Airlean Tales

The sky beyond Mythaven was mottled and grey, blurring across the horizon in a sea of thick fog. Karis had spoken true; the Storm was clearly building, and another surge would be imminent.

Azalea springstepped alongside Halcyon, watching his every move carefully. He took an easier pace than Karis, his bounds large and loping. He didn’t seem to be in a rush. In fact, he seemed quite content and at ease, out in the fresh air next to the salty spray of the sea.

She wondered what it was like, going to meet monsters without fearing death.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at Fletcher’s Fry. The proudly hoisted Airlean flag announced it as one of many coastal towns that had once bustled with trade, and had since then fallen into some quiet. Those who could not fish had left to try their luck in Mythaven, leaving a rim of empty, ghostlike houses at the edge of the town.

Halcyon pulled into a small but cozy cottage inn, and rented a room for the night. Azalea didn’t dare refute him in public, but the moment they’d passed through the doorway, she blurted out the first question that came to mind.

“We’re staying the night?”

Halcyon laid his glaive on a table and kicked back in a chair by the fireplace. “Yes.”

“What for?”

“The Four is too far out right now. We have to wait for it to approach the coast, which should be tonight.”

Azalea blinked. “You can…sense it? When it’s all the way out there?”

“Well…” Halcyon looked lost for a moment, then nodded towards his resting glaive. “Water.”

Water mana was the specialty of the First Hunter, but did that mean he could sense everything in the ocean? What a horrifying thought—all that noise and color, constantly bombarding one’s senses, like a knot of instability that could not be unraveled. No, it probably wasn’t that bad; a Class Four was very large, and they were close to it. Maybe Halcyon could only sense big things within a certain radius. Azalea hoped so. She wouldn’t wish the chaos of the entire ocean upon anyone.

“Until then, we have some time to kill,” said Halcyon. He considered for a moment. “Karis wants me to train you.”

“Yes, I’m very grateful.”

He folded his arms and regarded Azalea for an impossibly long moment, until she started to squirm beneath his sea-blue gaze.

“What will you be teaching me?” she tried.

“I don’t know.” The words were blunt, but apologetic. “We’re very different.”

Azalea flushed. He was a master Former, and she could barely stitch together a stiff breeze.

Halcyon rose from his chair and started to circle her. His stride was surprisingly elegant, rhythmic, a tide washing up to shore. “You like to shoot?” he said, gesturing to her starshooter.

Not really, but it was necessary. “It’s my best weapon.”

“How do you go without?”

“My short sword.”

“Any good?”

“At the sword? Passable.” Barely passable, for a Hunter. She’d won her fair share of rounds at the Academy, but Halcyon wouldn’t care about that kind of low-hanging fruit. A scrawny rich kid couldn’t hold a candle to a Class Four.

Halcyon nodded, still circling. At first, Azalea thought that he’d been examining her—but now she realized that he was doing it to think. The rhythm probably helped him focus.

“Karis says you’re an ace at windsoles,” he said.

Azalea flushed deeper. “I’m—I’d like to get there. I’m okay.”

He stopped, the echo of his last step thrumming against the wall. “You need to believe in your strengths,” he said. “I’m sure the Academy taught you humility, but you’ll only falter against the larger beasts. Get confident in your own skills.”

Azalea thought of the Whisperer, how confident he had been, the unhurried nature of his movements, the brutal focus.

She swallowed. “I’ll do my best.”

Halcyon nodded. There was a new light in his eyes.

“Tell me what you’re good at,” he said with a gesture. He started circling again.

“I, um.” Azalea licked her lips, which had started running dry. “I—I’m pretty fast, I think. But I’m small. I’m a decent shot. I’m getting comfortable with windsoles, but—”

He gave her a dry look. “Confidence, Fairwen.”

She squared her shoulders and tried again. “I can shoot while springstepping. I…I can gauge an environment and use it to my advantage.”

“Good. Which means?”

“I excel at…ranged support. Keeping distance. I’m a skirmisher.”

He smiled. “Good.”

Just that one simple word made her heart glow with warmth. The First Hunter of Airlea had said that something about her was good.

“Alright,” said Halcyon with a firm nod. “I know what I’m going to teach you.”

“What will it be?”

“You’ll find out soon. For now, get some rest.”

He turned his head to the window and became very still for a moment. His gaze was far away, and Azalea felt for one moment that he was part of the ocean, a spirit from among the coral reefs and deep blue depths. Then he turned back and nodded.

“Two hours past midnight,” he said. “That’s when the location will favor us. Rest until then.”

And they did. Dinner was procured from the pier—hearty fish stew with fresh radish and a burning spice, golden-brown shrimp pancakes, and light seaweed soup with a savor that tingled on the tongue. The flavors were colorful and roiling like the ocean waves outside the window. As Azalea retired to bed, she dozed off to the jaunty tune of a fiddle and the bright laughter of the locals, and thought to herself that there was an endless amount of beauty in Airlea worth protecting.

It was the middle of the night when Azalea was shaken awake.

“It’s here, Fairwen,” Halcyon said. “Come.” He pulled his glaive from the wall and unceremoniously lobbed Bluebell into her arms.

Azalea threw on her cloak and followed him onto the pier. The moon was high, a bright silver blob that dripped light onto the calm expanse of the ocean. Fletcher’s Fry was still, every house quiet and every window dark, leaving not even a mouse to disturb the slow-churning surface of the water.

“The houses,” Azalea realized. “Lord Halcyon, the townspeople—they’re still here.”

Halcyon rolled his shoulders. “That they are.”

“Shouldn’t we evacuate them?”

“What for?” said Halcyon, looking genuinely puzzled. “It’s a single Class Four.”

Azalea thought about how she’d evacuated a village for a pack of Class One wolves and shut her mouth, cheeks burning. “Yes, of course.”

She followed Halcyon as he springstepped down the shoreline. Thankfully, he led them a fair distance away, putting Fletcher’s Fry well out of the line of fire. Pale sand crunched underfoot as they drew up to the dark line where the water ebbed.

“It’s out there,” said Halcyon, gesturing to some indistinct spot in the sea. “I’m going to bait it to the surface. Provide support with your starshooter.”

Azalea balked. “With, with you in the line of fire?”

He nodded. “You’ve shot around allies before, no?

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh.” He paused, then shrugged. “Well, good time as any to learn.”

No, no, it was not a good time as any to learn. The Academy instructors had made one thing exceptionally clear: never aim a starshooter in the direction of something unless she wanted it dead. Firing into the field with allies in immediate range was unthinkable.

“I’m not supposed to aim my starshooter where there are allies,” Azalea said pleadingly. “I couldn’t bear it if I hit you.”

Halcyon was still for a long moment, and she cringed, waiting for a wave of cold wrath.

Instead, when he spoke, his voice was even, patient. “The Academy told you that?”

Azalea nodded hesitantly.

“They’d be right to do so. If you were in the Marksman’s Core, or the Garrison—an organized, landlocked company that has to rely on discipline and control.” He set the end of his glaive in the sand, letting the blade glimmer softly. “But you’re not, Fairwen. You’re a Royal Hunter.”

A Hunter, like Halcyon. Halcyon, who looked like the marble statue of a master craftsman come to life, bold and beautiful and invincible.

“Most Hunters work with projectiles and deadly elements,” Halcyon said, his eyes piercing her with water-blue. “Fighting with another Hunter usually means fighting with another force of nature. We’ve had to learn how to battle around each other’s vines and sugar thread and sunfire blades. A firebolt isn’t much different. Shoot consistently, and your Hunter partners will adapt.”

Azalea swallowed. Every safety precaution drilled into her at the Academy was screaming against Halcyon’s words, but he had seen much more of the battlefield than her. If she valued his judgment at all, she would have to listen.

“Alright,” she managed, gripping Bluebell a little tighter.

“Are you ready?” said Halcyon.

Just like that? No preparations, no strategy? Azalea fumbled. “Um, yes.”

“Confidence.”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

Halcyon nodded, and he was off, gliding through the sky like a raindrop. Azalea switched the toggle on her regulator, pulling out the lazy coil of instability that wafted from the mana quartz.

She was as ready as she’d ever be.

In the distance, Halcyon’s figure hung in the air like a doll. Then his body arced, cleaving his glaive downward. A bolt of water, swift and sharp as a harpoon, lanced down and tore through the surface in a lovely silver line.

The beach shook under Azalea’s feet. A low moan throttled up her bones and into her skull.

And the corruption emerged with a wild churn of the waves.

It was a dreadful, immense molluscan creature with a multitude of porous tentacles that thrashed against the waves, but a sheen of scales rippled over its soft flesh, and rings of teeth gleamed beneath three squirming heads. If the Northelm serpent had been sleek and polished, this mollusk was nightmarish, revolting in its bulbous form. It roared in a layered, grating voice, and Azalea shuddered deep in her bones.

And Echo thought I could fight this, she thought furiously. Now I know for certain that he’s trying to get me killed.

