if his duties never went beyond the border. Thrane was full of monsters that threatened the people, and at the very least it would be good for him to learn how to properly defend himself.

The line seemed to go on forever, but there were only a few people in front of him now. Thankfully, he was patient. He tapped his foot involuntarily as he waited, his nervous energy needing to be dissipated somehow, and he just prayed that it didn't make him stand out too much. He didn't want to be perceived as weak before he'd even signed up. Eventually, after what seemed like it must have been several hours, he was standing in front of the table and facing the recruiter.

"State your name, please."

"Drego Sarhain"

"And what brings you here today, Mr. Sarhain?"

"I'd like to join the Knights Templar. Order of Kloinjer, if possible."

The recruiter considered him for several seconds, and Drego knew they were looking at his gangly limbs. He had some muscle, but he wasn't as active as he could've been and he wasn't anywhere close to his cousin's level of athleticism.

"Any prior experience? Can you fight?"

"I can use a longbow, sir"

"Everybody in Thrane can use a longbow, son"

Drego looked down at the recruiter, trying to gauge how this was going. The recruiter wasn't giving him a hard time for no reason, and how he answered these questions would impact where he ended up.

"Fair enough. I have some talent with magic, but have never used it in a combat situation. I don't know how to use a sword beyond the very basics, or any other melee weapon."

The recruiter nodded. "Very well, that won't be a problem, you'll receive the training you need. You seem fit enough, and of sound mind, how old are you?"

"Eighteen, sir"

"And how long have you been eighteen for?"

"A few months"

"Okay. Your application is accepted. Report here tomorrow morning and your training will begin."

"Thank you, sir"

Drego saluted the recruiter, turned on his heels, and walked as calmly as he could manage out of the church and out of earshot before he let his breath out. Okay, that was the easy part down, now he had to tell his mother. She didn't totally approve of Chantalyn joining the military, she had told Drego that his cousin was only doing it to rebel against her own parents, that both of them were better off where they were.

The war wasn't showing any signs of ending any time soon, though, and Drego knew that. it stood to reason that it would eventually be at their doorstep whether they wanted to be involved or not, and he'd rather be caught prepared and able to defend himself and his family. At least, he kept telling himself that was the case.

"Get it together, Drego. You won't be able to convince anybody of anything if you don't believe it yourself" he said to himself, before looking around the alleyway he'd sheltered in to make sure nobody had heard him speaking to himself. Confident that he hadn't embarassed himself, he began the walk home, stopping at a bakery along the way to pick up something for himself, and something for his mother. He didn't feel great about resorting to bribery to soften the blow of what he was going to tell her, but he'd do whatever he could to make it easier.

"Why are you doing this?" Drego's mother asked, putting the sewing needle down as she spoke. "You've been doing so well, with the tailoring, and the magic! You've never even mentioned wanting to join the army."

"I just...I feel like I have to. I can't let my talents go to waste, I can be doing more. The war isn't ending any time soon, and it's already reached Flamekeep several times in the past! What do I do when that happens, when we're in danger!?" he argued, and he'd got his story straight. He did feel like he could be doing more, had even convinced himself on the walk back that he could actually make a difference despite being just one soldier, one cog in a vast, vast machine.

"You can do more without putting your life in danger! It's bad enough that Chantalyn's out there, fighting the Brelish-"

"That's exactly why I need to do this! I can help keep her safe!"

"Or you could put her at risk because she'll try to keep you safe, Drego."

He had considered this, he knew it was a risk. That just meant that he had to be good enough that he didn't need to rely on Chantalyn's help. He could do that, he would work hard, harder than he'd ever worked at anything, to ensure that he wasn't just making it worse for her.

"It won't come to that, I promise."

"You can't promise that, Drego."

Drego didn't respond to that for a good while.

"I know. I'm sorry, but I have to do this. I have to try, at least"

His mother pulled him into a hug, before pulling back and kissing him on the forehead, tears carving a channel down her face.

"I know."

984 YK

It had been several days now since Drego had enlisted to join the Knights Templar. Several grueling, back breaking days. He'd done more physical activity in this week than the rest of his life combined, it seemed. He was aching in places that he didn't know could ache. He'd roughly held his own in his training, but many of the other recruits had more experience than him, or were physically stronger than him, and he'd taken a beating.

He sat on his bunk, running his hands over his bruises and whispering incantations to himself. He hadn't been trained in divine magic, but he'd worked out how to cast a simple healing spell, a skill that was serving him very well in his short time in the army. It just came easily to him, it wasn't that different from the magic he'd been taught at school. He was getting on well with his comrades, despite his relatively lack of experience or prowess, he'd always been good with people. He'd thus far avoided the bullying that he'd expected to face, especially given how his cousin had fared.

He approached his sparring partner for the day and offered to heal their wounds too, an offer they were more than happy to accept. Drego didn't have to do this, but it was small gestures like this that had helped him to build a rapport with his fellow trainees. Nobody wanted to piss off the guy that could heal them after sparring, who may very well have to heal them on the battlefield. They'd been treating him like he was an adept, which had amused him enough that he never felt the need to correct them. He'd had no education on theology, though he was familiar enough with the basics.

He'd always listened to his cousin though, and all her talks of the sparkly silver flame in her heart. He wasn't sure if he had a sparkly silver flame in his own heart, but he knew that she did, and it had protected her. That was evidence enough for him that the Silver Flame existed, and it helped them. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and reached for it, he could almost hear something like music. It was when he did this that he could cast the healing spell, his soul filling with radiant song.

He was lost in that thought when the door to the barracks opened, and he only realised somebody had entered the room when the recruit he was healing stood up. Drego turned to face the newcomer, a half-elf woman in silver-filigreed half-plate. There were murmurs of confusion among the recruits, nobody seemed to know who she was, but she was carrying herself with the confidence of an authority figure who was used to being listened to. Drego followed his instincts and gave her a salute, a mistake, as it immediately drew her attention to him.

"I'm looking for one of the new recruits, somebody named Drego Sarhain."

Drego blanched, what had he done? He rapidly replayed the last several days over in his head, trying to work out where he'd mistepped, what mistake he had made that had caused him to stand out. Who was this?

"Reporting, sir!" he responded, mustering as much enthusiasm as he thought was appropriate given the situation, given he didn't know what rank this person held. 

"Come with me, please."

That was interesting, Drego thought, as he started to walk after her. She was some kind of authority, she didn't need to say please, she could have just ordered him to do so. She was trying to make an impression, she wanted him to respect her beyond what was afforded by the power imbalance. Why would that be? He was nobody, a man who was barely an adult who had enlisted to fight for his country. There were thousands of people just like him.

Was this related to his cousin? Was she that well known already? He hadn't told her he was enlisting, so she couldn't have done anything, could she?

His mind whirred as the half-elf led him to a room with three other people and a table covered in various esoterica. Despite the room being lit with everbright lanterns on the wall, there was a lit candle on the table. He took this in, identified the people he knew. The recruiter, and his commanding officer, the one who had been directing his training. He didn't know the third person.

"Did I...do something wrong?" he asked, anxiety and uncertainty forming a cocktail in his gut.

They all stared at him, before the half-elf spoke.

"No. Do you know who I am?"

"I'm sorry, I only enlisted a few days ago. I don't."

The half-elf nodded. "I am Knight-Commander Gennara ir'Damilek, commander of the Order of the Gilded Labyrinth."

What? Why would they have been looking for Drego?

"The other recruits have been talking about you. Do you know what they say?" she asked him, as he reran every interaction he'd ever had with his comrades.

"I couldn't speculate" he answered, on guard now.

"You told me that you had some talent with magic, which has been observed." his recruiter chimed in, "but you've been healing yourself and others."

Drego took this in and slowly nodded. "Yes, should I not have?"

Gennara answered. "You're not in trouble, Sarhain. I want you to show me. Perform some magic."

Drego stepped forward, up to the table, where components had been laid out, and swallowed the lump in his throat. "I umm...I don't know what to cast. Are you looking for something in particular?"

Gennara didn't give him any indication of what she was hoping to see. He settled on something easy, a cantrip, muttering the incantation and creating several small motes of light in the air. He then twirled his fingers and made them dance around the room. Did Gennara's face perk up with them or was that just a trick of the light?

"And you can heal, with magic? The others aren't mistaken, or lying?" she asked, and Drego didn't really understand where she was going with this. "Y...yes?"

Gennara drew a dagger from her belt, grabbed Drego's wrist and drew the blade across his palm.

"Ah, what the fuck!?" he yelled as he yanked his wrist free, his shock at the pain enough to override his ability to police his reactions. He'd need to get better at that.

"Show me." Gennera commanded, wiping the blood from her knife. "Heal yourself."

Drego scowled at her as he brought his other hand to the wound and called on the Flame to close it. Silver light flowed from one hand into the other, and the cut repaired itself, leaving no trace it had ever happened. There wouldn't be a scar.

Gennara smiled at him, Drego found it more unsettling than reassuring.

"I'll take him."

985 YK

It had been roughly a year since Drego had first met Knight-Commander Gennara ir'Damilek. Almost a year since he'd last seen his mother, or his cousin.

