Hazel had not expected this degree of comfort so close to the end of their journey through Varnhold.

  They discovered an abandoned outpost along the path trodden by so many feet. It was nothing fancy, but it provided cover above the head, an assortment of cots for the tired body, and a workable latrine. The somewhat stale but still edible food supplies spared Hazel from the need to go hunting, which would have been a challenge anyway, what with so little life around here. The only problem was that, for some reason, the place was disturbingly reminiscent of Darlac, so much that at first Hazel couldn't bear spending more than fifteen minutes there. Fleeing their own memories, they continued their mission of exploration: they found the enormous, ancient cyclopean gates cutting across the trail, climbed a tor next to it, and took a walk on top of the ridge, updating the map of the Tors with the structures in the valley and comparing it with a rough and unprofessional drawing nicked from the throne room in Varnhold Keep (probably also Darlac's handiwork).

  Once they collected enough intel and felt all their muscles burn with exhaustion, they decided to call it a day and walked back to the outpost to get some rest, shoving their unease to the back of their mind. Memories or not, a comfy cot was a lot more inviting than a thin mat on a hard rock surface.

  Initially, the discovery of the trail to the south and the subsequent parting of ways with Valerie and Linzi had felt like a blessing. So much was going on in Hazel's head and heart, and so little of it they felt comfortable sharing with their two companions. They needed calm and solitude to process what had transpired.

  First of all, they'd decided to return to the habit of wearing matching socks on both feet, even if it felt terribly wrong at first.

  They'd slept with Guelder. Fine, not slept but rested, and she'd been in leopard form all along, but that didn't matter. She'd been there for Hazel in the toughest moments, letting them find comfort in her gentle, warm embrace, all fur, no claws. They'd held onto her when the nightmares came, and felt as safe and loved as never before. The evil little worm of hope was chewing its way back into their heart. Whatever the "old gnome" had done to Hazel, perhaps it was not irreversible. Love was stronger than any fey curse or political necessity. It would find a way to heal what was broken. One night Guelder would cuddle up by Hazel's side in elf form, accepting and returning their caresses... and many, many similar nights would follow.

  Weirdly, that night wouldn't have happened without the trauma of discovering Darlac's body. Even though Guelder's loving support had done much to soothe their inner turmoil, Hazel was still shaken by the experience. Alas, they could not spend enough time in the copse to bury the body properly, instead of just heaping an armful of tree branches upon it – not without Guelder checking on them and asking questions. The baroness was not supposed to find out about Darlac's fate. She had quite enough on her plate without having to mourn for a friend (who, by the way, would have posed a serious obstacle to her annexation of Varnhold).

  Hazel made a comfortable nest from a cot and their bedroll, and settled down for the night, mentally preparing for another series of nightmares. Non-elves often thought, mistakenly, that nighttime trance was a surefire way to avoid bad dreams, or dreams altogether (unless one was Guelder, cursed with a brain that sometimes chose to replace trance with actual sleep, due to her beastly nature and perhaps also to Lamashtu's motherly care). They couldn't be more wrong. If an elf's past provided enough grief and loss and mistakes and horrors for the mind to mull over again and again, trance was no different from what a creative, haunted human brain could produce during its rest.

  Indeed, the nightmares came, as sure as snow in the month of Kuthona.

  As Guelder's team had found out the hard way in the Sepulchre of Forgotten Heroes, the necromantic power permeating the land wasn't exclusively affecting cyclopes. They'd faced off against a zombified adventuring party in there, including one of Edrist Hanvaki's ancestors – and they could count themselves lucky that the dead Tiger Lords had not risen to meet them. Then what kept this Vordakai fellow from reanimating Darlac and sending her after Hazel? Regardless of Darlac's faith and merits in life, Iomedae would likely not bother to descend from Heaven and slap Vordakai on the wrist if he claimed her servant as his new toy.

  Hazel's tormented mind latched onto the idea, and the trance quickly spiralled out of control. The night of the Nightvale–Varnhold summit replayed itself in front of their closed eyes, except the red-haired beauty was now a repulsive undead, her flawless, velvet skin now livid and broken, with maggots peeking out through the sores, her glowing eyes dull and clouded, corpse juice dripping from her golden lips parted in desire. The thrill of the hunt Hazel had experienced on that night now turned into the fright of the prey, with no hope to escape.

  When the scenery changed, and Hazel saw a Defaced Sister's body lying sprawled on the flagstones of a cyclopean tomb, with an unsettling mask of clay or bark where her face should have been, they took a deep, shaky breath in relief. The worst part was over.

  Then Linzi checked in with a creepy harmonica riff.

  "Falcon, we need your help, and we need it now! We are here outside the Forsaken Mound, and our stuff is trapped inside with a zombie cyclops trying to break free! All we have is one sword and whatever we carried on our belts! You can't begin to imagine our suffering through the night! Come and help us first thing in the morning, pleeease!"

  She even did the Cute Please Face, with puppy eyes and everything.