She watched Halcyon carefully as he plummeted from the sky. Even in the distance, she could see the rich blue glow of his glaive as it thrummed with water mana. When the monster surged up to meet him, he was ready.

A crescent wave bashed the mollusk clean across the first head and whisked Halcyon under a thrashing tentacle. He twisted with the momentum, cutting his glaive upward. The blade sliced up the creature’s neck, supported with a powerful flare of water. Its head severed cleanly in a spurt of purple blood and fell into the waters below.

Graceful, brutal, flawless. Azalea’s jaw slackened, as did her grip on Bluebell.

This battle would be over in a matter of seconds.

The mollusk’s headless segment squirmed, the raw flesh pulsing, and the ring-mouths peeked above the water, rattling in an awful scream. Tentacles lanced towards Halcyon in a deadly web. He wove expertly between them, pivoting among gentle crests of water.

While Karis had been all about swift, light touches and hairpin precision, Halcyon used large sweeping motions that flowed in arcs, following his water mana like rolling waves. His motions were so smooth and refined that Azalea had trouble telling where wind ended and water began—a voracious current that swallowed everything in its path.

Yes, wind. He was using his windsoles, she realized, but so flawlessly woven into his fighting style that she hadn’t noticed.

Halcyon sliced, and another head was felled, flopping into the ocean and swallowed up by the water. But the victory was short-lived. Right as the second head crumbled, the first began to close up, tissue swallowing the fleshy stub of the neck, globbing into a mass of molluscan organs. The mass thickened with meat and scales, and before Azalea could blink again—

—the mollusk’s fresh new head reared as if it had never been severed.

Cold dread speared through Azalea’s veins. She raised Bluebell and fired, watching the blazing round cut through the frigid air. But the firebolt did little more than splinter the mollusk’s outer scales—a blow that it easily shook away.

Azalea’s eyes were not deceiving her. The mollusk had regenerated its own head.

Halcyon drew back artfully, spiraling among the waves to soar over lashing fangs and tentacles. He shot back to the beach like a star, and the mollusk did not follow.

“Its heads are regrowing,” Azalea said quickly as he landed.

“Yes.” His expression was not grim, but thoughtful. “Seems like it’s drawing power from the water. For now, it has limitless regeneration.”

Azalea paled. Limitless regeneration from the water!

“Then we should beach it,” she said. “Right?”

“It won’t come onto the beach willingly, and it’s too large to forcibly move.” He glanced at her. “Could have been a problem if this had grown into a Five. You did well, securing this tip.”

Did well in securing the tip. Echo’s tip. Azalea’s cheeks simmered with a low heat. She hated that the Wolf was so often correct. If only he were wrong; then she could just ignore everything he said. Instead, she had to listen to that irritating, ingratiating voice.

“If we can’t beach it, what should we do?” she managed.

Halcyon rolled a shoulder, as if merely loosening a crick in his neck. “Everything has a weakness, no matter how powerful. It’s only a matter of finding it.”

“Even though it can regenerate infinitely?”

“If it can regen, then we just have to kill it in one shot,” Halcyon said matter-of-factly.

He spoke as if they were hunting a squirrel, or at the most, disposing of an unruly mountain cougar. Azalea looked up at the towering, writhing mass of scales and tentacles and felt rather faint.

“Just kill it,” she echoed. “In one shot.”

Halcyon nodded. “I’m going to reengage. Focus on severing the tentacles. It’ll regen, but disorienting it will buy me space.”

She nodded numbly. “Understood.”

Power welled in his glaive, and he lunged back out to the ocean. The mollusk was waiting for him; tentacles shot forth like blades, soaring right in his path. Azalea exhaled and fired once, twice, thrice, yanking the instability from her barrel. Three firebolts found their marks, searing away three tentacles that tumbled into the ocean. At least she was shooting well.

Halcyon’s glaive carved in beautiful arcs, crests of water following his every strike. A lunge straight across, severing all three heads at once. A plunge down the center, splitting the creature in two. A sharp turn, pummeling down the stumps of flesh. Sequentially, dispassionately, brutally executing it.

Like the Whisperer.

Azalea swallowed, her stomach churning even as she fired rapidly at the creature’s regenerating appendages. Had the Whisperer done nothing out of the ordinary? Was it simply necessary to brutalize Class Fours to death? The poor, miserable things. To know nothing but agony in their final moments. She hated it.

Please, in the name of all that is good, let it perish quickly.

But the creature was fighting hard to live. It appeared to redouble its efforts into regeneration, wounds sealing and limbs growing the moment Halcyon’s blade passed through.

Still, on her safe perch from afar, Azalea was able to see a pattern. When Halcyon struck at multiple places, certain areas were always the first to heal, sealing scales over vulnerable innards. Could those be the creature’s weak points? Something vital that it was desperate to protect?

I have to tell Lord Halcyon.

Azalea debated how to flag his attention, then decided on the simplest solution. She fired her starshooter straight up, watching the explosive round blitz the night like a flare.

It worked. Halcyon disengaged smoothly and retreated to shore, weaving through fangs and tentacles on his way. The mollusk screamed in rage, but did not follow, biding its time in the waters.

“What is it?” Halcyon asked as he landed in a spray of sand.

“I think—I can sense some weak points,” Azalea said, fumbling. “The creature, it always heals its injuries in a certain order. There’s three or four parts that it always prioritizes.”

Halcyon raised a brow, but he only nodded. “Where are they?”

She told him, sometimes marking the points with a few careful shots. The firebolts were stopped by the mollusk’s thick plate of scales, but they proved to be effective markers.

“Understood,” said Halcyon. He hefted his glaive. “I’ll open up the hide, and you shoot through. Burst fire them. Just like target practice.”

Azalea nodded, trying to inject the motion with confidence. She could do this. She could, she could.

“Ready to take your shot?” said Halcyon.

She saluted. “Yes, my lord.”

“Halcyon is fine.” His brow twitched. “Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me Hal.”

“Of course not,” Azalea promised. “That’s a title Lady Karis has reserved. I wouldn’t dare.”

“That’s not…” Halcyon sighed and shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

He shot back out to the sea. Azalea pushed as far forward as she could, until the water was lapping around her knees. She raised Bluebell and primed it at the first weak point, waiting.

Halcyon’s movement was different. Gone were his leisurely twists and turns, the ebb and flow of his blows. Now he moved with purpose, a primal ferocity that sliced through the night like an arrow. The tentacles that lashed at him fell away, shredded by the lightning-quick edge of his blade. A head snapped at him, only to explode from a pressurized burst of water. Short fangs that raked up the surface were snapped apart with a violent twist of a current.

Apparently, the First Hunter had been holding back.

Azalea didn’t have time to consider this new information. Halcyon was already swinging for his target. With a cleave of his blade, the mollusk’s hide split clean open, rows of scales breaking apart to reveal a pulsing mass of tissue.

Instinctively, she fired.

Halcyon twisted and swung for the second point. Azalea ripped the instability away from her starshooter, turned her barrel, and fired again.

He lunged for the third, then the fourth, tearing apart the mollusk’s once-impervious armor. Azalea fired and fired again.

And the four rounds streaked over the ocean in a comet rain.

One after the other, they found their marks, piercing cleanly through.

The organs burst, wet and raw, with a punch of power that curdled Azalea’s manawell. The mollusk convulsed silently, veins glittering beneath its skin, swelling like a pox, jerking about like a broken marionette—

—then its whole body shriveled up and collapsed.

The mess of a corpse sank beneath the waves, desiccated and contorted, as if every drop of blood and mana had been sucked dry from its flesh.

Azalea swallowed the bile in her throat as the ocean closed over the remains and claimed it. I’m sorry, she thought, the words spinning over and over in her head, making her dizzy. I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t think, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

She nearly jumped, nerves frayed, as Halcyon landed beside her.

“Well,” he said, dusting off his hands, “that was efficient.”

His even-keeled tone brought back a little lucidity, clearing that black fog from Azalea’s mind. She swallowed down her nausea and turned to address him. Her hands were shaking, but blessedly, her knees were still stable.

“Efficient,” she echoed. “It was…it was brutal.”

Halcyon frowned slightly. “It might’ve looked brutal, but the death was nearly instantaneous. I’d consider that a merciful end.”

Azalea didn’t expect to feel comforted, but she did. Significantly, at that. The end may have looked gruesome, but she supposed it was a kinder one than being burned alive or systematically dismembered or split apart.

At least the creature had been too dead to feel anything.

“You did well,” Halcyon said. “Got it all on the first try. I didn’t know you could fire so fast.”

Azalea tried to glow at the praise, but she couldn’t. She remembered the power behind Halcyon’s every stroke and felt dirty somehow, undeserving.

“You didn’t need me to shoot at all,” she said accusingly. “You could have killed it by yourself.”

He blinked. “This fight wasn’t about killing the Class Four.”

Azalea stared. “It wasn’t?”