He'd stayed in the camp with the other recruits for a while after he was called away. Gennara wanted a baseline level of physical fitness and weapons training before she would begin his training proper. The entire dynamic had shifted, the others barely spoke to him anymore, nobody wanted to risk upsetting the unusual Knight-Commander. He was pushed significantly harder than any of them were, the drill master had informed him that he would get no special treatment just because he'd been hand-picked for something else, but apparently that only meant he wouldn't get positive special treatment.

He spent every moment he wasn't training or sleeping studying under Gennara's watchful eye. He studied the history of the Church of the Silver Flame, the core values and beliefs of the faith he had followed his entire life. He learned of the structure of the church, its hierarchy, and of the many organisations that made it up. She made him do archery for at least an hour every day, which was more than anyone else was doing and he was doing it whilst everyone else was resting.

He was beyond exhausted, and he'd never felt more alone. His resolve wavered constantly, but there was something keeping him going.

Gennara was teaching him magic.

"I'll take him" Gennara had said a year ago, leaving Drego floundering and confused.

"What do you mean? Take me where? Do I get a say in this?" he'd questioned

"I'll be sponsoring your application to join my order, Mr Sarhain. You'll come under my tutelage, and we'll bring out that potential I see in you. Have you ever heard of silver pyromancy?"

He hadn't, but he didn't feel comfortable admitting his ignorance.

"I've heard the term before, but I'm light on the details"

A twitch. She'd caught his lie, but she didn't punish him for it or make a scene in front of the others.

"We are the arcane champions of the Church. We blend arcane and divine, performing feats that many would consider impossibilities. You've surely encountered the idea before, that the divine is beyond the purview of wizards or sorcerers. Did you not think it curious that you could heal as well as perform the magic you were taught at your college?"

He hadn't, actually, and he was kicking himself for it now. He should've been more careful. He caught what she'd done in that statement, too. She'd used his first name, a change in dynamic. She was trying to put him at ease, get him on side.

"I...but I signed up to join the Order of Kloinjer. I was supposed to...fight demons." For some reason he felt like he shouldn't mention his cousin, not right now. How did he end up in this den of wolves?

"I am sure they would jump at the chance to have someone like you in their ranks, Drego, but they can't teach you to realise your potential. You could still join them, swing a sword around and never be more than that. Or you can come with me, and not let your talents go to waste."

He was haunted by that phrase. It was Chantalyn who had said it to him first, had driven him to throw everything away to join the military, in the hopes that he could do more to help. Looking back on this moment, it was probably Gennara's use of the phrase that had convinced him to go along with her. She'd played him like a fiddle.

He was well on his way now. He'd been with Gennara for the last 6 months, shadowing her as she performed her own duties in service to the war, and studying. She was bringing him new books constantly. There was so much variety. She brought him books on magical theory, of course, as well as spellbooks from various sources. She'd give him specific chapters to read, and then they'd spend the evening discussing what he'd learned.

She also bought him books unrelated to magic. Books on history, not just limited to Thrane, but all of Khorvaire and even Xen'drik. She'd bought him fiction books with stories that she felt he had something to learn from. He particularly treasured a book of tailoring patterns she'd got him, for his birthday.

He hadn't told her when his birthday was.

They woke up early every morning for training. Gennara told him that silver pyromancers had to train with weapons, not just spells. He thought it was just an excuse for her to beat him up. He had yet to encounter any other "silver pyromancers" to verify anything she said, but she commanded respect among the other templars they encountered, and he had to admit that Gennara was impressive. Just like Drego, she had the mind of a wizard, but she was also capable of calling upon the divine. When he was too tired or injured to see to his own wounds, she'd do it for him.

She had recently begun to advance his training. It was no longer limited to physical combat practice and discussions of magical theory. She told him that on the battlefield, he would be expected to counter and neutralise enemy spellcasters, so he'd need to be prepared to have Khyber thrown at him and he'd need to come out on top. She had already taught him mage armour, and basic deflection spells, but those wouldn't be enough against any seasoned mage.

She demonstrated this to him through the medium of a fireball. He was completely unprepared, incapable of defending himself against it beyond an attempt to dive clear. She'd centered the blast on his body, though, and there was no escaping the heat. His entire body was covered in burns of varying intensity, and his clothing was irreparably damaged. He wouldn't have a snowballs chance in Fernia of healing this much damage himself, even without the pain disrupting his concentration, Gennera would have to do it for him.

"Why would you do that?" he asked her, as she repaired his blistering skin.

"To show you the reality of what you'll be facing. You'll remember the pain better than any other lesson I could give, and you'll make sure it doesn't happen to you again. I know it seemed cruel, Drego, but war is cruel, and the war isn't ending any time soon."

He could see the reasoning, but it didn't make him any less hurt or angry. He wondered how many other trainees had been fireballed as part of their training. He'd always been the lucky one. He would later come to appreciate this lesson, as hard as it was, but in the moment the only thing he could think about was the pain, both physical and emotional. He'd learned to trust Gennara, he worked hard so he could earn those rare smiles, the affirmations of his progress. It hurt him far more deeply than the fire (which had burned through his epidermis and in some places down to the bone) that she had done that to him.

It was a lesson he wouldn't forget, just as she had said.

Before their next practice, Gennara made sure that Drego knew how to counterspell, either by disrupting the concentration of an enemy caster or by reacting to the substance of a spell. They practiced it for three days, Gennara throwing smaller, less harmful spells at him until he successfully countered them. They'd then discuss what he'd done, why it had or hadn't worked. She gave him a book on the subject, which he hungrily devoured at the expense of sleep. He was in no rush to experience that again.

He'd always been a quick study, and two days later they stood out in the training yard again. There were others training, but they instinctively stopped what they were doing and moved to the edges of the court. Drego had been too busy dying of third degree burns to pay much attention to who had been in the yard last time, but clearly word had spread. Just as before, Gennara began her incantation, arms and fingers moving to perform the requisite gestures, her rapier acting as a spellcasting focus.

A beam of silvery light shot from her outstretched finger and stopped an inch from Drego's chest, before exploding. He was ready this time, and as soon as beam left Gennara's hand, he began his own incantation. The beam detonated, but he clamped his hands around it and caught it, containing the explosion and dispelling the magic fueling it. His heart was in his throat, adrenaline flooding his system in expectation of the searing pain, but his nerve had held.

He jumped into the air and cheered as his anxiety was dispelled along with the fire. He looked to his mentor, who was looking at him with a mix of admiration, pride, and...something else? For just a split second, subtle enough that he wasn't sure if he'd just imagined it, like she'd schooled her expression when he looked at her.

"You did well, Drego. Let's get some horchata."

985

It had been several months since Drego had first caught the fireball. He sat in his room, passing a sewing needle across his knuckles as he had done after speaking to Chantalyn, thinking back on it. Gennara had reward him for that with horchata, an attempt to smooth things over after betraying him. He'd never regained the trust he'd previously had in Gennara, he could still feel the fire consuming his skin when he closed his eyes.

Even if his skin held no evidence of it, he didn't think he'd ever forget it.

That had been the point, hadn't it? To teach him a lesson that would stick with him, that wouldn't fade with time. They'd discussed the technique after he'd successfully counterspelled the next one, and he was reflecting on it now.

They'd sat down at a café and Gennara had gone to get their drinks. Drego watched her go and tried to make sense of the roil of emotions he felt. She had practically roasted him alive with a fireball, and now was buying him horchata and chatting away as if nothing had happened. Something had changed, though, and Drego thought she must feel guilty. She wouldn't hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds now.

Had she expected him to be able to counter it the first time? Had it been a mistake? She would never admit it if it had been, and Drego didn't feel like pushing it. She hadn't even apologised for it, only explained her reasoning.

She returned and put the drinks on the table, and sat opposite him. She asked him questions about how he'd countered the fireball, how it had felt, what was going through his head as he did so. It was the same conversation they had after every lesson, and Drego found it helpful to go over the experience. Gennara asked pointed questions as he explained, getting him to drill into the specifics.

She asked him a lot more questions than usual this time, but nothing that revealed her intentions. His answers weren't giving her what she was looking for, and they left the café with her obviously frustrated but unwilling to explain why.

His elation at having successfully defended against the fireball had turned to ash, and Drego had no idea what he had done wrong.

Drego emerged from his room bright and early, ready to spar with Gennara. He went down into the kitchen, where she was waiting for him, nothing unusual. She had a letter in her hands though, and she didn't greet him as he entered.

"What's that?" he asked, and she looked up with a scowl. She passed him the letter, it was from Chantalyn, but it wasn't addressed to Drego; it was addressed to Gennara.

"She doesn't think you can do it. She thinks you're a gentle soul, that you need her to protect you."

Drego ignored her and read the letter.

Knight-Commander Gennara ir'Damilek,

It has come to my attention that you are training a young man by the name of Drego Sarhain. Yes. We are kin. Yes. He has talent. Yes. He needs training. But if you DARE put his life on the line with some underhanded training tactic again I will go to the highest heights to see you taken from your position. Drego is the best of us, in every way. A gentle soul with depths that a shallow power hungry person could never dream of. This is the army, and the Church of the Silver Flame, not the Khyber-spawned Dragonmarked Houses, and he should NOT be put through tests of Siberys just to prove his worth to you. 

