Narrator: Priorin

  Cold nipped at my ribs—well, hello, morning in a grand campaign.

  I, Priorin, leader of this squad and supposedly the scourge of the Forbidden Lands, crawled into the hallway of The Winter Sheaf in nothing but my undergarments. The floorboards were freezing, biting into the pads of my paws; the air felt like a handful of tiny nails that had to be swallowed just to fully wake up. Morning in Sun Valley didn't want to be kind; it wanted to be honest. And honesty these days is standing nearly naked in a corridor realizing you've been played like a kitten.

  Flint tumbled out of the neighboring door. Also in his smallclothes, he hugged himself, shivering as his ginger fur stood on end from the draft.

  "Morning, Captain. We've been stripped to the bone. Looks like someone had a very professional evening. And it wasn't us."

  A door further down creaked—and out stepped Faurgar. Absolutely. Naked. His face remained as stone-cold and solemn as if he had planned to spend this Tuesday exactly like this according to some secret intelligence protocol. Behind him, through the doorway, I could see a wide-open window, frost on the glass, and fresh snow on the sill. Thick steam rose from all three of our mouths like smoke from a poorly stoked stove.

  "Is anything left?" Faurgar asked in a tone that suggested nakedness was a tactical advantage.

  "Dignity is hanging by a thread," I grunted, feeling my tail tuck between my legs from the chill. "Material goods? Zero. But the debt to Trudius remains. The gold is stolen, but the obligations aren't. That’s better motivation than strong coffee."

  Flint darted to the nearest window, yanked down a heavy curtain—greasy, dusty, but thick.

  "Here, Strategist," he draped it over Faurgar’s shoulders. "The robe of a mad prophet. No need to worship him; just try not to turn into an ice statue."

  Faurgar nodded silently and tied the curtain into a knot at his collarbone. He looked like the chief of a very poor but extremely proud tribe.

  "Warmth is the priority," he confirmed succinctly.

  We raided the storage closet. I squeezed into pants that had clearly never expected to meet an adult Leonin. I got into them out of sheer principle and in defiance of the laws of physics. We dressed in whatever we could find—"pauper chic," as Flint called it.

  Gellia was the last to join us. She hadn't been stripped—the thief had shown a strange respect for her station. But she looked as though her heart had been torn out. Her hands were empty. Her scabbard was void, and that emptiness seemed more shameful to Gellia than nakedness was to Faurgar. For her, losing her blade was losing her honor.

  "We need your horse," I told the village elder, staring him right between the eyes. "One. Fast. We’ve been robbed blind; we’re following a fresh trail."

  The elder eventually agreed, giving us Zorkia—a mare with the philosophical soul of a saint.

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  The heavy tracks led to the outskirts, then dove into the willows by the creek. After twenty minutes, the forest thinned. The trail led us to a level clearing sheltered by old firs. The snow wasn't just trampled; it was plowed by boots and hooves, then leveled. Order. Discipline. A military stride. Above the fire pit hung a heavy copper cauldron. Men in grey cloaks bustled near the wagons. On a folded standard, the symbol of Erthrusia was visible—the Broken Wing and the shackles of Ilmater.

  The elite. The Broken Wing. The most dangerous zealots on this side of the ocean.

  "Why did you take it all, Khet-Vun?" Colonel Aderius’s voice cut through the air without rising in volume, which was a hundred times scarier than a shout. "Did you want to make them angry? Well, you've made me angry. You won't see our Wing as long as you have dragon ears."

  Khet-Vun shifted from foot to foot, staring at the packed snow. "I wanted noise," he managed. "Without blood. It was a test of their bond. I wanted to see what they’d do if they were separated and left naked in the frost."

  "Noise is a signal to the enemy!" Aderius replied coldly.

  Gellia stepped forward, barefoot in the snow, her eyes fixed on the bundle from which a familiar hilt protruded.

  "Colonel Aderius," she said.

  He turned and raised his palms—unarmed, in a gesture of open Ilmaterian faith.

  "We stole nothing," Aderius said dryly. "It was a test. Of vigilance. Of the ability not to die on your first night outside the city walls."

  "Test passed, thanks for the lesson," I rumbled, stepping from the shadows in my tight pants. "Now, give us back our things and our purses."

  Aderius agreed. Our belongings were returned—except for the coins. A "fine for negligence," as he put it. Gellia grabbed her sword as if it were a child saved from a fire.

  "This is yours," the Colonel continued. "And this is what was meant for you anyway. Delivered for the paladin named Gellia."

  Khet-Vun opened a leather case. The Boots of Milather. Dark metal, ridges like veins, and ancient lines shifting in the depths.

  Gellia didn't even reach for them. Flint, his eyes glazed, darted forward. He sat on the snow and, before anyone could gasp "sacrilege," he yanked the Boots onto his Hadozi paws. The air shivered. The snow beneath him turned to solid ice. Flint froze in an ecstasy of power, his pupils swallowing his irises. The boots didn't just fit; they clamped onto him, adjusting to a predator's gait.

  "Let him wear them," Gellia said hollowly, turning away. "If the Sword chose me, and the Boots chose the thief, then such is the will of Milather today. I will not argue with footwear."

  I stood in the camp of the Broken Wing, and two beasts fought inside me: one wanted to break everything to pieces for the "underwear incident," the other—the smarter one—realized we wouldn't reach the next milestone with empty pockets.

  I negotiated. I demanded debt notes for my squad—three hundred gold each, sealed by Aderius himself. To be paid in Erthrusia.

  "And for now?" I loomed over the Colonel. "We need cash for the road."

  Aderius turned to his men. "Empty your pockets! Every personal coin—now!"

  The elite soldiers of Erthrusia, grumbling, emptied their purses into a helm.

  "There are about two hundred and fifty coins here," Aderius said, handing me the pouch. "Compensation for the... inconvenience."

  As I counted the coins, Flint—that ginger rogue—was busy. Not only had he bonded with the artifact, but his left hand had lived a life of its own. I felt a light breeze at my belt. He had "lightened" my newly acquired compensation by about eighty coins.

  "Understood, Captain," Flint smirked later that evening in the tavern, when I realized the pouch was lighter and told him he was paying for everyone's breakfast. "We feast on the house."

  In the corner, Faurgar was sketching. I could have sworn that in his drawing, Flint had extra hands. And one of them was already in my pocket.

  The Boots Choose the Thief. This is a pivotal moment for the campaign's meta-plot. In traditional fantasy, the holy relics go to the Paladin. But in Shadows of Vellaris, the artifacts have their own agenda.

  Boots of Milather rejecting the "Chosen" Gellia and latching onto the "Rogue" Flint is a massive subversion. It signals that the power of the Forbidden Lands is more primal and predatory than the Church of Erthrusia wants to admit.

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