“If I’d just gone up and killed the corruption, what would you have learned?” Halcyon said. “This is your victory, Fairwen. You analyzed your enemy, formed a strategy, and killed it yourself. I just gave you space.”

“Hardly,” Azalea said haltingly.

“You did,” Halcyon said. “Not every Hunter is an ace fighter alone. Some are powerful supporters. Maybe that’s what you are.”

Azalea fell silent, stunned.

“How do you feel?” Halcyon asked presently, like an afterthought.

“Um.” A long silence stretched out as she scrambled for words. She felt disturbed. Foreign to herself. Oddly satisfied. But above all else: “My success doesn’t feel very repeatable.”

He chuckled, a surprisingly warm sound. “Success rarely does. That’s what practice is for.”

“Do you think…”

Azalea paused. She shouldn’t be bothering somebody as important as the First Hunter with her personal worries and insecurities. But at the same time, he was conveniently here, and seemed willing enough to guide her.

“After practicing, will I be able to kill a Class Four?” she asked quietly. “On my own?”

Halcyon took her question seriously. She could see it in how he leaned back, his eyes watching the wavering line of the ocean, unblinking.

“People once thought that killing Fours was impossible,” he finally said. “Then a Four was killed. So they thought up something stronger than a Four, something almost too terrible to imagine: a Class Five. Then the world’s first Five rose.”

“The Battle of Havenport,” Azalea whispered.

He nodded. “I heard that you were there. Dispatched with the junior company from the Knight’s Academy.”

She nodded back. In a dire turn of events, that Storm had struck just off the coast of Mythaven itself. It promptly flooded the port sector of the capital, colloquially referred to as Havenport, with ravenous corruptions. And amidst the chaos, the world’s first Class Five had come out of the water, looming in the horizon like a world-ending juggernaut.

Most believed that the Airlean kingdom would fall on that day. But still, the people rose to fight.

The Hunters and the National Garrison battled and slept in shifts. The noble houses dispatched their privately trained companies. Even the Knight’s Academy sent out a junior unit of their top students to the heart of the battlefield. The ensuing conflict was long, bloody, and cruel—but it marked the union of the entire country.

That night, Wes was named the captain of the Academy company, and Azalea was selected as one of his soldiers. Halcyon and Karis were also there as Hunters, although they hadn’t been as well-known. The Battle of Havenport was the very encounter that had shot them up to legendary fame.

For they had been the two Hunters who killed the unkillable, and felled a Class Five beast.

“I’m not sure what is or isn’t possible,” Halcyon said, shaking her out of her thoughts. “But it seems to change every few months, so there’s no point in worrying about it.”

Azalea studied the undisturbed calm of his face and the steady set of his feet and the even line of his shoulders. She straightened and tried to mirror him, because she finally understood.

Halcyon wasn’t confident for confidence’s sake. He was confident because if he failed, there was no one more powerful he could turn to.

“Well,” said Halcyon, “are you ready for the fun part?”

Azalea’s newfound confidence wilted. “The fun part?” she echoed apprehensively.

He nodded. “Submitting the paperwork to Nicolina.”

Oh, it was a joke. “Um, yes. Of course.”

“Good,” said Halcyon. He turned to look down the beach. “Let me take care of the pest on our trail first, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Pest?” Azalea said confusedly. She focused, but she couldn’t sense the Wolf’s trail.

“Maybe not a pest,” said Halcyon. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes gleamed with that familiar light of faint madness, so prevalent in the Hunter’s Guild. “Maybe a challenge.”

Azalea turned to follow his gaze. In the distance, far down the beach, she saw a swirl of dark fire rising to an inferno. It beaded into a fireball, hovering like a ghostly wisp in the night.

And then, in a streak of brilliance, it seared right towards Halcyon.

 

The Soaring Pig was a beaten, burnished tavern far into the knotted net of cramped, low-rise streets known as the underworld of Mythaven. Rust-bitten iron chandeliers swung over peeling round tables, at which hunched figures dealt cards and tokens with swift fingers. The entire room was thick with a veil of cigar smoke and grimy sweat.

Covered in a ratty cloak, Azalea slid carefully through the tables. She made sure to follow Karis’s light, dancing tread, stepping exactly where Karis stepped. This place was beyond her, and judging by the simmering gazes passing in her direction, one wrong move would land her a dagger in the neck. It was like toeing around a hornet’s nest.

Then again, most of the journey had been the same. The underworld of Mythaven was not a friendly place, what with herb-addled outcasts and opportunistic thieves lurking around every corner on their way in. Even in the sweltering warmth of the Soaring Pig, there was a sharpness and a tension in the way the customers poured their drinks and played their games.

It finally clicked when Azalea saw the golden gleam of coin change hands after a round of cards.

“A gambling den?” she whispered to Karis, eyes wide. She repeated, “This tavern is a gambling den?”

Karis chuckled, a delicate, tinkling sound. “More like a canary’s nest, I imagine.”

“Canary?”

“Money may change hands here on occasion, but watch.” She gestured subtly to a nearby table. “The game is merely a pleasantry. Rather, this is the place for mercenaries and informants to negotiate and claim the…ah, more clandestine jobs.”

Clandestine jobs. Like hunts, or theft, or murder. Just the sort Echo would take.

“Then that’s what you meant by a hunting bird?” said Azalea in a trembling voice. “A mercenary?”

Karis smiled. “Of a sort, I suppose.”

They moved further into the Soaring Pig. Past a table where a group of five flipped red coins onto marked squares. Past a table where two figures carefully exchanged goods concealed in leather boxes. All the way to the back, where two men in night-black cloaks were in a round of cards, deft fingers sifting through decks and tokens with equal finesse. One of them moved a hand to his knife as Karis approached, and Azalea stiffened, ready to react.

“A moment, if you would, Swan,” Karis said. Her elegant, refined lilt grated against the surrounding grime.

One of the men—the one keen to use his dagger—said something in a language that Azalea did not understand, smooth and melodic, with the thick vowels and rolling consonants. But the tone was far from friendly. It was hostile and demanding, jabbing like a barb.

The other man, who Karis had named as Swan, waved a hand and responded in cadence. Calm, unruffled, dead even.

The man with the dagger hissed something and threw down his hand, shouldering Karis out of the way as he stormed out the tavern.

There was a moment of silence. Swan played a card with a moon emblem, seemingly unperturbed. Karis fearlessly slid into the vacant seat across from him. Azalea shuffled next to her but did not sit.

“Well, that was a poor sport,” Karis said mildly. “How many times did you trounce him?”

“Not enough, apparently,” said Swan. The hood raised in their direction, and Azalea cringed, expecting the worst.

She met the ocean-blue gaze of the First Hunter of Airlea.

Azalea clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a sharp gasp. Halcyon Yuden, at a backwater tavern in Mythaven’s underworld. He was no stranger to it, either; not with the way he handled a card deck, like his hand was born to shuffle and play.

“You scared off the venison,” Halcyon said.

“Don’t fret,” said Karis. “There’s more where that came from.”

He didn’t look up. He played a card with the emblem of a sun, then drew two more. Karis played a card opposite him. He played another, then slid the stack away.

“Fairwen secured a tip,” Karis said. “Fletcher’s Fry. A sea creature.”

Halcyon’s fingers stopped. He leaned back and regarded Karis evenly.

“Why give it to me?” he said.

“You’re the ocean specialist.”

“You could easily do it. If you wanted the points.”

Karis was quiet for a moment. Then, softly:

“There was another passing.”

Azalea stared at Karis. Halcyon’s gaze fell back on his hand. His fingers flicked; the cards reversed their order, smooth and silent.

“Who?” said Halcyon.

“The Fortieth. Beanstalk Botanist.”

He played another card and drew another card, but he was listening. Azalea could tell from the way he was leaning, the way he hesitated before each move.

“They’re passing too quickly, Yuden,” Karis said, playing a card and drawing a new one. “The gap between the top Hunters and the rest is too wide. The young ones need more training.”

“We’re not exactly great teachers.”

“Perhaps. But Death is a worse one.”

Halcyon was silent. The tavern’s dim hearth flickered once, twice.

He snapped his hand into a tidy stack and pushed it to the center of the table, face-down. It fanned out neatly. Hidden. Azalea couldn’t see what he’d pulled.

“Alright,” he said. He stood, the chair rattling slightly. “I’ll take it.”

Karis’s face flickered. She turned to Azalea, nodding her head towards Halcyon’s fading silhouette.

“Follow him,” she said. “Learn what you can. If there’s anything Hal knows, it’s how to fight in the ocean.”

Azalea nearly gasped. She would be shadowing the First Hunter, learning from him. A terribly precious opportunity, and one that she would savor.

“Thank you, Lady Karis,” Azalea whispered.

Karis waved a hand. “The best gratitude is to remain unhurt. I do not invest in things only for them to wilt a week later.”

Azalea paled. “Oh, I’ll, I’ll be sure to do my best.”