Your servant,

Chantalyn Sarhain

Drego wasn't sure that he was deserving of Chantalyn's assessment, his soul didn't feel all too gentle these days, but he would burn before he let Gennara turn him against his cousin.

"She's just concerned for my well-being. It was an unorthodox tactic, Gennara."

"Knight-Commander Gennara, Drego"

Oh, so it was going to be one of those days. Drego suppressed the sigh that threatened to further enflame the situation.

"Of course, I forgot myself, Knight-Commander"

"That's better. Is she going to be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Good, we'll be sparring with full magic today, and you'll be sparring with Kievan later."

Great, that meant that Drego was going to be deflecting fireballs all day, or worse. Kievan ir'Talar was Gennara's previous apprentice, but he was already an educated wizard when he met Gennara, so his training had been significantly less involved than Drego's. He was also a noble, whose education had been paid for and whose every need had been met his entire life.

Drego...didn't dislike him, as such, but he was already aware that he was better than Kievan was. For some reason, he felt a need to go easy when sparring with Kievan, to avoid bruising the other wizards ego. Gennara thought this was funny.

"Yes, sir."

Gennara stared at him for several seconds before responding again.

"Don't be like this, Drego. I'm sorry if my comments about your cousin upset you, I'd forgotten you were a gentle soul."

Drego stood in the courtyard in a triangle formation with Gennara and Kievan, all of them with their bladed-staves in their hands.

"You've done well so far, Drego, if I've got your attention then I can't harm you. That's not always going to be the situation on the battlefield, however, and you need to learn to defend yourself when you're distracted." Gennera explained, as she gestured to Kievan with her staff.

"For today's exercise, I will be casting spells at you whilst Kievan is engaging you in melee combat. As always, we will heal each other when mistakes are made. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir" the two younger men answered in unison, which made Drego flinch internally.

Moments later, Kievan charged at Drego and swung the bladed end of his staff, which Drego parried with his own, redirecting the older man around himself as he saw Gennara begin to cast from the corner of his eye. The gemstone on the end of her staff was glowing, and Drego recognised the incantation even as Kievan spun around and they began another exchange.

Guiding bolt, Gennara? Really?

Drego brought his staff high, spread between both hands to catch Kievan's blow on the haft, pushing Kievan back to create some space as he rapidly incanted and performed the required gestures for a shielding spell to intercept the projectile. He caught the look on Gennara's face, she was annoyed with him for earlier but approved at his choice to simply block the spell rather than counterspell it.

Drego pushed the opportunity, locking staves with Kievan again and taking the other man by surprise when him in the knee. The leg went out from under him, and Drego found himself faced with another projectile from Gennara, though this time only a firebolt. He didn't bother with a spell, he simply moved and had to quickly defend himself as Kievan rose back to his feet with a thrust of the spearhead. 

He was on the inside of Drego's staff now. Drego pulled his own staff against his chest, locking Kievan's arm and preventing him from getting stabbed. Kievan was stronger than Drego was, so a grapple wasn't ideal, but Drego was weaselly and twisted his entire body, forcing Kievan to twist his arms or let go of the staff. He let go of the staff, and Drego got hit with a fire bolt for his trouble, causing him to stagger back and drop his partner's staff.

Kieven went in to retrieve his staff, and Drego stepped back to allow him to do so. In a real fight, Drego would've killed him, but this wasn't a real fight and Drego was here to learn. In the time it took Kievan to retrieve his staff, Gennara increased her own aggressiveness and Drego had to dodge, deflect, or shield against another barrage of magical projectiles.

Gennara really was annoyed at him.

Drego defended until Kievan had a weapon in hand, and then retaliated with a fire bolt of his own flung at Gennara. She wasn't expecting him to attack her, and she scrambled to shield herself against the bolt as Kievan rushed back into melee. Drego swept with the bladed end of his staff, forcing Kievan to jump back, and then Drego stepped in after him and thrust for his chest. Kievan deflected the stab and elbowed Drego in the face, which staggered the younger man and caused Gennara's next attack to miss. Drego swung again as he stepped back, bringing his left hand up to his face to wipe any blood away.

Or so it looked, but in doing so Drego manipulated his fingers into somatic components as he uttered an incantation. He closed his eyes as a blinding flash of light went off between the two men. Drego opened his eyes, to see Kievan clutching at his own. Gennara had understood what Drego was doing and had averted her eyes, and she covered for Kievan's weakness with a lightning bolt.

Drego counterspelled it, but was almost too slow. He wasn't expecting Gennara to fire such intense spells whilst the two of them were in such close quarters. Kievan wouldn't've been able to defend himself from it either if Drego hadn't stopped it.

Gennara did love her harsh lessons, it was probably just as much one for Kievan as it was for Drego.

Kievan had recovered from the daze by now, and shot a look at Gennara. He hadn't seen it, but he'd obviously heard the incantation.

"Keep going!" she commanded, and the two boys clashed again.

Strike. Dodge. Strike. Strike. Dodge. Strike. Shield.

Then it went wrong. Kievan kicked Drego in the stomach, winding him and causing him to fall back onto one knee. He then pressed the advantage and begun casting fireball.

As Gennara also cast fireball.

Drego saw both of their eyes widen as they realised what they'd done, but it was too late. Drego didn't have time to think, didn't have time to incant. His hands worked off of muscle memory, directing a counterspell at Kievan to prevent one unforgettable lesson as the harsher lesson closed in. He did the only thing he could think to do, reaching out for that radiant song and calling to the Flame to save him.

Eyes wide, breathing heavily, he looked towards his mentors. Both of them were staring at him in stunned silence.

Drego wasn't sure what had happened. He dropped his staff and slapped his hands against his own body, testing to see if he was truly unharmed. No burns, no pain. How in Khyber?

"Drego...how did you do that?" Gennera asked, as she dropped her own staff and rushed to check him over. Kievan just continued to stare.

"I don't know, I didn't have time to think I just...did it"

"You didn't...Kievan, did you hear him incant?"

"No, Knight-Commander. He didn't."

987

Knight-Commander Gennara ir'Damilek reported to General Nystrum Shadar as they overlooked their gathered forces at Cairn Hill. Thrane's forces were outnumbered, though they brought to bear a significant force of heavy infantry, pikes and the best archers in the Five Nations. On top of this, they also had access to a small number of silver pyromancers answering directly to Knight-Commander ir'Damilek.

They weren't just fighting Breland, but also their Darguul mercenaries. The goblinoids would be fierce, and General Shadar considered them to likely be a bigger threat than Breland's own army. To make matters even worse, Breland had fielded Chydris.

The first day of the Battle of Cairn Hill largely consisted of skirmishes between the forces present, with no commander fully committing their forces. Gennara's silver pyromancers were brutally effective in this role, riding lightly armoured horses so that they could get in, deliver devastating magical barrages and get out. Once the forces truly clashed, the Gilded Labyrinth would be deployed as magical artillery and counter-artillery.

But Drego Sarhain wasn't here. Gennara had no idea where he was, and it infuriated her. General Shadar had personally requested him, and Gennara hadn't seen her apprentice in almost 6 months. When the battle was over, she would be giving the General a piece of her mind, how dare he directly reassign her apprentice without her consent?

The second day was not going well for Thrane. The floating fortress was frighteningly effective, effectively impregnable, and capable of unleashing seemingly endless salvos of arcane artillery. The Darguuls had been fighting fiercely too, and the Thranish front line was struggling.

A dark-skinned man with curly black hair and the uniform of the Brelish Engineering Corps made his way through the maze-like corridors of Chydris, inspecting the eldritch machinery as he went. There were over 1,600 people on board the fortress, far too many for everybody to be familiar with everybody else, and this allowed the curly haired man to walk around relatively unmolested. It helped that he carried himself with the confidence of someone who was meant to be there.

He'd been on board for several hours at this point, exploring and mentally mapping the fortress as he went. He had to work out how it functioned, and how he might disable it, or countless Thranish soldiers would die. He'd been hand picked for this task by General Shadar, and though it wasn't his first engagement, it would be the most important of his life thus far. He couldn't afford to fail, and the longer he took, the more people would die. Chantalyn was down there somewhere too.

Failure wasn't an option.

Drego had come to the conclusion that there was a strong possibility this was a suicide mission. The forces on the fortress were overwhelming, and whilst he could move quietly and quickly due to being alone, that also made him vulnerable. Almost everybody on board was combat ready and trained, if he was caught, he would die. He was under no illusions of being able to take on a full Brelish legion. At least there weren't any bears. He hoped.

He'd worked out that the most important components of the fortress must reside in the bow, that was where it was most fortified and most closely guarded. The command staff were housed in the stern, in a tower reminiscent of those in Sharn, not that Drego had ever seen them. He figured if he couldn't find a way to ground the fortress, he could always take out its command structure and give the Thranish forces time to disable it.

