I pack as Zaenith instructs, carefully tucking each herb into its designated satchel. Dried wormwood, powdered bark, and sprigs of feverfew, all sorted with methodical precision. When I'm done, she hands me a tightly sealed leather costrel, thick, oiled, and stoppered with waxed cork, the sort used to store medicinal brews and strong liquor without spoilage. Alongside it, she offers a small glass vial, what she stores most of her potions in.

  Zaenith meets my eye, voice calm but firm. "The flask contains the Elixir of the Giant, enough for a fortnight. Drink it each night as before, use the vial as measurement. If your task runs long, return to me for more."

  I nod, about to tie the flask to my rope belt, but she stops me. "Take this."

  To my surprise, Zaenith hands me a new belt made of sturdy, finely worked leather, dyed dark and oiled to resist the elements. A reinforced iron ring hangs at one side, perfect for hooking a club or cudgel. Several leather loops and toggles allow me to attach the herb satchels I’ve packed. A larger pouch hangs at the back, fitted with linen-lined compartments to cushion small glass vials.

  I look inside, an orange potion already slotted snugly in place.

  I look at the fine gift, not sure how to respond. Eventually I just settle on a short nod and a couple of words.

  "Thank you."

  She nods, her voice stern. "Do not neglect your training. Do not grow careless. Your body is still premature, all it would take is a knife in the gut to end all your prospects."

  Her gaze softens, if only slightly. "Still... this will be good experience. A task fitting for the beginning of your journey."

  …..

  Even after all this time. I still don't understand Zaenith.

  She tried to hard to keep us all in her clutches. Until Brother One freed us, the idea of even attempting to defy her was preposterous. But now, she’ll send me off without objection? Just when I’ve begun her augmentation?

  Has she just gone soft in her old age? Or is there some other reason?

  I almost ask, but bite the words back, unsure of the answer is worth provoking her. Instead, my mind drifts to Brother Two...

  I still haven't told her that he’s here. Or among the brigands…

  "Well? What are you still doing here? Do you not have other preparations to make?" Zaenith asks coldly.

  I glance back, mind still conflicted… but I make my decision.

  I'm sure they have their own business with each other. I shouldn’t interfere, for my own sake, if nothing else.

  I slide my club into the iron hoop at my side and pick up Philips spear.

  "Yes, I do. Farewell."

  With that, I turn and leave.

  Time to find Lucien.

  I set the scroll on Lucien’s counter. He barely glances up, reclining in his chair, eyes fixed on a gold coin he turns between his fingers.

  “I’ve memorized it,” I say. “Every rune. Every pattern.”

  That gets his attention. He looks up, then at my hands, expectant.

  I hold out my palm, and with some effort and a pulse deep in my brain, summon a small orb of fire. It flickers faintly before dissipating.

  “Adequate to your time developing.” he says dryly, turning back to his coin.

  Irritated, I scoff. "That’s it?"

  Lucien doesn't even look up. "What did you expect, peasant? Applause?"

  I step forward, frustration rising. "No, I expected guidance. Where do I go from here? How do I progress further? Can I learn another spell or not?"

  He sighs, tossing the coin aside. "I thought it'd be obvious," he mutters. "Bolster the strength of what you have."

  He gestures toward the hearth. "Hit it. With whatever might you can muster."

  I narrow my eyes, draw a slow breath, and raise my hand. As I concentrate, the air thickens around me, a familiar pressure blooming behind my eyes. The symbols burned into my mind pulse faintly. A faint whisper curls at the edge of my mind. The flame in my palm burns, twists, then shoots forward, striking a burning log with a flare of heat before vanishing.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Lucien watches without comment. "And? What do you feel?"

  I wipe sweat from my brow, breathing heavy. "Tired... head hurts."

  He nods, his tone as condescending as ever. "Pitiful, but natural. Your body is drained of mana."

  I blink. "Mana?"

  He scoffs and waves a hand, dismissive. "A crude term, but adequate. Suffice to say, it is the essence that governs your capacity to cast. Without it, you are nothing. No different to any other mongrel you run into."

  Mana... didn't Luna ask Zaenith for potions of 'mana'?

  "And how do I get more of it?"

  "The same way one builds strength, or anything else innate to them, through repetition. Burn through what little you have until nothing remains. Tomorrow, you shall awaken with more. And the day after, more still, if you continue."

  He rises slightly, his voice turning colder. "At present, you have the mana to cast once, perhaps twice a day, and even then to pitiful effect. When you can call forth fire with the same force as you did from my scroll, then you may return for instruction."

  He sits back down, waving me off with a lazy flick of the wrist. "Go on then, find yourself a brigand and see if you can turn him to ash. That should suffice as a test of your progress."

  Brigand.... does he know where I'm going...?

  I shake off the thought. It is getting late, Gandre will be expecting me soon. I don't want to keep him waiting.

  It's time, to rid this town of its brigands.

  By midmorning, I meet Hamza and William at the gates of Edwin’s estate. Both have cleaned up since the night before, their prison rags exchanged for worn but far cleaner garb, and the stink of captivity washed from their skin.