Karis blinked. “No, that wasn’t…oh, you little thing.” Her hand patted the top of Azalea’s head, just briefly. “Just follow Hal and do what you’re able, and everything will be alright.”

She left the tavern, brown cloak drifting behind her like refined silk. Azalea started to follow, but seeing Halcyon’s hand of cards, turned down and neatly fanned out on the table, gave her pause. Curiously, she turned them over and glanced across their revealed faces.

Thirteen of a suit, all in perfect order.

 

Azalea didn’t retire to her rented room on Gallows Square.

She climbed up the workshop and sat herself on the roof, turning her face into the rain, letting it thicken until her cloak was sodden and pressed at her skin like ice.

Fletcher’s Fry. Another town given, another target. Another burden to linger on her mind.

Azalea wanted to ignore it, but she couldn’t. And Echo knew that, knew that she could never turn a blind eye.

Was this his new plan, then? To ignore her wishes and simply force his brutal, terrible knowledge on her? To maneuver her like a pawn, knowing that her greatest weakness was her own goodwill?

She hated him for it.

Azalea rubbed her hands down her face and sighed, the evening chill sinking into her bruises and making them pound. It wasn’t the time to dwell on her hatred of the Lone Wolf; it was time to decide on a course of action.

She could report the tip to the Guild. Tell Nicolina, who would certainly know what to do. Nicolina, who was always put-together and assured.

But Nicolina had tried to take Wes away. Nicolina had looked at Azalea’s sweet sprout of an ingeniator and tried to cut him down. Perhaps it had only been in everyone’s best interests—but now that Nicolina had shown that she worked under a hidden agenda, Azalea could not shake the dreadful feeling that perhaps every sentence from the guildmaster was a clever snare. Perhaps Nicolina only saw people as blank-faced puppets, empty numbers, wooden pieces on a crimson chessboard. Perhaps there was a darker secret behind every word she chose to share.

No, Azalea could not talk to Nicolina. Someone else, perhaps. Someone else put-together and assured, someone else who was experienced. Someone like a mentor.

The idea fluttered into Azalea’s mind, succulent.

Sugar plums and flower pink.

Karis Caelute.

The idea gained roots and gripped her like a vice. Karis, the knowledgable veteran who had kindly guided Azalea through the surge. She had managed to be both impervious and approachable, deadly and kind. Azalea could think of nobody better to entrust.

Yes, she would find Karis Caelute and ask her for her wisdom.

“You should come inside,” said a sudden voice from behind Azalea. “You’ll catch a cold.”

She nearly jumped at the sound of soft footsteps on the roof’s ridge, slightly muffled by the rain. She relaxed when she recognized the tread of Wesley Geppett, her good posture collapsing as her shoulders slouched.

“There’s no evidence that rain or chill causes illness,” she said. “That comes from infectious agents or carriers.”

Wes dropped something on her head—a thick coat with fleece lining—and settled next to her, legs swinging over the side. “Alright, then come inside to make me feel better,” he said. “You look like a sad kitten out here.”

She felt a little bit like one, soaked from the rain and questioning her own guild. She shrugged the coat over her shoulders. “How did you know where I was?”

“You’ve always hidden somewhere high up.” Wes looked at her like he saw her, really saw her. “The rafters, the clock tower, the Academy parapets. Like a little songbird.”

For a moment, the weight of his gaze held her there. Then she saw his eyes slide to a dark spot on her cheek. She quickly turned away, hoping he hadn’t seen.

But a moment’s pause was all she needed to hear to know he had.

“Your cheek,” Wes said softly, “is bruised.”

“Hm?” She rubbed at it, holding back the flinch of pain. “Oh, looks like it’s just some dirt.”

He pulled her hand away. “’Zalie.”

She stared at the mottled sky, her knees, at anything but him.

“What happened while I was asleep?” he asked flatly.

She wanted to tell someone. To dig this miserable ache out of her chest. To find a direction in this path that kept spinning her around, leaving her dizzy and confused.

“There was a fight in the street,” she admitted. She paused, searching for the right words.

Wes read her face and nodded. “Tell me while we get you fixed up.”

He led her down the roof and she followed. She tried to tell him in slow, halting words about Echo—the scavenger who’d shadowed her steps and diverting her path, leaving her angry and lost. Wes’s gaze was solemn and flared every so often with cold fury, but he kept silent, listening intently.

But Azalea didn’t get far into her tale. Wes had barely opened his medical kit when there was a sharp rap on his door.

“Tidings from the Geppett estate,” called a man’s voice from the other side. “Pray open the door and receive it at once, young master.”

Wes’s hands paused on his medical kit, and Azalea paused in her tale.

“At this hour?” she whispered, eyes wide. “What could it be?”

“Nothing good,” Wes said, putting away his kit. “Sorry, give me a moment.”

Azalea watched as he cracked the door open, showing a sliver of plate armor decorated with the Geppett crest. A guard of high status, then.

“Yes?” said Wes, his tone clipped.

“His Grace requires you to present yourself at the residence,” said the guard.

“Very well,” said Wes with a nod of acknowledgment. He moved to close the door.

A metal sabaton wedged in between the frame, stopping the wood.

“He requires you now,” said the guard.

Wes stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “The hour is late and the weather is poor. There’s no telling who could be waiting in the shadows. I will make the journey at first light when the roads are secure.”

“That is why I was sent, young master. To accompany you.”

“I wasn’t negotiating.”

“Neither is His Grace.”

A soft, deadly silence fell upon the doorway. Wes did not move, and neither did the guard. They only stared at each other unflinchingly, waiting for the other to cave. The silence built like a fire in the hearth, waiting for a single touch to billow into a roar.

Finally, Azalea couldn’t stand it. “Allow me to help,” she said, moving to the door.

Wes flinched for a moment, his eyes darting to her, before a forced calm dropped over his face. He opened the door wider, allowing the guard to step through.

The guard was younger than Azalea expected, but he had one of those sharp, pointy faces with thin brows and high cheekbones that made him look sour and imperious. He was decked in light armor with ceremonial finishes from head to toe, the Geppett crest proudly emblazoned on his tabard—unnecessarily opulent for the time of night. His eyes landed on her, and his brows arched to his hairline.

“A woman,” he noted. “At this hour? What sort of aid is she offering?”

Azalea was about to reach for her Hunter’s sigil, but Wes interrupted, his syllables clipped but clear.

“The lady is a client of mine.”

“Rather youthful for that, I would think.”

“I will go with you,” Wes said suddenly, drawing attention away from her. “Allow me a minute to find garb more favorable for this weather.”

He turned and slipped further into the workshop. Azalea’s fingers stuttered on her sigil, then fell away.

Of course. It would be better for the depth of her connection with Wes to remain hidden. She was a Hunter, but the status difference between them was still significant, and she was a young unmarried woman. Not that Wes should ever see her in that way, not when there were so many perfect and accomplished noblewomen surrounding him—but it was better to be safe and avoid unnecessary attention.

She shouldn’t have revealed herself at all.

Next to Azalea, the guard sniffed haughtily, casting a glance about the workshop. “An heir of noble blood, living in such a dreadful pigsty. It’s unthinkable.”

Azalea was beginning to think that she was not a patient person at all, given how often her anger was rising this evening. “It’s a cozy place, kept tidy and maintained well,” she said sharply. “Many would be fortunate to see a house so lovely.”

His cutting gaze turned on her. “Yes, as many rats would be fortunate to feast upon the rubbish bin. How quaint.”

Oh, how terribly she wanted to bloody his nose.

“Then to avoid further offending your senses,” Azalea said, “I guess you’d prefer the outdoors.”

And without further decorum, she shoved him out into the rain and shut the door in his face, locking it for good measure.

She’d only begun to realize the gravity of what she’d just done when Wes’s footsteps sounded behind her. “Well, good riddance,” he said with a hint of mirth. He was now in a crisp shirt and trousers, fastening the cuff links on his sleeves.

Azalea only wilted, feeling even more miserable. “I’m sorry. Now he’s going to take it out on you.”

“He would have anyway,” said Wes. “That was Grey, the son of my father’s lead advisor. Thinks that if he licks enough boots, he has a chance at inheritance.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I wish he would. He’s more Geppett than I’ll ever be.”

“He’s horrible.”

“He’s arrogant.” Wes shrugged on that stiff juniper jacket. “I was too. The difference is, I had older brothers to take me down a few pegs.”

If Azalea remembered properly, Wes’s two brothers were also horrible people. They were currently serving time for multiple counts of battery and assault, being prone to violence and strong drink. Little wonder that Lord Roland Geppett’s hopes for his estate had fallen on his youngest son, who, despite his utter lack of interest in politics, was at least mostly sane.

Azalea bit her lip and helped him into a thick cloak. “Will you be alright?”

“Nothing I haven’t done before.” Wes fastened the cloak with a golden leaf-shaped brooch. “Father’s probably just in one of those moods. He’ll go on some tirade, send me to some luncheon or tea with some random lord’s daughter, and then let me come back.”