He made his way to the front of the fortress, passing countless people whom he'd never have the chance to meet. He found himself suffering with a severe case of empathy, all of these people were like him. They had families, loved ones waiting for them, and they all believed they were defending their country. There was a not insignificant chance that many of these people would not survive the day, and that made Drego unprofessionally sad. It would be his fault.

Once he was in the bow, he explored and followed signs to anything that sounded important. It seemed that the bow contained bunkers for all of the non-combat staff in the fortress, where they could shelter during the battle. People like the cooks, the medics, and engineers without combat training. People who hadn't signed up to be on the frontline, like he had.

More importantly, Drego had found what he was looking for. The team of pilots that controlled the fortress were positioned at the top of the bow, providing one option for disabling the fortress (at least temporarily). More importantly, however, was that Drego had stumbled upon engines. He stepped into the room, and took a moment to really admire the craftmanship. Chydris was seriously impressive, and he wished he had more time to study how it all worked. The network of enchantments and physical, mundane machinery were enormously complex, it was no wonder that Breland had produced only five of these fortresses.

There were people in here, people who would likely trigger the alarm if they suspected Drego of espionage. Unfortunately, Drego was guilty of espionage. He shut the door behind him as he entered the room, sighed and took a deep breath, and then withdrew his daggers from his gloves of storing. Three people were dead before anyone realised something was wrong, and the fourth died with his weapon halfway out of its sheath.

The fifth charged at Drego with a shout, but nobody heard it. Drego had projected a sphere of silence from himself, done without a word, and so nobody heard the deaths of the fifth, sixth, or seventh engineers. The eighth tried to run, and Drego caught them on the back with a bolt of sacred fire, before mercifully ending their suffering with the point of a silvered knife.

Nine never saw him coming, and Ten fell to Nine's sword being launched through their chest telekinetically. Drego did his best not to feel any of it, but he did, he felt every knife stroke, every flicker of life leaving. He'd fought in skirmishes, he'd killed people before, but this felt different. It was too easy, they weren't putting up enough of a fight to assuage his conscience.

Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen and Fourteen all dropped to magic missiles, whilst scorching rays dealt with Fifteen, Sixteen, and Seventeen. Eighteen fell to a spiritual weapon in the form of a radiant, flaming longsword. Every life lost in silence, with not even a whimper.

Drego had arrived at this target now, the first of the three Khyber shards that bound the elementals to Chydris. The fortress functioned in much the same way as the lightning rail, bound elementals provided the locomotion and lifted the fortress from the ground. Drego wasn't sure what role each elemental played, but he could feel them in the shards. An Air, Earth, and Fire elemental, enormously powerful ones. The gnomes had outdone themselves.

Drego set to work unraveling the enchantments that contained and controlled the elementals. He was dimly aware that the pilots were mentally linked to the planar entities, and that in releasing them, he was going to fry the pilots brains. He'd heard a story that Argonth, another floating fortress, had lost several of their pilots after a particularly long journey due to the mental strain. It had to be done.

He weakened the air elemental's binding first. The reaction was immediate, the entire fortress lurched as it lost some of the force keeping it above ground, and Drego was launched from his feet as the bow plowed into the ground. Historians would report this was a piloting mistake as Chydris attempted to rapidly reposition to meet a Thranish flanking force. Officially, Drego had never been here.

He weakened the binding on the other two elementals. He didn't break it completely, he didn't want to still be here if they actually broke containment and were let loose. He walked calmly do the door, exited the engine room, and shut the door behind him. He hoped the elementals remained contained, even as the fortress was grounded. If they got free, they would likely lash out at the nearest people they could find.

Which would be the non-combatant support staff.

Drego pondered the words of his cousin as he made his way back through the fortress. If he had ever had a sparkly silver flame in his heart, it was surely sputtering now. It would never allow the things he had done, or was about to do. He'd disrupted the locomotion mechanisms for the fortress, limiting its mobility, but it was still capable of bathing the Thranish forces in magical fire, and so he'd need to shut that down too. The staff had noticed that something was wrong, people had begun to run to various points in the fortress, and they would no doubt discover the sabotage soon enough.

He was ordered by a Brelish officer to report to the communications room, there was an issue with the communications system. Perfect. He followed directions, walking passed increasingly panicked crew members, until he found himself at the communications hub for the fortress. Chydris user a network of tubes throughout the fortress, coordinated from this room, to pass messages quickly throughout. A communications officer could speak into one tube, and a corresponding tube elsewhere would carry the sound to the relevant part of the fortress.

It was clever stuff, and it would be the fortress's undoing. Drego entered, shutting the door behind him, and asked them what the problem was. He was directed to the main console, through which all of the tubes passed. He positioned himself next to the console, and made a show of examining the machinery to locate the issue, and then he casually silenced the room. There was confusion immediately as the noise and chaos was cut short, and then somebody noticed that he'd dropped a mote of silvery light, vibrating with barely contained energy. A few seconds later, the fireball detonated, the flames weaving their way around Drego and leaving him unharmed whilst they snuffed out every other flame in the room.

Nobody heard a damned thing. No alarm could be raised, because he'd just disabled the communications system.

He was disgusting.

Gennara and her pyromancers deflected another salvo of arcane fire from the floating fortress, protecting a contingent of templars belonging to the Order of Kloinjer. That was the order that her apprentice had originally tried to join, before she'd seen his potential and claimed him for the Gilded Labyrinth. Where the fuck was he?

She didn't have time to wonder, as a unit of ursine cavalry collided with the front line ahead of her. They were losing this battle, Chydris presented a challenge they weren't prepared to meet, and they were outnumbered even without the fortress rinsing them. The Darguuls were ferocious, more than a match for a Thranish templar, and the battle would've been rough even without their presence.

An idea, perhaps they needn't fight the goblins at all. Gennara instructed her unit to keep fighting, to keep defending against the Brelish artillery, she had to speak to General Shadar.

Gennara found the General in the center of the Thranish forces, directing the various knight-commanders via messenger.

"General Shadar, sir!" she yelled with a salute.

"Knight-Commander ir'Damilek. What news?" he responded calmly. Something about him had unsettled Gennara for some time, but she couldn't put her finger on what. He always seemed to know more than he let on.

"We're losing, general. We need to disable Chydris, and I have a plan to deal with the goblins-" she began, but the general interrupted her. "Chydris is well in hand, you just need to hold out a little longer."

What? How?

Gennara knew better than to question it.

"Understood, sir. The Darguuls are a mercenary force, they have no real loyalty to Breland. If we send a flanking force to ransack their baggage train, we can pull them away from the front."

The general stared at her for several seconds, cogs whirring in his mind.

"See it done, ir'Damilek."

Excellent.

Gennara gathered a small force of skirmisher cavalry, leaving her silver pyromancers running counterartillery. She took only Kievan with her from her own forces. The flanking force went wide, needing to avoid direct engagement as they skirted around the Brelish forces and went for the Darguuls pay chests. It was shockingly effective, as soon as their force was noticed, many of the goblins abandoned the front line to rush to try and protect their loot.

The unreliable goblinoids left the right flank open, an advantage that the Thranish foot soldiers took advantage of. The Silver Blight charged into the breach, and single handedly took down a bear. Gennara had to admit that she was impressive, she wondered if it ran in the family?

Chydris attempted to reposition to deal with this new threat, but something went wrong. As it turned, the bow of the fortress dipped down and caught on the ground. The entire fortress began to spin around that axis, and whatever enchantment kept it aloft momentarily failed as it plunged into the earth. The Thranes wasted no time capitalising on the piloting error, rushing into the fortress to disable it permanently.

The world seemed to slow, he dropped the silence spell but everything was louder than it should be. His pulse had quickened, his pupils dilated. I'm having a panic attack he thought to himself, stifling a giggle at the absurdity of it. He'd just killed an entire room full of people, flawlessly, and now he was panicking? He started to mutter to himself, trying to ground himself in his surroundings (which he'd set on fire).

"Temper or Break, Sarhain. You can't stay here, come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on"

Those people deserved to die.

The thought stopped him dead in his tracks. Something was off about it, the tempo, perhaps? The...sound? Did thoughts have sound?

It was for the greater good, for the good of Thrane. One lesser evil leads to the prevention of further, greater evils.

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no

Something was wrong.

He spoke aloud, holding onto a nearby table to steady himself.

"What"

His own thoughts betrayed him and answered the question.

You did what you had to do. Nobody could blame you for a little collateral damage.

No, this was wrong. Something was wrong.

He reached out to the comforting chime, the Silver Flame, and found something else. It was the Flame, but it wasn't, like he was speaking to something within it. A shadow of something else.

He was so stupid, every templar was taught to be wary of the whispering flame.

How long had he been hearing that before he noticed it? How many of his actions had been mislead?

How long had he been standing here?

Chaos.

There was fighting outside, he could hear it. A commotion in the corridor. He'd finally been discovered, they would kill him. Or worse, they'd take him prisoner.