  Nightmares didn't give the target person an opportunity to answer, so Hazel silently acknowledged the message and continued their trance, this time focusing on sweet memories. They imagined Guelder by their side again, her soft, warm fur, her reassuring closeness. Her elf form. The scent of her hair. Her lips, so quick to learn. The touch of her hands on their bare skin, setting all their nerves on fire. Hazel's mind relived the story of that rainy day in Dumra's inn, except this time Guelder embraced her instincts and went all out on them. But alas, the blissful fantasies didn't last. Other images broke in, disrupting the dream: her mangled body after the owlbear fight, mixed up with the unfortunate elf woman raised by Jaethal, wailing over her fate...

  At this point, Hazel had enough. They tore their mind out of the trance, and dampened a piece of cloth with water from their canteen to wash their sweaty face. They learnt their lesson. This was no time for reverie or nostalgia. If they wanted rest, they needed to empty their mind of everything and everyone. As if that was so easy.

  The sun peeked in through the window of the barracks when Hazel finally woke to a feeling of urgency in their mind: probably a message from the baroness. Hazel stretched their limbs and quickly refreshed themself, counting words all the while, then let the Sending in.

  Harrim's grumpy face showed up in front of their mental eyes.

  Spots here. Third censer acquired, about to reunite the team. Cannot wait to hear you out on why you left your companions against my orders.

  Of course Linzi had tattled on Hazel, and now Guelder was furious. Could they calm her down in 25 words, without a chance to deploy their disarming smile? Perhaps showing off their results would do the trick. If there was anything Guelder loved, almost as much as forests, that was efficiency.

  Pick up the Varnhold people's trail a mile east of our last campsite and follow it. Meet us at the outpost near the great gates. Stay safe, my love.

  Naturally, the message was cut off after the 25th word, and Hazel knew that. They liked to play this game of adding a little extra to Sending messages, safe in the knowledge that the last few words would never reach their destination: a compliment or an obscenity, depending on Hazel's mood and relationship with the receiving party.

  And now to collect Linzi and Valerie, as well as their belongings, and lead them back to the outpost to regroup and wait for Guelder.

  As Hazel was about to leave the barracks, they heard footsteps.

  They flattened themself against the wall next to the doorway, listening. The newcomer was alone, lightweight, definitely not a cyclops or a Tiger Lord, and was not even trying to avoid making noise. Their pulse thundered in Hazel's ears, making it impossible for them to tell if the stranger was breathing or not. Their nightmare about a zombie Darlac didn't help, either. Did zombies step lighter than their living counterparts?

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Anyway, in a country where one could only trust their companions, all of whom were far away, Hazel saw no reason not to attack.

  They nocked an arrow, as quietly as possible, all the while trying to parse the smells of their surroundings, searching for the reek of rot and decay indicative of zombies. When the shadow of the stranger passed through the doorway, they released. The arrow missed its target by a hair's breadth and got stuck in the armoury's wall opposite the barracks, sizzling with acid. The shadow backed off, frightened.

  "For Heaven's sake, Hazel! Do you want to kill me, or what?"

  Hazel ventured out of the building to see the visitor for themself. The shadow tossed his hood off his head, revealing long blond hair.

  "Damn you, Tris... Councillor! You scared the living soul out of me!"

  "At least I didn't try to put an arrow through your skull! Anyway, where is Guelder?"

  Hazel put their bow away and jerked their head towards the door. "Come in. Let us talk."

  They led Tristian into what must have been the officers' room and sat him down at a table opposite from them.

  "First of all, we do not use our real names here, just in case we run into soul eaters. Since Inky the bard is not around to name you, it falls to you to choose a nickname for yourself. I go by Falcon, by the way."

  "Thanks... Falcon. I think I'll go with what I get."

  "How about Rosary?"

  "Fine," he shrugged.

  "And now to the point. What in the nine hells are you doing here in the buttcrack of Varnhold, instead of interviewing would-be teachers in Tuskdale?"

  "I… I came to offer my help."

  "Have you asked Her Grace by Sending whether she wants you here?"

  "Erm... no."

  "You should have. That said, now that you are here, you could lend me a hand. Our team is a bit all over the place, carrying out various tasks hopefully leading up to the grand finale of finding out what befell the baron and his people. Now, Inky and Scar (who is our fighter, not our barbarian) got into some trouble with a zombie cyclops who has their stuff, and they need help. Once we sort that out, we shall reunite with Her Grace and the others here and discuss our next steps. She will decide what to make of your sudden request to join."

  So they set out together towards the Forsaken Mound, keeping the range of tors to their right. As they got farther and farther from the gates, the landscape gradually filled with life. The grass grew taller, the air came alive with bird calls, the occasional tree or shrub stood prouder and healthier. Hazel used the occasion to shoot a broody bustard for lunch and loot its nest for eggs.

  Tristian did not initiate a conversation, and Hazel welcomed the silence for the time being, however they were buzzing inside with questions. Tracking down Guelder's field team and offering one's services was not the usual process of joining an expedition, even less so if one had an important governmental project to take care of. Hazel had a bad foreboding, and not only because of their inadequate nighttime rest.