What an awful place. An awful family. Azalea wished that she could help him, but she knew this was a fight where she’d only make things worse.

“Be safe,” she said helplessly.

Wes brushed her fingers in a gentle touch, and she felt a little flutter of heat up her wrist.

“It means the world to me,” he said, “that I have someone to come back to.”

She watched him as he slid through the door and into the rain, her mind turning his words over and over, wondering what exactly he meant.

Azalea slept until the sun was well up in the sky, and then searched for Karis Caelute.

She did not have to look far. She inquired at the Guild, where Sasha provided a quick Ooh, the scary sugar lady isn’t around here, and pointed her to Karis’s residence on the north side of Mythaven. It was a wealthier part of town—not as grand as the country manors of the nobility, but orderly streets of nice, quaint houses with flower beds beneath the windows and tracery on the black iron lampposts.

Azalea straightened her skirt and knocked primly on the door. After a brief pause, it swung open. Karis Caelute stepped out onto the porch, dressed down in a simple blouse and woolen skirt, hair pulled back low on her neck. Her lips were parted in surprise.

“I’m very sorry to intrude,” Azalea said haltingly, and then stopped. Her mind ran blank, the words slipping through her fingers. “Um. I…um. I was…um.”

She was beginning to think that it was exceedingly rude for a Hunter to call upon the personal residence of another Hunter. And this was not just any Hunter; Karis was the Second Rank, practically a legend. What right did Azalea have to bother her at her own house? Just because she’d shown a bit of kindness when Azalea had shadowed her?

But before Azalea could throw herself to the ground and grovel or run away, Karis opened the door wider and gestured through, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Excellent timing,” she said. “The kettle’s just boiled. Perhaps you’d like to join me for some tea.”

Azalea opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“Yes,” she said faintly. “That would be wonderful.”

Karis’s house was lived-in and cozy, with every setting for two. There were two chairs with two doily placemats on the dining table, two bedrooms kept tidy and waiting, two sets of cutlery waiting to be washed in the sink. Azalea wanted to ask if Karis was perhaps married, but thought it might be rude. Karis bore no ring, and a Hunter’s loved ones were always a sensitive topic.

Karis led her into the dining area that abutted the kitchen. There was, indeed, a kettle of boiling water set on the wood-fired stove. She steeped herself a cup of plum tea, and after asking, a cup of rose tea for Azalea. The sugar bowl was full of not cubes, but snowflake-shaped crystals that were almost too beautiful to dissolve.

They were stirring in spoonfuls of cream when Karis finally spoke. “You’re not overstepping, you know.”

Azalea sat bolt-upright. “Pardon?”

Karis sipped. “You are a Royal Hunter of Airlea. We are essentially soldiers of the same cohort. You deserve to speak with other Hunters and sit with them.” She smiled primly. “Unless we are in the middle of killing something. Then interruptions aren’t so welcome.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” was all Azalea stammered out. She wasn’t sure if she would dare bothering Karis Caelute at home again, even with the reassurance.

Karis settled back. “Now, what is your quandary?”

Azalea jumped into her story so quickly, eager to not waste any of her hero’s time, that she almost choked on her tea. She’d received a tip for a Class Four at Fletcher’s Fry, she said, from a source on the street who she was certain meant ill. Only, the source was trustworthy and she could not quite ignore it.

“I’m not sure whether to post it to public commissions, or report it, or—or anything else,” said Azalea through a dry mouth. “What would you do, Lady Karis?”

Karis sipped. “Hunt it down, of course,” she said. “A Four is a nice way to pass the time.”

Azalea flinched. “I mean, if you were me. Unless, do you think I’m ready?” Surely she wasn’t. She had relied so much on the power of the Whisperer.

Karis evaluated her for a steady moment. Azalea waited for judgment, her stomach slowly sinking to the floor.

“No,” Karis said softly. “I don’t believe you are. Nor should you be. The average Hunter does not even think of approaching a Class Four until their second year for risk of dying. If you feel the need to do so…then we have failed you.”

“No, no,” said Azalea emphatically. “I just want to make myself useful. I wouldn’t ever…I wouldn’t want…”

She trailed off, uncertain. The doubts built in her mind like one brick on top of the other. The Wolf, his offer, her inadequacy. She felt jumbled together and undone.

“Do you hire an informant, Lady Karis?” she blurted. “For…the extra marks, the extra commissions?”

Karis’s eyes gleamed blood-crimson, and yet, they calmed Azalea. “When it’s slow, yes. Though it hasn’t been slow for some time now.”

A half-truth from Echo, then. As was everything that seemed to come out of his mouth. “Why hire an informant?” Azalea asked curiously.

“There can be…inconveniences with the workings of a guild, sometimes. News that should take one day to spread takes one week, and assignments can delay in their distribution.” Karis’s fingers traced the curved handle of her teacup. “Sometimes, the rural villages can suffer for it.”

“So public rumor is faster.”

“Faster but unreliable. That, you see, can make it deadly. The wrong tip right before a surge can leave towns undefended, so Hunters never take on additional assignments in the days leading up to a surge.” She tilted her head. “You are certain that your tip is accurate?”

Azalea didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“A surge is building. It will strike in the coming days.”

“Yes.”

“Still, you would risk it?”

“I know it’s true.”

Karis’s eyes flickered over her face. Then she stood. “Well. Let’s get started, then.”

“Where are we going?” asked Azalea, getting to her feet.

“Why, it’s quite simple.” Karis smiled and glided to a hook on the wall, taking down a drab brown cloak. “We’re going to catch ourselves a hunting bird.”

 

It was still dark when Azalea jolted awake, every sense blaring and alert.

At first, she didn’t know what had set her off. The workshop was quiet and calm, hearth dimmed to low embers, a light mist of rain pattering at the window. Wes was asleep—hunched over the table with his head bracketed between his arms, scattered pages of charcoal scribbles splayed under him. Nothing looked amiss.

Then a shadow passed just outside the window, and a puddle sloshed underfoot.

Eyes narrowing, Azalea swiftly drew to her feet. She took her blanket and bundled it around Wes’s shoulders, grabbed Bluebell and her short sword, and stepped outside.

Thin, cold drops of rain dotted her face and cloak, more like a greeting than any real obstacle. The alley road to Gallows Square was utterly dark; not one of the windows glowed with candlelight, and the distant mana lamps were clouded with fog and rain.

Azalea turned, starshooter pointed at the ground but braced on her shoulder, ever ready. Perhaps it had only been a passing animal.

Or perhaps it had been something truly awful, because at that moment, a playful voice rang out among the cobbled stone.

“Careful not to hurt anybody with that toy of yours, Little Red.”

Azalea whipped around and looked up. Perched on the roof of the workshop, leg dangling lazily over the edge like a swinging vine, sat the Lone Wolf. She caught a dim sheen of white from beneath his rain-slick hood. It took her a moment to realize that it wasn’t from his hair, but his smile.

She kept Bluebell pointed at the ground, but every vein flared to life, ready to fight.

“You,” she hissed.

“Me,” Echo said amicably with a nod. How infuriating.

“What are you doing here?”

He held up his hands disarmingly—a motion that belied the amusement tugging at his lips. “Easy there, Little Red. Just taking a midnight stroll.”

“In the rain?”

“Some people like it.”

“On the house of my Support?”

He tilted his head. “Is it, now?”

Azalea lightly bit her tongue. She shouldn’t have said that. If the Wolf grew curious, learned about Wes and who he was…yes, it was time to change the topic.

“You should be under investigation,” she said sharply. “You’re still charged for illegal scavenging, assaulting a Hunter—”

Echo laid a hand over his heart, looking positively devastated. “I thought I paid my dues for that by now.”

“How, exactly?”

“Wasn’t it obvious? By being your benevolent informant, of course.”

“Benevolent?”

“Remember who tipped you off for Northelm? You slayed a Class Four, saved an entire town from being trapped and exterminated like vermin, and no doubt made yourself a household name overnight. All without paying a copper.” He shook his head with a light click of his tongue. “I’m not usually such a saint, but alas. We all have our weak moments.”

But Azalea was no longer listening, because some of his words had captured her mind, turning over endlessly in her head.

Northelm. Saved a town…from being trapped?

She’d just returned from her expedition today. She’d only reported to Nicolina and Thom. How could the Lone Wolf possibly be aware of every detail?

“You followed me,” Azalea said faintly. “Again.”

Echo tipped two fingers in a sardonic salute. “You didn’t notice. Again.”

No. No, that couldn’t be. Not because she wanted to believe in her powers of observation—no, she was starting to recognize the Lone Wolf’s presence. It was what had woken her. He was…loud, in some way, his proximity picking at her senses like a nail on a scab. Or maybe it wasn’t him, personally; maybe it was something about his manawell.

His manawell. That was it, she realized. It wasn’t that he was physically loud, with clumsy hands and stumbling feet.

No, he was a messy Stabilizer.