He summoned another mote of silvery light and let it hover above his hand, in front of his face. He was too rattled, he lacked the focus to sculpt this one, when this spell went off he'd take himself out with everyone else in the room. Better dead than a tool of the enemy.

Wood splintered as the door was kicked open. Drego went to close his eyes and unleash Khyber, but he just caught a glimpse of something that gave him pause, and he clamped his hand around the budding fireball.

A demon wearing the skin of his cousin. She was covered in blood, a hole had been cut in her chestplate where the emblem of the Silver Flame would have been. There was the shadow of horns on her head and a halo of black and crimson fire.

But what if it was a trick?

He had no idea what was happening. The world was wrong. He was wrong.

The demon that looked like Chantalyn dropped her sword, took a step, then another, and then she was on him. He braced himself for the strike, but she pulled him into a hug. She kissed his forehead, and whispered to him in a decidedly undemon-like manner.

"It's okay. I'm here. We're safe." she soothed, whilst Drego's wide eyes scanned the rest of the troops following into the room behind her. He hadn't returned the hug, his arms hung limply by his sides.

"Drego...your heart. It is so empty."

The fireball was still in his hand. All he'd have to do is let go, and he could annihilate every fiend in this room. That's what the Flame would want of him, surely?

But he couldn't do it. He hadn't paid attention to the last few things that Chantalyn had said, but he took in a deep breath. If he was going to die here, so be it. At least it would be someone he loved.

The way she looked at him broke his heart. She was afraid. For him? Of him? He couldn't read that much into it. Her soldiers were staring, stunned, at her embracing an engineer of the Brelish Engineer Corps, stood alone in a room surrounded by their fallen comrades. What did they think of him?

He opened his hand, and let the magic fizzle.

987 YK

Drego's action had turned the tide of the battle of Cairn Hill. The Thranish forces had no answer for Chydris, and it would no doubt have cost them the battle if he hadn't disabled the floating fortress. Though his actions weren't on record, he was an Argentum agent and it wouldn't be productive for his identity to be widely known, he was still responsible for saving countless lives.

Then why did it feel so wrong? Why did he feel so...tarnished?

He may have saved lives, but he'd always taken them. He'd killed people who hadn't even been able to really fight back, how had he managed to take out the entire engine room? These were Brelish soldiers, they should've put up more resistance. Would that have made it better? If they'd tried harder to stop him, to kill him?

He'd heard that Chantalyn had attacked Gennara. The apathy that Drego felt about that scared him. They were both people that he cared about, deeply, and he couldn't muster up concern over the fact they had fought? At least he knew neither of them had been seriously injured.

All of this weighed heavily on his mind as he travelled back to Flamekeep. Following the battle, he'd reported to General Shadar, who had congratulated him on a job well done. The general was shrewd, however, and he could see the toll that victory had enacted on Drego, and his next orders were to return home and "take some time."

What the fuck did that mean? Time for what?

At the very least, he was going to see his mother.

It was raining when Drego stepped off of the coach. He didn't have it take him directly to his mother's house, he wanted some time to clear his head. He wanted the walk there. He knew several routes from the coach station that would get him home. He took the long way around.

The people around him were a blur, the rain creating a soothing pattern of sound and tactile sensation as he wandered. When he finally got to the door, what would his mother see? Would she recognise her son, or would she recognise the monster he had become?

Would she be able to tell? Would she see the stain of black on his soul, the shadow within his flame?

He stopped walking, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention. Something was off. He looked around briefly, being careful not to be too obvious that he'd noticed something, and locked eyes with an old man.

An elf, thin but dignified. Well-dressed, but in practical clothing, leaning on an ornate cane. His face bore the scars of a lifetime of military service, and the rainbow-coloured feather in his hat would've drawn the eye, but Drego found the most striking thing about the other was his eyes. They were a vibrant, brilliant gold, but more noteworthy were the reptilian shape of the pupils. Like looking into the eyes of a snake.

The two men stared at each other in silence, rain patting down Drego's hair and running off the brim of the other man's hat. There was a charge in the air, a scent of ozone before lightning strikes. The old man's gaze was intense, it was like it was peeling away the layers of Drego and shriving the tainted, sputtering flame underneath.

It was not a pleasant experience, and Drego found himself wanting to lash out. To cast a spell, to draw a weapon, to strike out at this stranger that he was certain was reading him so fully. He wasn't sure why, but something was stopping him, his muscles twitched and itched to take action but that impulse never transitioned into motion. He had too much control of himself, impulsiveness had been beaten out of him by Gennara, he carefully considered every action he took.

And this old man was a threat. The cane likely concealed a sword, but Drego had a rapier of his own and the experience to use it. It was something else that had Drego's hackles raised, something intangible. Something familiar.

The other man looked away first, the tension dissolving along with his attention. He turned, and hobbled away down the street. Drego was fixed in place, watching the other man, until he faded away into the rain.

And then Drego forgot all about him.

Ellanora Sarhain put down the Korranberg Chronicle. There had been a huge battle at Cairn Hill, between Breland, Darguun, and Thrane. The Chronicle was an objective newspaper, and simply reported the facts of what had happened, but other news had reached Ellanora.

Chantalyn had been there, she'd made herself noteworthy. People all over Flamekeep were already whispering of the Silver Blight and her deeds. She'd killed a bear singlehandedly according to some stories. Others claimed she tore off a part of her breastplate and flung it at a priest, telling them to return home. Every one of these stories stirred something in Ellanora, and she hoped desperately that her niece was alright. That the things she'd seen weren't weighing too heavily on her.

Worry gnawed at Ellanora, as it always did these days. She had heard little news of her son in months. He'd written to her when he'd enlisted, when he'd been taken under the wing of Knight-Commander ir'Damilek. He'd made sure to write to her regularly throughout his training, but she was sure he was lying to her, or omitting details. She'd heard about the fireball incident from her niece, and Drego had still not brought it up with her directly.

She hadn't heard from him in several months now. No letters, no sendings, no visits. She'd only received a visit from Knight-Commander ir'Damilek, enquiring if he'd been in contact. What was going on?

Where was her son? Where was her Drego?

Her son had been standing at the front door for far too long. He couldn't bring himself to knock, he was at war within himself. His inner child wanted nothing more than to see his mother, to be embraced by her, to feel safe in her arms. This was at odds with the monster, the man who had done terrible things in the name of his country, who had been the reason that others would never feel safe again.

He took in a deep breath, taking in all of his anxieties and his shame, holding them in his chest. He let the breath out, letting some of the emotion flow out with it. He'd have to do it eventually, and he'd put it off for long enough. He raised his hand, inhaled again, and then knocked in the same way he'd since he was a child.

Ellanora was snapped from her reverie by that knock at the door. She hadn't heard it in some time, but she knew it instantly. She shot from the chair and rushed to the door, throwing it open with the eagerness of someone's whose prayers had been answered. Stood in the doorframe, obscured by the rain and silhouetted by street lights, was her son.

He was taller than she remembered. His facial features had matured, but he still retained many of the features of his youth. He'd grown a beard, and his hair had become dishevelled, though he'd also been out in the rain for Flame knew how long. Ellanora got the impression he had been taking care of himself, but had recently fallen off the wagon.

But what stood out to her most, and broke her heart, was the complete lack of a spark in his eyes. His gaze was cold and weighted, it was unrecognisable to her. She had never seen her son in this state, he was just so sad.

What had happened to him? What had they done to him?

What had he done?

She scanned his face, looked into his eyes, and she saw that he had noticed her reaction. He'd withdrawn slightly, taken a short step back from the door, and Ellanora's heart broke all over again. Emotion welled up inside of her, filled her chest and threatened to burst out of her. She didn't speak, she just stepped forward and grabbed onto his hand before pulling him into an embrace.

He didn't return the hug, but that didn't matter in this moment. He was here. He was safe.

989 YK

Drego arrived in Stormhome to perfect weather. It was always perfect weather in the house of Lyrandar. It had been suggested, rather strongly, that he "take a vacation". He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually relaxed, or felt safe for that matter. He didn't see how being on a beach would help with that, but Chantalyn was very persuasive.

Director Shadar knew where he was, of course, in case anything popped up. Stormhome wasn't exactly a center of espionage though, so what were the chances of that?

He entered the hotel lobby and couldn't help himself. There were so many people here, he profiled each and everyone one of them, and made note of every entry and exit point into the room.

Human man. 40's, perhaps? Had a fun vibe to him, Drego thought they'd probably get along. Wait, not human, something slightly off. Planetouched?

Tiefling. Similar age to the human man, they were here together. Definitely planetouched, their hair was smouldering. They wore a half-mask, despite the casual environment. That was interesting.

Those two stuck out like a sore thumb, but Drego knew what he was doing and didn't afford them more than a glance as he scanned the rest of the lobby's occupants. He checked in, got the key to his room, and headed on up. It was a nice room, far more luxurious than he was used to (or ever would have imagined for himself), with a beautiful view of the beach. He couldn't wait to see the sunset, to see the sky painted in orange hues. He didn't bother unpacking, all of his belongings were in his bag of holding at his hip, and he had no plans of leaving it in the room.