  William now wears a thick boar-hide jerkin, its surface dark and scarred, layered beneath a fur-lined mantle. A hunting bow rests slung across his back.

  Hamza, in contrast, is clad in a quilted gambeson, reinforced leather boots, and well-fitted gloves crafted for combat. At his belt hangs a crescent-shaped axe with a sharp, gleaming edge.

  I nod to both of them “You two look good.”

  William gives me a broad smile, surprisingly genuine given how recently he buried his mother.

  "Amazing what a proper meal and a warm bed’ll do for a man," he says.

  Hamza adds dryly, "And a bath."

  "You went to the bathhouse?" I ask.

  William chuckles. "Ha! No. We don’t have that kind of coin. We boiled a barrel."

  My gaze lingers on their gear. “Looks like you’re ready for a fight.”

  William beams, thumbing the edge of his jerkin. “Hunted the beast myself. Shot ‘im right in the eye. Don’t mean to boast, but even my da never shot like me.”

  Hamza lifts his axe and runs a thumb along the curve of the blade. “Been waiting to bury this in a brigand’s skull.”

  I look Hamza up and down. “That’s proper fighter equipment…

  “Belonged to my father, may his soul find peace. Brigands left him with naught but the dirt when they slew him... but in his younger days, as a sellsword, he stashed away a few spare pieces.” Hamza grips the axe tighter. “He would take pleasure in knowing they were turned against the filth we seek to purge.”

  I nod, turning to the gates. “We’d best get to it then.”

  I push them open and we step into Edwin’s estate.

  Gandre and Daniel are already waiting near the manor. William offers a casual wave and a wide grin. "Morning, lads! Fine day to go risk our necks, eh?"

  While Hamza simply gives a respectful bow. "Sirs."

  Gandre’s sharp eyes drift to the hauberk draped over my shoulders and the spear resting on my shoulder.

  "That’s guard-issue," Gandre notes, voice low.

  I give him a nod. "Philip and Dale left them to me. Before they fell."

  Or perhaps just a little after.

  Gandre’s expression softens slightly. "S'ppose a some additional protection is warranted, given where you're going. You can keep the spear, but the mail was not Dale’s to give, it belongs to the town. You'll have to return it afterwards, or buy it."

  Daniel, standing stiffly behind him, adds, "As it was Dale's wish, I'll allow the reduced price Dale would have earned. Ten silver."

  Ten?! For this old thing? How much would a new one cost? I didn't realize armor was so expensive...

  Still... nice of him to give me Dale's discount.

  "Come, let's not dally." Daniel says, waving us inside.

  The two of them lead us through the manor and into Edwin’s study, a dark-paneled room cluttered with maps, ledgers, and a fire crackling in the stone hearth.

  Edwin rises from behind his desk. "Good, you're here."

  He motions us forward, then tosses a small, worn cloth onto the table. A single copper coin rolls out, marked crudely with a pair of slashed lines.

  "This," he says, "is what will get you into the Bleeding Knives."

  He taps a worn map spread across the table. "There’s a village south of Ravencroft called Redwick. Nothing more than a cluster of crofts and an alehouse, but the Bleeding Knives use it often to find new blood. Vagabonds, outlaws, broken men. It’s easy pickings for their recruiters. There, the three of you can earn one."

  William leans forward, scratching his head. "Why can't we just use this one?"

  Edwin smiles thinly. "Because they may have changed their customs since the raid. They know some of their men were captured. They'll be wary."

  He folds his arms. "Still, they lost plenty of men, they'll want to replace them. And the three of you look the part. Though..." His gaze sharpens. "You may need to do some.... unsavory things, to make yourselves known. To capture a scout's attention."

  Hamza’s face turns grim.

  “What kind of things?” he asks, voice low.

  Edwin shrugs casually.

  “Rob some of the village folk. A merchant’s purse, some goods, maybe knock a man off his feet if needed. Nothing lethal. But it must look convincing.”

  Hamza’s jaw tightens.

  “We cannot just-"

  Edwin’s cold stare silences him.

  “You can return what you take afterward,” Edwin says flatly. “But if you wish to be mistaken for brigands, you must act as they do.”

  Hamza clenches his fists in silent protest. William bumps his elbow lightly against him, murmuring,

  “We’ll give it back. Don't worry.”

  Reluctantly, Hamza bows stiffly.

  “Yes.”

  Edwin then turns to me.

  “And you? Are you prepared to do what’s necessary?”

  I shrug.

  “Sure. Sounds easy enough.”

  Edwin smiles thinly, almost approving.

  “Good. I’ll have a man stationed at Redwick, disguised as a local. Pass any information you gather through him.”

  I nod, ready to move. But then hesitate.

  “Where’s Ren? He’s supposed to be with us, isn’t he?”

  Edwin waves a hand dismissively. “Lady Luna received his instructions earlier and sent Sir Ren ahead to prepare the ground.”

  Gandre speaks up. "A carter rolled in this morn. We've paid his fee, he'll see you to Redwick."

  I nod, offering Edwin a short, respectful bow before turning to leave, the others falling into step behind me.

  Results

  + 1 Strength Draught

  + 1 Alchemist’s Belt

  + 1 Elixir of the Giant