  Since destroying the Everblooming Flower, Tristian had mostly kept to himself and stayed away from the baroness, and Hazel had put their suspicions to sleep. Now those suspicions, buried under budgeting issues in Hazel's brain, clawed themselves out of their shallow graves and started munching away at the ranger's already precarious peace of mind. Why was Tristian forcing his way into the team? Was his employer, whoever that might be, this curious about Guelder's moves in the east and Nightvale's prospective territorial expansion? Or was his mission more material than simply collecting intel? How had he even caught up with the team? Despite Guelder's efforts at road safety, a single traveller, especially a wallflower like Tristian, was still exposed to many dangers. Still, he'd reached the Tors of Levenies without trouble, skipping all the intermediate steps of finding out where the final showdown was about to take place. How?

  All Hazel's instincts were screaming danger, however they tried to anchor themself to facts of the past, situations where Tristian had saved the baroness or her companions with his healing powers. Instead, their brain was mulling over incriminating details. The cleric's strange premonition about the dangers of the Verdant Chambers. His involvement with the Kingdom of the Cleansed. His failure to live up to his reputation after the incident that had almost claimed Guelder's life. His failure to alert the baroness on the plague in a timely manner. His brilliant insight into how the Everblooming Flower worked. And now that Nyrissa's agents in Varnhold had been decimated, he suddenly arrived out of the blue to "offer his help."

  There was one thing Hazel knew for sure: they could not let him anywhere near Guelder.

  Wouldn't it be the simplest and cleanest solution to just kill him and leave his corpse on top of a tor for the vultures to feast on? Sure, Guelder would have to redistribute the responsibilities and get a new Councillor, and Harrim would have to seriously ramp up his healing performance, but all that was a small price to pay for eliminating a threat. The resolution slowly took shape in Hazel's heart. Tristian had to go.

  As the sun reached its zenit above the basin, Hazel handed some dried fruit and beef jerky to Tristian.

  "Eat up. We have a difficult climb ahead of us." They looked up the tor at their right, a little shorter than the rest, still casting a small patch of shadow upon them.

  The cleric frowned, looking ahead to the north where the range of tors came to an end. "Why don't we just go around the tors?"

  "Hmm. Are you ready to take on a bulette? Just you and me?"

  Tristian let out a dejected sigh. "No. Let's climb."

  Fishing a length of rope out of their backpack, Hazel fashioned a link between themself and Tristian, and they both started to climb up the tor. Hazel's progress was faster, but not by a lot. While the ranger's muscles still ached from a similar climb yesterday, the cleric was well-rested, and apparently, just like Darlac, he had no fear of heights, either. Or he simply trusted Hazel to keep him safe.

  The climb went smoothly, even when Hazel let go of the rock with one hand to find their skinning knife in their belt, cut through the rope almost entirely, and slipped the blade between their teeth. The ruse went unnoticed, as Tristian kept up fairly well on his own accord, not entrusting his weight to the lifelink. The ranger couldn't help but admire him, considering that he even had a dead bustard dangling from his belt in a game bag.

  Once Hazel reached the top and heaved themself up to the flat surface, they uttered some juicy Elven swear words and gave the coup de grace to the rope.

  A little distance below the edge, Tristian yelped in surprise as the rope fell back down.

  "Rosary? You okay?"

  "Falcon! The rope!"

  "It is gone! Fear not, I can still pull you up with the remaining part. Just make sure to catch it and hold on tight!"

  Hazel did as they said, untying the remainder of the rope from their waist and lowering it down to the cleric. After some initial uncertainty and messing around, Tristian caught it with one hand, then with the other, immediately losing his footing on the rock wall. The rope tightened in Hazel's gloved hands.

  "Hold on, and try to keep your feet against the rock!"

  "Just a moment! I'm almost there... oh, bother! Wait!"

  Hazel gave the rope a good tug, just to ensure that the cleric was off balance, then let go.

  "Rosary!!!"

  They heard the awkward little sound that invariably came before a fall, then a scream... then nothing. Lying down on their belly, they peeked down over the edge of the small plateau, prepared for an ugly sight.

  However they racked their sharp eyes, they saw no corpse, no heap of bloodied white, gold and blue priestly garb, not even a human-shaped imprint in the yellow grass. Which was more than weird, as they had no trouble spotting a family of partridges scurry through the vegetation.

  Did Tristian, too, have a rescue ring?

  Spooked and frustrated, Hazel climbed down the same side of the tor to search through the area, to no avail. After a good hour spent investigating the scene, Hazel gave it up and continued their journey to the other side, hugging the tors, as Tristian had suggested. There was no more time to waste. They had a fighter and a halfling to feed, then a zombie cyclops to defeat. And soon they would see Guelder again, her wrath hopefully turned into contentment and approval. Quite a massive to-do list, even without having to deal with a spy who, instead of dying properly, had just popped out of existence.