He changed out of his travelling clothes, and into something more "casual". He'd never been on vacation before and had no idea what people usually wore. He watched the other beachgoers from his window for a while, and then went with what they were. He produced a loose, button-up shirt in Thranish blue, with silver-thread flame patterns embroidered into it, and a pair of patchwork black shorts that he'd repaired several times over the years.

What did people do on vacation?

Drego spent his first day in Stormhome wandering the beach, picking up odd looking shells and putting them in his bag. The sun was baking him but he liked that, the heat was like a comforting blanket (and he'd never burn, anyway). He spotted the interesting couple from the lobby again, both of them in the water. The ocean was steaming where the tiefling's hair met the water.

Fuck, that was cool.

The human divebombed into the water and jumped on the tiefling. Drego stifled a laugh as the human was yanked into an incoming wave and the pair seemed to come to some kind of truce. He watched them for a few seconds longer, and they came together into some kind of embrace that made Drego feel like he was intruding, but just as he began to look away something pulled them under the water.

It had been less than a second, but Drego dropped the shell he was holding and began to sprint towards the waterline. It wasn't until his bare feet were wet that his momentum was arrested as an inconvenient truth hit him.

Drego didn't know how to swim.

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!

He didn't know these people but he had spent his entire life trying to live up to the ideals of the Silver Flame, and that meant if you were in a position to help someone, you helped them. But he couldn't! He'd never learned how to fucking swim!

There was a flash of orange light somewhere beneath the waves, followed by bubbles rising to the surface. Drego tried to see what was going on but they were too deep, he could just see indistinct shadows. Shadows that were rapidly approaching the surface. Those shadows turned out to be the pair, and Drego let out his breath. He immediately turned and began to walk away, stopping to pick up and examine another weird looking shell. Obviously, he didn't want these random people to know he was concerned for their wellbeing.

Drego strolled from the beach back to the hotel lobby, making a note of every person he saw.

Goblin woman in a soarleaf shirt. Fascinating choice. No visible weapons, but she was scanning the room with practiced efficiency, and Drego could tell he'd caught her eye. It was a good thing he wasn't working, or he'd likely have had to watch his back around that one.

Thranish woman with an all-too-serious look on her face, but not someone he was personally acquainted with. It was enough to catch the accent, though it differed from his own. Thaliost, maybe.

A woman with a scar on her lip, and one eye clouded over. That was interesting. Drego loved when people had distinctive features, when they stood out in a crowd. It made it much easier to track them. She also had an impressive amount of weapons concealed on her person, and Drego reckoned that was a good sign. He was more interested in the weapons he couldn't see, of course.

Why were there so many dangerous looking people in a hotel in Stormh-

Was that fucking Merrix d'Cannith?

What the fuck was going on? Had Drego accidentally wandered into some convention for important and powerful people? The interesting pair fighting for their lives out on the beach suddenly seemed like less of a freak occurrence and more evidence that shenaniganary was afoot.

Drego loved shenanigans.

Drego just happened to find a master keyrune that somebody had carelessly left behind the front desk in a locked safe, where anyone might've picked it up. He was going to return it, but thought he may as well take a look around first. 

Flame, he was so fucking bored.

He'd also just happened to stumble upon the hotel's records and accidentally accessed who was staying in what rooms. It was a bunch of obvious codenames, but he'd used his actual name. Hopefully that wasn't going to cause him any issues in the future. He'd identified what he thought was the room belonging to the interesting couple he'd seen on the beach, and considering they'd had an attempt on their life, Drego thought they were probably involved in whatever was going on.

It was deeply careless of the hotel to leave a housekeepers uniform where Drego could find it, to be honest. He was sure to leave a scathing review when he left. He made his way, now disguised, to the room he thought belonged to the couple and let himself in using the keyrune. Their room was nicer than his, bigger, with a better view. He let out a small whistle, and then began to shamelessly rifle through their things.

He heard a whistling approach down the corridor, and winced. The human half of the couple ducked into the room. Drego finished making the bed, and then gave the man a little half-bow.

"Sir. Apologies, I'll be out of your way in a moment"

"Hullo," the man replied cheerfully. "Not to worry, you can stay a little longer" he said as a hand crossbow materialised in his hand.

Drego froze, lifting his hands slowly into the air. "Uh, sir-"

"Stormhome housekeeping is some of the best-trained on the continent. You never see them working," the man said casually. "And I bet I can shoot you before you can cast. Are you a betting man?"

Drego couldn't help the smile that was starting to creep across his face. Finally, something exciting. With a twinkle in his eyes, he answered.

"To a fault."

With just the slightest flick of his finger, Drego cast a bolt of silvery light at the man's chest. The man dove for cover and loosed a shot from his hand crossbow, which hit Drego's shoulder, but the bolt of silver light clipped the man's side as he flew.

"So, guessing you were here to search the room? You didn’t look in the red bag, did you? That would be embarrassing."

Drego scratched the back of his head as he looked over to where the red bag was. He had looked into it, and was somewhat taken aback to find...intimate objects in the shared room of a pair of spies.

"You guys are really committed to your cover."

"It’s not a cover! This is our honeymoon, and you all are interrupting it! Farsal!"

The world suddenly went white as the man activated some kind of magic item and blinded Drego with a flash of light. Drego threw his hands up, conjuring a magical shield to defend him from whatever the man threw at him while he was dazzled. He felt the force of two crossbow bolts exploding against that shield, and felt a surge of relief that Gennara had drilled him so hard on his defenses. Covering his eyes, Drego sent another bolt of light out haphazardly, hoping to suppress the spy if he couldn't hit him.

He rubbed his eyes to clear the daze, and then his attention was drawn away from the man by a voice from the balcony.

"Hey, stop trying to kill my husband."

It was the tiefling, the one that Drego had seen with the man. All of a sudden the world filled with Fernia's hellish flames, which were all directed at Drego. Perfect. He threw out his arms and gathered the flames, which swirled into an orb above his right hand. Once he'd siphoned all of the power off, he crushed the orb in his hand and dissipated it.

"I'm not trying to kill anyone!" he yelled back, taking in this magnificent fiery woman, dressed in darkweave and with a large bag slung across her back. Her eyes were ablaze as she pointed at him.

"Did you just counter me!?"

Drego couldn't help the smirk, as he spread his hands out-

"He doesn't need to incant!" came the man's voice from behind Drego, and the tiefling's eyes went wide as fire streamed from Drego's open palms. She rapidly rattled off syllables and hand signs, bending the fire around her and scorching the balcony.

"Eventually," she said, heat visibly rising from her and her surroundings as wings of flame started to coalesce on her back, "Flamists will learn to stop throwing fire at the Fernian."

Drego was grinning now, this was the most fun he'd had in ages. He was also well aware that his fire was different, if he actually managed to hit her, she would be just as burned as anyone else. No need to give that away, though.

"Oh, but I'm so very good with fire," he began, starting to move his hands again but freezing as he felt something cold and sharp press into the back of his neck.

"Are you very good with crossbow bolts in your spine, though?"

The man gently adjusted the hand crossbow that was now pressed into Drego's neck, to hammer the point home. There was a long, tense silence as Drego considered how best to respond, before he arrived at a decision.

"Fuck, you guys are cool" he said as he relaxed his shoulders and lowered his arms. "What?" questioned the tiefling woman, the fiery wings dissipating with the confusion.

"We are cool!" the man agreed, a cheerful timber to his voice. "Now, I assume you're Argentum? Working with the lovely and extremely murderous Helena Ash?"

"Oh, no. I don't know who that is, I'm on vacation."

"Sure you are," the tiefling snorted. "On vacation breaking into our room?"

"I was curious! And bored!" Drego responded, and he actually meant it. He was curious! And he was so fucking bored.

The male spy collected his wits first. "I think we should do proper introductions. Mr Not A Housekeeper, if you swear on the Flame not to attack us until we all at least leave the room, I'll swear the same on the Cyran crown."

"I'll do the same," confirmed the tiefling after a moment's hesitation.

"All right," Drego nodded. "I swear on the Flame, I'll do you no harm while we all remain in this room."

"I swear on the crown the same." The male spy lowered his crossbow.

"Me too" said the tiefling as she stepped into the room and shut the balcony door behind her.

"Whisper Flame of the Silken Whispers" she introduced herself. Drego gave a little flourish and a bow before introducing himself.

"Drego Sarhain of the Order of the Gilded Labyrinth"

"And I'm Glove Spectre of the Black Gloves."

Spectre strolled over to the bar and started pouring himself a drink. "Drink?" he asked.

"No thank you" Drego responded as he draped himself across their sofa, in a position that gave him a good view of both the other spies.

"Drego, it's the suite wet bar. It's not going to be poisoned." Spectre rolled his eyes and finished pouring himself some whiskey, and a glass of wine for Flame.

"Unless—wait, did you poison it?"

"No!"

"Maybe you should have a drink after all" Flame commented.

Helena Ash frustratingly tended to her wounds. What had happened? She'd walked in on those fucking Cyran espionage agents rummaging through her things. She'd thrown fire at them, taken a hit to the shoulder. Whisper Flame had absorbed her magic, and then she'd just...lost consciousness. She wasn't sure how long she'd been out for, but it couldn't've been too long, or she'd've lost more blood.