Azalea watched him calmly as she slung Bluebell back and engaged the safety. No one was directly threatening Wes, so the firearm would not be unnecessary.

“You weren’t there,” she said evenly. “I know you weren’t.”

“Make up your mind,” Echo replied, amused. “Did I follow you or not?”

Yes. No. Yes and no. Echo hadn’t followed her into Northelm; that, she knew for sure. She would have sensed him. But he was aware of Northelm’s situation, so when had he arrived?

Certainly not after Azalea herself. He couldn’t have, not without causing a stir. Northelm was surrounded by flat plains on three cardinals, and the fourth was the caves and mountains at which they mined. His approach would have been obvious, and marked—especially by the skittish, crossbow-bearing children who had taken up residence in the watchtower.

Azalea’s mind began to barrel faster, gaining momentum.

If Echo hadn’t arrived after her, then he could have only arrived before her.

If he had arrived before her, then it was before the miners were stranded—because afterward, the town was on high alert.

And if he had been at Northelm before the miners were stranded…

Slowly, the pieces of information began to slot into place. Azalea wet her lips, even though the rain was already dampening them.

Echo. Northelm. The early arrival.

Not just an early arrival—a setup.

The bait from the cave. The poultice that had lured the basilisk from its den. It had been composed of decaying parts of corrupted beasts.

Something that could have only been made by a master trapper…or, say, a scavenger.

The moment Azalea landed on the idea, she knew that she was right. The brand of instability that had radiated from the poultice had been, somehow, familiar. And now that she was aware of it, she knew exactly why.

Just like a person could smell a dish at dinner and pinpoint what it was—cookies, fresh bread, a bowl of soup—any manacrafter could vaguely tell the makeup of an unstable reaction. And Azalea was more sensitive than most, affording her an even greater discernment.

The poultice had held traces of decaying wolves.

The Lone Wolf had placed that bait. Doomed those miners to die. Sent the town into a panic.

Then he’d approached her during the surge and pointed her to Northelm under the pretense of playing hero.

Azalea straightened. Her mind fell into a brutal chill, sharpening her vision until every dim outline leapt at her in shapes of silver. She looked up at the Wolf, his chin propped on a hand, smile lazy and uncaring. He wasn’t even sorry.

She burned her manawell and pulled.

Echo cursed at the sudden blast of Formed wind that pummeled his back, sending him sprawling over the edge. He fired his windsoles to right himself. He just managed to land on his feet when Azalea lunged at him and slammed him into the wall, digging the flat of her short sword into his neck. Echo coughed, flecks of paint and mortar dust splashing over his cloak.

“My, someone’s excited,” he said. “Shouldn’t we take this somewhere more private?”

Azalea felt nothing but cold and empty all over. “Is that all they are? Your accomplishments, your so-called gift of finding? A lie?”

“Specifics, Red. I lie about many things.”

“You made the bait. You damned that town.”

Echo did not bother denying her. His face transformed into a mirror of her own—unfeeling, deadly.

“That would depend on your point of view,” he said.

“All those families. You nearly killed them all.” Her voice sputtered, raw. “Children. They were just children—”

Echo moved.

She hadn’t even seen him reach for his hip, but suddenly, his bone knife throttled her crossguard away. He kneed her in the gut, sending her staggering back, stomach bursting with pain.

Myths help her. She shouldn’t have gone for close combat. Not against a man who’d grown up fighting in the streets.

It was too late to regret; Echo wasn’t stopping. Agile as a wildcat, he leapt on her, pincered her torso with his legs, and drove her to the ground. She slammed hard into the stone. Agony exploded all up her limbs, and she heard the clatter of her short sword as it fell out of her hand.

“I killed no one, Little Red,” Echo said as he leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “I sent one of the fifty greatest soldiers in the country so that they wouldn’t die.”

She fired her windsoles and tore out from under him, springing on her hands to land on her feet.

“Then your plan failed,” she hissed, wiping dirt from her mouth. “I didn’t do anything. If the Whisperer hadn’t appeared, you would have murdered an entire town.”

“And why do you think he appeared?”

That made her falter. “You…surely didn’t lead him there. On purpose.”

“If I had?”

“That would be even worse! You would have known his reputation as the reaper. He could have killed me and destroyed all of Northelm.”

For a moment, there was a lull. Echo’s bone knife spun between long, pale fingers, rain sprinkling over his hood like dust.

“Oh, I see,” he said softly. “Little Red is blinded by insecurities.”

Azalea thought herself a mostly patient person, but Echo always managed to get under her skin with a single word, tearing away just the right spot that would leave her raw. Insecurities? As if staring into the maw of a venomous beast, about to disintegrate into a puddle, had been some sort of emotional obstacle. The Lone Wolf was always so thoughtless, so crude, throwing together shallow excuses for endangering so many lives.

“Don’t mock me,” Azalea snapped. “You couldn’t have possibly thought that a fresh graduate could slay a Class Four and walk out alive. So either you were trying to get Northelm killed, me killed, or both.”

“Or I believed that you could slay it without much trouble. In which case, I turn from some murderous villain to a terribly delusional lunatic.”

“There’s no distinction.”

“I disagree.” He smiled wryly. “One serves a lighter sentence than the other.”

Azalea had enough. She blazed at him with a touch of her windsoles and lashed out with her fists. But—

—Echo readily twisted around her, bolstered by his own windsoles. She barely darted away from a kick that would have cracked her spine.

How? How had he read her so easily? It was obvious that she would use her windsoles, yes, but the speed provided by the burst of wind was swift enough to make human reaction impossible.

Then there was only one explanation; Echo had not reacted, but had predicted. He had known what she would do before she herself.

Echo read her bewilderment and clicked his tongue. “Is that it? Windsoles? Nothing new, nothing fresh?”

Azalea’s eyes narrowed. “It’s better not to try anything revolutionary,” she said. “It gets people killed. Instead, one should master what is known.”

Echo snorted. “Where did you hear that, Little Red? Some stodgy old instructor at the Academy?”

Her silence was answer enough.

“And they wonder why every Hunter dies the exact same way,” he muttered.

White flowers pouring out of a cabinet flashed before Azalea’s eyes. Her face grew very still as she circled him slowly.

“Is death nothing but a joke to you?” she said quietly.

Echo tilted his head. “If you find the humor in it, you’ll die happy.”

“I fail to see that humor.”

“Then I suppose you won’t die happy.”

He snapped her thinning patience yet again, and she swiped. Echo slid away, and Azalea quickly reversed—only to sprawl over several squat crates that peeked into the alley. She barely recovered with a quick, frantic step, unbalanced.

She had forgotten, in the darkness of the night, about the little obstacles that dotted the road. And she had paid for it. But not Echo—never Echo, who was as swift as a sparrow, dancing on the rooftop eaves like a ray of moonlight.

This was his domain.

Weathered with fog, the dark, rain-slicked alleyways of Old Town were his kingdom, and he knew each one as if they were the veins carrying his blood. He knew how to fight with leverage and in confined space, how to read hands and eyes like Azalea read letters, how to maim and kill unflinchingly.

Here, she didn’t have the advantage of a leyline’s instability, and Echo was built taller and stronger than her, equipped with windsoles of his own. If she refused to use her starshooter—and she refused to fire upon a Mythaven citizen save for emergencies—then she would not win.

Azalea’s hand reached back for Bluebell, but her fingers hesitated, trembling as they brushed the lovely barrel.

The moment was enough.

Echo struck like lightning, tackling her to the wall and wrenching her arms behind her back. His fingers dug hard into her flesh, bruising her wrists.

“This is your problem, Little Red,” he said quietly. “Your emotions get in the way.”

“Yes,” she spat. “A pity I have a heart.”

“Pity indeed. You’d have so much promise without one.” She thrashed against his weight, but his hold only tightened. He pressed the edge of the bone knife to her neck, forcing her to still. “Take a moment and think, Fairwen. Let’s say you hadn’t taken care of that Class Four. What would have happened?”

“Northelm would have died, which I already said—”

“Not that. Ignore Northelm for a moment. What would have happened to the corruption?”

Azalea glared silently at him. Echo’s mouth pulled into a smile.

“Ah, you already see what I’m getting at.”

“I don’t.”

“But you do. That’s right, it would have turned into a Class Five. Rather difficult to manage, don’t you think?”

Azalea staunchly looked away.

“Isn’t it better to remove the threat while it can still be handled?” Echo said coaxingly. “Class Fours may prove a mild obstacle, but Fives—why, I hear that only the top two Hunters have dispatched one without dying.”

“It takes a long time and a significant mana anomaly before a Four turns into a Five.”

“But if it did?”

He had a point, even if she didn’t agree with it. The Class system, as specified by the Royal Observatorium, did not scale linearly. Instead, higher Classes were often exponentially more dangerous than their lower counterparts. For how dangerous that serpent had been, it would’ve been much worse as a Class Five. Perhaps even unstoppable.

“But you didn’t have to set the bait so it trapped the villagers,” she accused. “You should have set it farther away.”