What did they do to her? Why didn't they kill her?

If she'd had them unconscious for any length of time, she'd have killed them.

This was a puzzle, and Helena was missing some of the pieces. Thankfully, she was a silver pyromancer, so it didn't take her long to close the stab wound in her shoulder and replenish the blood she'd lost while she was lying on the floor. She got up from the bed and began to take stock of her things. They hadn't taken her jewellery, at least, but her weapons and equipment stash was missing. They'd taken them.

Bastards.

She still had her gloves on, so she still had access to the rapier and dagger she'd put in their extradimensional space. That would have to do.

She left her room, locking the door again (not that it would matter), and headed out to explore the resort. She needed to find out what the Cyrans were doing here, were they here for Merrix?

Spectre downed his whiskey, prompting a frustrated "Spectre!" from his wife.

"What? It's fine, you'll set Drego on fire if I collapse," he replied, and Flame agreed before Drego could say anything. "I certainly will."

"Guys! I told you, I'm on vacation! I'm not here to cause trouble!" he bargained, but his story was rather far fetched. Seemingly every nation had sent somebody to this resort, but the reason behind that was unclear. There was already a Thrane here, though.

"You broke into our room," Spectre pointed out, and he was right. Drego had broken into their room.

"You have to understand, I was so bored" Drego pleaded.

"While on vacation?" Flame queried, raising an eyebrow at him.

"...mandatory vacation"

"Okay, to be fair, we did also get bored on our honeymoon" Spectre added, earning a degree of respect from Drego. 

Flame shrugged, planting herself on the arm of a chair. "I guess. So Drego, you're not here about Merrix?"

"Is Merrix here?" Drego asked innocently, but Flame just stared at him. "Okay, I knew he was here, but only because I saw him in the lobby earlier. I'm not like, here for him"

"Well Drego," Spectre interjected, "I suggest taking your mandatory vacation...somewhere else. You've entered a rather perfect espionage storm."

Of course he had, this was exactly the kind of thing that happened to him. Chantalyn had coerced him into coming here in the first place to get away from this kind of thing.

Oh, but he loved it though.

"I love perfect storms," he commented, grinning as his teeth sparkled in the sunlight peeking in through the windows.

Flame snapped at him. "Yeah, well, we've already got one silver pyromancer trying to kill us."

"I wouldn't try to kill you!" Drego responded, dramatically placing a hand over his chest in mock hurt. "Why would you think that?"

"Because your coworker gave it her best go a couple days ago." Spectre shrugged as he explained. "History with her coworker in Thaliost. Grudges. Vengeance. You know how it is."

Drego raised his hands. "Woah, woah, I'm not Pure Flame. I'm not even here on official business! And I don't want to kill anyone!"

Spectre shot a look at Flame. "Hey, we did offer Vron that loose collaboration deal, and got drinks with Vaunn." He wiggled his eyebrows at his wife. "Come on, I've got a good feeling about the kid."

Kid??

Flame sighed and set down her wineglass, which she hadn't drank from. "All right. Come on, Drego. Let's go get lunch."

Helena didn't think she could take both of them, she'd need to try and ambush one of them when they were separated. Her primary target was Whisper Flame, that was the individual responsible for Ember Ash's death, but both of them had been a thorn in the Argentum's side for a while. She was having trouble following them, they were too good at detecting tails, and they already knew what she looked like.

She'd seen them a few times since the incident in her room, but she always lost them again shortly afterwards. She'd seen them once with a woman she didn't recognise, but Helena was sure they were involved. Otherwise, she'd had nothing more than fleeting glances that failed to materialise when she tried to follow them.

She was stopped dead in her tracks the next time she saw them, they were with another person she didn't recognise. She didn't need to recognise them to know who they were, though. She'd never met him herself, but she was also a member of the Gilded Labyrinth and there weren't that many of them. He was Gennara's apprentice. Rumour had it, he'd also been scouted by the Argentum.

What the fuck was he doing here? Why hadn't she been informed that there would be another agent on this job?

Why was he getting lunch with the enemy!?

Drego was heading back to the hotel after watching the ferry depart, taking the Dark Lantern and Twilight Brigade agents with it. Drego was going to be sad when Flame and spectre left, even though they were on opposing sides in the war, he'd got on with them like a house on fire. He hoped their respective responsibilities didn't put them in direct conflict.

They'd come up with a plan. Whoever had attacked them on the beach with that shadowy tendril, or had sent the shadowy humanoid after Spectre later hadn't revealed themselves, and was likely still trying to kill them. Drego was at no real risk, of course, but he didn't want to miss out! After the ferry left, Spectre would go to a gazebo in the park, alone, and wait for their mysterious stalker to make contact. Flame would be nearby and ready to jump in, with Drego not far behind. 

He went for a stroll through the park, and spotted Spectre before long, hands on the railing and talking to a woman in a raised gazebo. Had he seen that person before? He could dimly remember them but he wasn't sure where he'd seen them. Not one of the spies, at least. They'd made their move quickly! Drego watched as Spectre was yanked from the railing and pressed against a nearby pillar, without the woman seeming to do anything.

Oh, the fun wasn't over! Time to get involved!

By the time Drego made his way down to the gazebo, the situation had further deteriorated. Flame had arrived, holding some evil looking dagger. The other woman was leaning on the railing, Drego assumed that Flame had hit her with something, but he hadn't seen it happen. He was getting close enough now to hear the conversation.

"You weren’t planning to feed my husband’s soul to the Lady in Shadow, were you? I thought I made it really clear to her what would happen if she came after him again."

The Lady in Shadow!? What had they been up to? Drego didn't have a lot of experience dealing with archfey, but they couldn't be that different to fiends with a name like the Lady in Shadow.

"Flame. The Lady particularly wants you extinguished."

Flame dropped the dagger with a yelp, yanking her white glove off and revealing blackened veins beneath the skin. Spectre struggled against his binding and yelled out her name, as the shadows spread up her arm. Her hair flickered briefly, and she collapsed against the balcony. Spectre yelled out again, calling on Daanvi for some reason, but Drego was quicker.

Silver fire exploded across the gazebo, sculpted perfectly to avoid harming either Spectre or Flame, but engulfing the warlock. Regardless of the lack of direct contact on his friends, the light of his radiant fire nevertheless burned the shadows that were creeping up Flame's veins out of them, and dissolved the tendrils restraining Spectre against the pillar.

The warlock screamed, and Drego suppressed a wince. He knew full well what she was going through, he'd been through it himself, and he always felt guilty when he did it to another. Desperate times called for desperate measures, however. Drego had just got to the top of the stairs now, level with the others, just in time for Flame to get back to her feet and draw a wand.

Flame's spell hit the warlock at the same time as Drego's bolt of silvery light, one injuring her further and the other binding her in place. Wand of Paralysis. Nice. A split second later, Spectre careened into the warlock and pushed her into a pillar, his dagger pressed against her throat. His eyes were shimmering gold. Drego couldn't help the thought or the accompanying smile, that was so sick.

"I've got her. You can drop the binding." Spectre instructed, but Flame shook her head as she retrieved a potion from her pack. "I'd rather not. Warlocks can teleport, you know."

"I guess..." he sighed, pushing his dagger a little further towards the warlocks chin. Drego was a little bit disappointed that the situation seemed to be under control already, he'd only just got here!

Then the gazebo creaked ominously, he made eye contact with the other two spies, and then the whole thing came down. He'd sculpted his fireball to prevent harm to the other two, but he hadn't been concerned about structural damage.

Whoops.

He was thrown, hard, into the wall of the gazebo before it hit the floor and collapsed. The wood did provide some cushioning to the fall, but it was still a debilitating fall. He struggled to his knees, looking around and trying to take stock of what had happened and what state everyone was in. He took a moment to run his hands over his own body, tending to his injuries in less than a second, and then heard Spectre yell.

"Flame!"

"Spectre! I'm here! I'm all right-" she hissed, "I'm intact."

She was injured, then.

"I'm fine too, by the way" Drego responded, somewhat petulantly.

Spectre spoke next, alarm tinging his voice. "Where's the-" before he was cut off by a strangled cry.

"SPECTRE" Flame yelled as she tried to push the rubble off of herself, but something was wrong. He flicked his wrist, summoning his silvered rapier from its pocket in his glove, and leapt up onto the rubble to locate the warlock. He made eye contact with the woman, and only just now noticed the gorgon embroidered into her shirt. Cannith. Huh.

She'd summoned a shadowy tendril that had grabbed Spectre by the throat, choking him and lifting him high enough from the ground that he was on his tippy toes. One hand was trying to relieve the pressure on his neck while the other fumbled for his hand crossbow, and metallic wings beat ineffectually at the air.

Wait. Wings? When did Spectre sprout fucking wings?

Drego manipulated his fingers and a flash of bright light manifested between the Cannith and Spectre, dispelling the inky tendril and causing both of them to clutch at their eyes. Drego conjured a small wall of force around Spectre, just for a second, to protect him from anything the warlock might throw out as he closed the distance.

Drego, like all Silver Pyromancers, trained with weapons as much as with magic. It was important they be able to defend themselves, that running out of magic was never running out of options, and he was praying this wasn't true for warlocks of the Lady in Shadow. He hit her like a bolt of lightning, running a channel down her arm as she shot shadows at the incapacitated Spectre. The warlock hissed as she staggered back, bringing the evil dagger that Flame had been holding up to defend herself.

Drego went in for another lunge, testing the waters now that he didn't have the element of surprise. She parried it back with the dagger, but she was less experienced than he was and he immediately followed up with another attack. She deflected it with a magic shield, but it didn't knock Drego too far off target and he was able to flick the rapier across her hand. She hissed again, and tried to lunge at him, but he knocked the dagger aside and pushed her back with his free hand, keeping her at the right distance for his weapon. Drego smiled, which made the warlock's eyes go a bit wider than they had been as he stepped forward and swung.

She moved the dagger to parry, but her blade went right through his. It was an illusion, of his own sword and arm, and her attempt to parry it had left her open for Drego's actual attack, which impaled her through the right shoulder. She screamed and punched him in the face, which wasn't particularly dignified but both Spectre and Flame were too busy helping each other out of the rubble to pay too much attention to Drego. Spectre proved this to be a lie as he shot some crossbow bolts at the warlock, and Drego felt some heat rise to his face. He stepped back and re-assessed the battlefield.

Spectre had got up and made his way over to Flame, and was helping her out of the rubble. She couldn't do it herself, so she'd likely broken something. Not ideal. Drego was impressed by the tenacity of this warlock, perhaps the Lady in Shadow had added to her durability, because most people would've given up after realising how fucked they were. She tried to back up, create space, so that she could cast but he closed in and didn't give her the opportunity. He stepped in and lunged, she deflected it with magic but he generated a flash of light from his blade and she had to move to cover her eyes, ruining her next somatic component.

Drego moved his free hand as if manipulating a needle and thread, and as the warlock stepped back her foot seemed to catch on something and she lost her balance. Little threads of silvery light that had sutured her foot to the ground shattered, but it was enough to make her stumble, and she got a cut across her cheek for her trouble. She was getting frustrated, her focus split between Drego menacing her and Spectre shooting at her with his crossbows.

Spectre eased off for a moment. Drego arrested his aggression for just a moment to risk a glance at the other two, Spectre had pushed a beam off of his wife and was now...healing her? Drego didn't know that he could do that!

He shouldn't've given the warlock space, she got his attention again when she clapped her hands together and shadows exploded from the impact. The shadows formed a kind of oval, and then they coalesced into the shape of a humanoid with wicked, rending claws. Drego's eyes went wide as it rushed at him, and now he had been put on the defensive.

"Sarhain! You take the warlock, I'll take the shadow!" came Spectre's voice, rapidly getting louder as the other man rushed to join the melee. 

"Yes, please!" Drego responded as he pushed the shadow away from him with a blast of kinetic energy. Where had the warlock gone? He scanned his surroundings and made eye contact with her, gathering more shadows around her arms. She flung them at Drego, and he put up a shield of arcane power that threatened to buckle under them. Why were shadows sharp!? 

Spectre had engaged the Shadow now, but his dagger wasn't doing any real harm to it. Drego spun his arm and a snake of silver fire drew itself from his outstretched hand and weaved its way through the air towards the warlock, giving him time to draw a silvered dagger from his gloves.

"Spectre! Catch!"

Spectre looked up just in time and caught the knife. Drego had thrown it so it would hit with the hilt if he hadn't caught it, but he needn't have worried. Spectre was good. Hopefully that would be more effective, because the distraction cost him. A bolt of shadow hit Drego square in the chest, and cold darkness began to spread throughout his veins.

But so did fire. Drego was perfectly suited to this enemy, his magic countered theirs, and he pushed the metaphysical poison out. It felt like it took an age, but he didn't have the issue of needing to speak to direct his magic, it just worked. His body moved on instinct, without him needing to consciously direct it, to close the distance with the warlock again. He caught a glimpse of Spectre in his peripheral vision, parrying the Shadow with his wings and carving at its essence with the dagger, which was glowing.

Drego hadn't done that.

The warlock panicked as Drego closed the distance, and teleported away. They reappeared closer to Flame, who had ducked behind some rubble, but Drego snared her foot with a silver thread and she lost her footing, sprawling out on the rubble. She teleported again to get back to her feet, towards Spectre. Drego threw a knife, and she yelped as she deflected it with arcane energy.

The warlock was dragging this out. Drego was certain that he and Spectre would win this, it was obvious, but eventually somebody would notice the fighting and the magic, and an aide of Merrix d'Cannith would be believed over two Cyrans and a Thrane. What was Flame doing? Drego couldn't see her from where he was. He sidestepped a shadow that tried to grapple him, and thrust with his rapier. He was nowhere near close enough to hit, and the warlock knew that, but he also projected a sliver of energy from the end of the weapon that stabbed her anyway.

She started to cast again. Drego was starting to get tired, he'd expended so much energy on this fight. He spun his sewing needle, threading strands of energy around the nearest piece of rubble to her, and snaking them into the warlock. She didn't notice. He pulled on the threads, and they went tight, catapulting the piece of gazebo into the back of her head. It wouldn't put her down, but it did interrupt the spell.

Spectre had dealt with the shadow, and now rushed down the staggered warlock. He tackled her to the ground, both trying to stab the other with their respective knives, and then Spectre let out an agonized cry as the warlock's black dagger plunged into his abdomen.

Fuck!

The warlock pushed Spectre off of her and then teleported, but she reappeared next to Drego at the other end of the gazebo. A second later, her blood blossomed out of her throat as Drego's rapier slid between the muscles in her neck. She gagged as he pushed her off the weapon, and began to run for Spectre. He didn't confirm the kill.

Flame got to her husband first. She pulled the knife from the wound, worsening the blood loss, but there was something wrong with that weapon. Drego didn't know what it was doing, but Spectre was fading faster than he should be.

"Not good" Spectre croaked.

"Not good." his wife agreed as she gently took the silver dagger from his hand. She looked over at the warlock's body. Shadows were coalescing around her neck. Healing her?

Drego didn't see why. Flame flung the silver dagger at the body, and then a second later the body blinked out of existence.

What? That was enough to give Drego pause. A few seconds after that, a pile of ash returned. His knife had survived though, silver linings.

Drego knelt down next to them. "Is he-"

Flame ripped Spectre's shirt open and rounded on Drego. "Heal him."

Drego prided himself on being generally unfazed, but the intensity in Flame's eyes unsettled him. "Um, yeah, I can-"

She cut him off. "Good."

She stood up and stalked over to the corpse of the warlock, and Drego got to work. Spectre's veins were blackening around the wound, and the shadows were spreading. Drego hated this magic, it made him feel like his soul needed a shower. He projected silver threads from his finger tips, and began to work them into the wound, spreading through the veins and chasing the darkness.

Flame was talking to someone. Drego couldn't afford the lapse in concentration to check what was going on. Sweat was starting to form on his forehead, and he was just praying to the Flame that it didn't flow into his eyes. It wasn't a normal injury, and it was requiring so much more effort and concentration. If he had been the one to sustain the injury, it would've been easier, he'd be able to instinctively feel where the magic was spreading and cut it off with his own.

But with Spectre, he had to make educated guesses. He could feel the magic, try to follow it, but it was inside another body and that made things harder. He could feel himself burning up his reserves, but he was doing it. It wasn't flashy, nobody would tell stories about it, but healing this wound was Drego's finest work. Flame returned to them as Drego chased away the last of the shadows. He looked up at her and smiled weakly, suddenly very aware of the weight of his limbs.

"I guess you can't hold that Ember Ash thing over me anymore."

Flame knelt down next to him. "Thank you, Drego."

Drego finished stitching up the wound, having purged the poison, and then let out a long exhale. "Can we call this according to plan?"

"Close enough" Spectre answered, giving them both a weak thumbs up. "We found out who the assassin was, we got rid of them, nobody died."

"Way too close on that last one." Flame commented as she poked Spectre lightly in the shoulder. “Now come on. Let’s get out of here before someone wants to know what happened to this very nice gazebo.”

Drego watched the ship leave Stormhome, silhouetted by the sunset. He'd not expected to make friends when he'd been sent here, on this mandatory vacation. He'd been so worried about being bored, he never could've predicted how eventful the last few days were. He'd learned a lot, and he really hoped he wouldn't have to fight either Spectre or Flame in the coming days. They were technically enemies, their nations were at war, and it wasn't unlikely that they could end up on opposing sides of a mission.

They'd seen him fight, and he had no doubt they'd taken notice of everything he did or didn't do. No doubt Spectre at least would have a plan to deal with him, if it came to it. At least he wouldn't have to worry about it, if Spectre came after him he'd never know about it.

And he'd have to deal with Helena Ash at some point.

He let out a sigh. This vacation hadn't been relaxing at all, but it had been fun.