He raised a brow. “To where? Further into the unexplored caves, which hold unspeakable dangers? Or outside, right into the heart of the town? I thought it better to prepare a favorable arena.”

“Favorable?”

“You’re thorough. I’ve no doubt you’ve seen the other caverns. How much cover was present?”

Azalea glared silently at him. Then Echo suddenly released her and stepped away, and she was so caught off-guard that she didn’t bother lunging at him.

“Well. The sentence, Your Honor?” Echo said with a smile.

There it always was: that derision, that caustic sense of pride. She wished she could throw it back in his smug face.

But she wouldn’t. Not tonight.

“I know you’re not telling me the whole truth,” Azalea said. She looked away. “But I’m not going to arrest you.”

“How charitable. I daresay it would have been difficult.”

“Difficult?”

“Well, I bested you.” He caught the flash in her eyes and raised his hands. “Don’t feel too bad about losing, Little Red. Fighting people is a mite different from fighting mana beasts. People adapt, for one.” He winked. “And we tend to be more handsome, which makes us distracting.”

“In the eyes of somebody else, I’m sure,” Azalea said.

Echo touched his chest. “Ouch. The kitten’s developed a bite.”

Somebody in the world probably would be very taken with Echo’s rakish looks—the sharp jaw, the piercing gaze, the lean cords of muscle. But it wouldn’t be Azalea, who was accustomed to being surrounded by beautiful people. The Academy and the Hunter’s Guild had been full of them—the lovely and the wealthy and the powerful and the otherwise highly marriageable. Over time, Azalea had found herself somewhat deadened to beauty. Except maybe Karis, who was all but a fairy incarnate.

She folded her arms and glared. “You shouldn’t take this so lightly. You assaulted a Hunter and scavenged parts without permission.”

“Tack it on to my extensive list of crimes,” Echo said dryly.

She hesitated. “But…you did tip off a Hunter, which technically saved Northelm. And the bait did technically distract the creature. And…I don’t know if you led the Whisperer there, but if you did, his presence technically served as a boon. It was only because of your actions that no one died.”

Surprisingly, Echo quieted. His fingers tapped together for a moment, bone-white beneath the dim lamplight.

“Precisely,” he said softly. “No one died. An outright miracle in today’s world, wouldn’t you say?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What a mercenary always means.” His fingers stopped. His mouth pulled up. “Little Red, what say you to a bargain?”

Azalea froze.

That was, quite possibly, the very last string of words she expected to come out of his mouth. Perhaps it just barely beat out I’m so very sorry, please arrest me.

Her response was immediate. “I decline.”

“You haven’t heard the terms.”

“I don’t wish to. Side ventures with accomplices from outside the Guild can be considered as bribery or embezzlement, and are strictly—”

“Not that sort of deal, baby bookworm,” Echo snorted. “This falls completely within the scope of your primary job.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well. You should.”

He folded his fingers together in the semblance of an elegant gentleman, and not an underground merc slinking around private property.

“My offer is simple,” he said. “Much like how I warned you about Northelm, I’ll provide tips on the whereabouts of priority marks. And in return—”

“I’m not interested,” Azalea said.

“There are Hunters who would pay good money for this info, you know. In fact, they do.”

He was starting to rile that familiar sense of boiling anger in her—again. Somehow, it was a talent uniquely attributed to him.

“I don’t even know if you can find anything,” she snapped. “Northelm was all a hoax. You used bait.”

He tilted his head. “To lead the Four to the right place, yes. I still had to know where it originally was.”

He had a point, and that only irritated her further. “Fine, then,” Azalea said stiffly. “Let’s say you truly know where every dangerous beast in Airlea is. Then you shouldn’t keep that information to yourself.”

“Precisely why I’m offering this deal, no?”

“You should share it with the Guild.”

He sighed. “Tell that to the other Hunters and their own special informants. This has been going on for ages, Little Red. It’s practically a necessity in the current system.”

That can’t be right, Azalea wanted to say. But she couldn’t. She hadn’t been in the Guild for very long, but she was already familiar with the competitive aura, that knife’s edge of danger and respect. She knew that anything posted to the public commissions board was often snapped up in the blink of an eye. The idea that Hunters resorted to external means of finding additional marks was completely unsurprising.

Still, she hated the thought. Civilian lives shouldn’t be bandied about like a footbag. All for a shiny medal or a bonus to the stipend.

“And what would you be getting out of this deal?” Azalea said.

Echo’s response was immediate. “There’s a patron of mine. One of considerable…influence, shall we say.”

“A lord.”

“Now, now, let’s not ruin the mystery.” Echo leaned back. “This patron is rather taken with studying manacraft, particularly the potential of Stabilizing. Believes it to be an unexplored field, you see. And after seeing you in action, I’m inclined to agree.”

Azalea stared at him.

“We don’t have to be enemies, Little Red,” Echo continued. “This could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. I provide the tips, you destroy the monsters. The patron gets his research, I get my wages, and you get a promotion. Everybody wins.”

“And that’s why you’ve been following me?” Azalea said. “To study a Stabilizer?”

He nodded. “Simple as that.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“But you think I’m telling the truth.”

She did. That was the worst part: his reasoning made sense. It explained why he’d picked a fight in the middle of a leyline. It explained why he’d sent her to Northelm. It even explained why he’d led the Whisperer to her—if he truly had, of course. He would want to push her to her limits; then he could deliver Stabilizing research to his curious client.

“Unfortunately,” Azalea said coolly, “I have no interest in working with you.”

“That is unfortunate,” Echo agreed.

He seemed completely unsurprised, and that made her nervous.

“That means I reject your offer,” she said hesitantly.

“I know what it means.” Echo shrugged. “Well, let it never be said that I didn’t try.”

He pulled his cloak overhead, fussed with a strap on his arm, knelt and retied a lace on his boots. He seemed to be preparing to leave. Finally.

Then he spoke again.

“There will be a sea creature by Fletcher’s Fry,” he said. “Coastal town, nice place. Good for a spot of fishing.”

Azalea blanched. “Don’t you dare,” she said.

“Good luck, be careful, all those nice platitudes.” He waved. “I’ll drink to your success.”

Azalea lunged at him. Echo fired his windsoles with a dry laugh and disappeared into the night.

 

Wes was silent as he and Azalea walked back to the workshop. With every step away from the Hunter’s Guild, he slowly loosened: a slouch of his shoulders, a slack of his jaw, a crease of his jacket. Bit by bit, like settling into a new skin.

They were at Gallows Square when the Geppett heir returned to being Wes.

The workshop was pitch-black by the time they arrived, the orange sun fading to a dull pinprick that vanished behind the curtains. Outside, the cold evening breeze rattled at the window. Wes shrugged off his coat and lit the distant hearth with a spark of fire mana, letting the warmth soak the room.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said, finally allowing a grimace to cross his face.

The workshop was, indeed, on the disorderly end. Wes’s cramped accommodations already offered little in terms of space, and the thoughtlessly scattered cups, scraps of paper, and reference books only compounded the problem. Even his tool rack—which he was very particular about keeping in good condition—was hanging askew.

Azalea surveyed the mess, biting her lip. “I should have come to see you first.”

“No,” said Wes. “It’s always more important to get a check-up as soon as possible. Even if you feel alright, there could be an imbalance in your plait. Better to be safe.”

He was rambling a little, as was his tendency whenever he was nervous or agitated. Azalea swallowed and reached for his hand. She cupped his fingers in hers, letting him feel the warmth of her skin, the dull beat of her pulse.

“I’m alright,” she said. “I’m sorry to have worried you.”

Wes breathed out, growing very still.

“That slip of paper was the nastiest scare I’d gotten in years,” he said hoarsely. “I was already on edge, but reading those words…Myths. It felt like a nightmare.”

A stone plummeted in Azalea’s gut. She could picture it all in her mind’s eye—a disgruntled Wes attempting to distract himself in work, toiling over the table. She could hear the knock on the door, see him accept the letter. She could watch him slot it open with his thumb and scan the page. She could see his face whiten and the paper stumble out of his hands, fluttering to the ground like a dying butterfly.

Wounded following an encounter with a Class Four corruption, the notice had said. Nothing about the severity of her condition. It left all to the imagination.

An imagination that had been building for an entire week.

Azalea squeezed Wes’s hand, and he jolted a little, torn out of wherever his thoughts had taken him. Wordlessly, she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug.

His breath left his lungs in a whoosh, and he sank into her, cradling his arms around her waist.

“Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his nose into her neck. His breath warmed her. “For coming back.”

She brushed a hand down his hair. It pulled apart some of the tidy styling, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I’ll be more careful.”

Wes laughed a little. “Careful? ’Zalie, you’re the craziest person I’ve met.”

That surprised her. “What? I’m very timid.”

“Yeah, until you have something to fight for.” He pulled back, and—thank the Myths, he was grinning. “The kitten stuck on the Academy parapet? It was your second day on windsoles and you jumped right for it.”

She flushed a little. “Well, the instructor was around.”

“What about that time when July was being harassed? Some prick hung her undergarments on a flagpole and you jumped out the window to retrieve them. Nearly gave the dormitory supervisor a heart attack, dangling from the flagpole, no windsoles or instructors in sight.”

That had been particularly reckless. Azalea didn’t know what had come over her. All she remembered was looking at the humiliated tears on her classmate’s face, and before she knew it, she was leaping out the window and swinging from the flagpole, clothes in hand. She could have easily died that day—or been expelled. Thankfully, she’d gotten off with detention.

“Well,” she fumbled, “I never made that mistake again.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” said Wes, still smiling. “I’d call it the opposite, in fact. That’s when I fell—uh, felt that you had the soul of a Hunter.”

Azalea thought of the ruthless Hunters and their dangerous card games, their affinity for strong drink, their limitless courage and insatiable thirst for blood.

Coward.

“I do?” she said quietly.

“You sure do.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You’re all protectors. Fiercely loyal. Unstoppable.”

Protector. It was a kind word, a valiant word. It bore less weight than the title of hero, warrior, conqueror. A mother was a protector, as was a knight, as was a tender of vineyards and orchards. Azalea could do that. She could be a protector, watching over whatever was entrusted to her, no matter how small.

Her mouth lifted in a smile. “Thank you.”

Wes stared at her face for a moment, looking stunned. Then he shook himself and cleared his throat.

“Some tea?” he offered. “I’ve got your favorite. Rose vanilla.”

She brightened. “I’d love some.”

Wes untangled their limbs and filled a metal pitcher with water from the workshop spigot, then hung it over the hearth to boil. Azalea pulled her plushy chair next to the fire and tucked her legs under her. She patted the space next to her, but Wes only dragged up his own stool, a faint blush crawling up his neck. She decided not to push the matter, even if it was nice to feel his solid warmth after a week of the chilly north.

“Did you come straight from your father’s?” she asked curiously.

“No,” he admitted.

“But…your suit.”

He yanked out his cravat, grimacing like it was a noose. “Yeah, well…I figured a noble would have a better chance of getting through the door than some ragtag ingeniator.”

“You’re a Support. They’d have to let you in.”

“Maybe, but the guild attendant took one look at me and stepped aside. I wouldn’t have gotten that as anyone else.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling out the perfect, orderly locks. “That’s how it is, I guess. My ancestors made the Geppett name known, and my father made it something to fear.”

Azalea flinched. She’d only met Lord Roland Geppett once, and she had no desire to repeat the experience. He had towered above the students with the bulk of a hardy fighter, his demeanor cold and imperious, his crowning cloak lined with the furs of fallen beasts and embroidered with exquisite golden vines. She had nearly fainted on the spot, terrified by the weight of his power.

Wes leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the fire. “I always feel a little bit…tainted, you know. After putting on the suit. The act.” He exhaled. “Like it’ll make me turn into him.”

“It wouldn’t,” Azalea said firmly.

“It might.” He slid a hand down his face, brows knitted in disgust. “I…I like it sometimes. Feeling powerful. I wanted to…I don’t know, show the guildmaster. Remind her who she was provoking. Just like Father. Why? Why did I do that?”

“Because she was—wait, she was provoking you?”

“She doesn’t want me to be your Support.”

The words hit Azalea like a cold brick in the gut.

“What?” she whispered.

“As the physician said, your state of mild injury doesn’t usually call for a notice.” Wes reached into his pocket, crumpled the notice, and flung it into the low-burning hearth. “Guildmaster Cotton had it delivered anyway. To send me a message.”

“What message?” Azalea’s voice was barely audible.

Wes was quiet for a long moment. Red firelight traced his jaw like a gentle hand.

“That one day, you’ll die in battle,” he said quietly, “and if I can’t handle that burden, I’d better quit.”

The words were chased away from Azalea’s mind, replaced by nothing but the gentle crackle of simmering wood.

Wes sat up and breathed in, like he was summoning courage. “The day we turned in the Support contract, she told me that I should burn it and pretend it never happened. To protect me, or something. Spare my feelings of guilt if you die.”

Azalea had never considered that—and with a jolt down her spine, now she could recall whispered rumors from the Hunter’s Guild, the Academy. How some Supports had blamed themselves for the deaths, grieved themselves to insanity. She’d heard of an old weaver who’d shut herself up in her cottage and refused to come out, and a Garrison captain who’d retired as a faraway fisherman. They hadn’t been able to live with the weight of their own survival.

Azalea didn’t mean to be cruel. She didn’t mean to do that to Wes.

But before she could say anything, Wes was continuing on, his voice soft yet unshakable.

“The guildmaster’s wrong.” His eyes turned to Azalea, molten amber, decadent orange. “It doesn’t matter if I’m your Support or not. It doesn’t matter if you fly off to the opposite side of the world and never speak to me again. I will always, always care for you. So much that it’ll hurt anyway. And if it does, then I’d rather be at your side.”

How eloquent he was with words, how grand. Every bit of breath had been stolen from Azalea’s lungs. Her heart fluttered rapidly in her chest as she struggled to piece together something, anything—a fraction of the gratitude owed for his declaration.

“Thank you,” she managed. She held his gaze, even though her insides were squirming and she wanted to look away. She tried to make out words. Her mouth opened. “Thank you. I…thank you.”

She was still trying to figure out what to say, other than simply repeating herself to death, when the water in the pitcher above the hearth began to rattle.

Before Wes could move, Azalea nervously jumped to her feet and seized the boiling pitcher. She poured out two cups to steep. Then she avoided his watchful gaze as she retrieved the sugar bowl and a cup of cream.

Not looking at him and giving her hands something to do made it easier to talk. “You’re the most wonderful person anybody could ask for,” she said quietly, watching the leaves twirl slowly in the water. “The greatest Support. The greatest friend. I…I wouldn’t want anyone other than you.”

There was a moment of silence. “You won’t need one. I’m here to stay,” said Wes’s voice. It turned upward with a hint of amusement. “No matter how much Guildmaster Cotton tries to kick me out.”

“Just see if she tries again,” Azalea said snappishly. “She’d better stay away from you, or I’ll be very—very—cross.”

“Cross,” Wes repeated. His tone was shaking in thinly veiled laughter.

“Yes, I’ll…I’ll…”

Well, it was hard to think of ways to exact retribution, given that the guildmaster was her superior in every way.

“I’ll do something awful and give her lots of paperwork,” Azalea said firmly. “Just like the rest of the Guild.”

Wes placed a hand over his heart. “Her only obedient charge, turned deviant. It’d be heartbreaking.”

“Exactly.” Smiling, Azalea returned to her plushy chair, letting the tea steep.

Wes urged her to talk about her expedition, which she did. Northelm, the children, the serpent. The power of the Whisperer, and the cruelty. Wes kept quiet even when she tripped over her sentences, struggling for words. At some point, she rose to check on the tea, stirring in cream and a spoonful of honey until it turned into a frothy, mellow pink.

“I think I’m not ready,” she mumbled to the tea. “For any of this. It’s, it’s so very different from the Academy. I don’t…I don’t think I’m quite right for it.”

“But they lived,” Wes said gently. “Northelm lived, because you heard the rumors and answered the call. Isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes, but…it wasn’t me. The Whisperer was the one who saved them. He could have saved them without me.”

“Could he? He would have brought the whole cave down, and he couldn’t have sensed the serpent when it cloaked.” Wes was quiet for a moment. “When will you see your gifts for what they are, ’Zalie?”

She couldn’t answer him. As long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be somebody different. Brave as Azure, strong as Da, wise as her instructors, assured as Karis. She knew her Stabilizing was far from useless; it could power some of the greatest magitech ever invented. But it hadn’t felt like enough. Nothing was, not in the face of those massive, sprawling armies of rabid beasts waiting to tear her country apart.

Azalea sipped shakily at her tea. The rose vanilla was soft and sweet, rich and milky. She sipped again.

“If it’s a gift,” she murmured, “I would have liked a different one.”

Wes’s gaze flickered, but he didn’t chide her. He’d thought the same thing once. Perhaps everyone did at some point.

Azalea set down her cup, feeling drowsiness pressing at her eyelids. She’d had a long day of travel from Northelm, and now, in this sleepy, warm little room she called home, the exhaustion was finally hitting.

She sank deeper into her chair and closed her eyes. “Would you mind if I…rested a little? Just for a minute, and then I’ll go back to my room.”

There was a shuffle of fabric, and then she felt the soft weight of a blanket pulled up to her shoulders.

“As long as you like,” Wes said. “I’ll be here.”

He was always there. Always. She never thanked him enough for it. She would one day.

Azalea drifted off to the faint sound of turning pages and a light knife whittling into wood.

 

NOTES:

Questions? Comments? Wild speculations? Leave a comment below or join the discussion on Discord, which seems to be more lively. Maybe because all the young people are there.