The forest clearing was quiet, but not for long.
Luenor stood barefoot on the mossy ground, his blindfold secured tightly around his eyes. His coat lay unceremoniously tossed over a rock, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Lyssari, arms crossed over her chest with a slight pout on her face, readjusted the blindfold one more time and grumbled something under her breath.
"I still say I should go to Duskwatch with you," she said.
Luenor smirked slightly at her. "And leave Hera with no one to argue with? Who's going to remind her she's bossy?"
Lyssari lightly elbowed him, though a smile was sneaking through her pout.
"You can spar with Carrenia," he responded teasingly, "Girl to girl."
"She's too proper, I'll fall asleep mid-swing."
Luenor laughed, "All the more reason for you to teach her how to throw a punch."
Their teasing ended as Dion waved from above, indicating that they were ready, and one of the biggest clusters of glass bottles—each containing a few marbles—hung on thin pieces of rope to the branches. He wasn't worried about it. When they were knocked out of position—or disturbed—they would move slowly, deliberately, and almost randomly.
Hunter approached with his arms crossed and a narrow-eyed gaze.
"Okay. This time," he began, "no arrows. Only bottles. With marbles. When you hear the sound, you dodge. It's simple."
Luenor nodded. "About as simple as diplomacy with a noble house."
"You wish," Hunter grinned and gestured to Dion, "Begin!"
The ropes were cut, and the first set of bottles began their descend. In the beginning, the marbles lightly rattled, but soon the bottles began to feel the effects of gravity.
Luenor twisted to the side, the first bottle just barely missing his ear. The next, however, was a hard hit to his shoulder, and it shattered on impact. Shards of glass shot across, while Lyssari winced from the sidelines.
"Focus!" Hunter shouted behind him.
Luenor gritted his teeth and crouched low. He strained to hear the soft piece of glass rattle, the soft marbles shuffling in motion, while filtering the sound of the breeze, birds, and his own heartbeat.
Another bottle flew through the air, Luenor jerked to his right, too slow. A bruise appeared on his ribs. Another smashed into his thigh.
"This's not working," Dion muttered under his breath. "He can't concentrate."
"He's not going to get that in a real fight, you know," Hunter stated with a dullness. "You don't get to tell the enemy to pause while you concentrate. "
Luenor could hear it - one to his left. He squatted low, rolled over, and heard the bottle smash into a tree behind him.
Good.
The next came fast, too fast. He moved, but only clipped it. A shallow cut.
"Again," he whispered.
His undershirt was soaked through with sweat. His body ached, but with every pass he was beginning to predict better. A sound, a rhythm, a pace - every marble gave its warning. And Luenor listened. Not just with his ears, but with his instinct.
Dion yelled out, "He's doing it!"
One bottle missed, then another. A third grazed his hair. His feet felt as light as gossamer on the soil beneath his weight, unwittingly dancing in time.
One bottle missed, then another. The third bottle skimmed his hair. His feet fluttered lightly over the soil, seemingly to music only he could hear.
When the last bottle swung, Luenor flared back in a clean dodge. The bottle flew harmlessly overhead, ringing soothingly like a windchime.
He ripped off the blindfold, finally standing, panting. Shards of glass lined his feet, blood muddied his arms—but he was smiling.
Hunter clapped once. "Not bad."
Lyssari dashed up and handed him a flask of water. "You're crazy," she said, though her smile indicated pride.
____
Far away from the peaceful embrace of the woods, Duskwatch had taken a more rugged turn for the worst.
Faren and Nalia went through streets bursting with life, drab cloaks covering their bodies, faces hiding under hoods, eyes locked and alert. There was an energy in the air; one that was about more than just recent disaster, but of tension brewing down below.
They reached the tavern under a faded red lantern—one that had whispered as being the entry point to the black market. Nalia noticed the armored figures standing slightly too stiff at the corners. They were wearing polished breastplates with the sigil of Duskwatch just as the knights wore, but their stance seemed more mercenary than knight.
Faren leaned in. "They're guarding the entrance."
Nalia nodded. "Which means Marquis will probably be present in the auction."
"We must report this. Now."
They disappeared into the shadows.
In Echlion, Thalanar sat in the archives, a scroll unrolled before him. He scowled as he read the roll—the supposed treasure Burizan had brought back from Duskwatch.
It was… too vague. Frustratingly vague.
Half the symbols were outdated; the map was missing coordinates; and the written passages were full of metaphors about "molten rivers" and "crystal forges in the frost."
"Damn you, Burizan…" he muttered.
Still, the search had merit—there were mentions of trade caravans traveling through the "Veined Cliffs," a mountain range bordered by the territory ruled by Marquis Luis Mellon that had been bolstered by knights, heavy wagons frequently traveling the routes, and declarations of frost-forged steel—a craft learned only by the best blacksmiths in Mellon's frigid peaks.
Thalanar leaned back and sighed.
"If our findings are fugitive treasure, then we will need to travel to Mellon's territory ourselves…and if they are hiding this craft, there is a buyer…and someone profiting. We will need to deal with them."
He rolled the scroll back and away.
"Mellon," he whispered, "it is time you met Alfrenzo."
Luenor was back in the forest clearing, sitting under a tree, bandaged, sipping water, with Lyssari beside him. The sun was sinking low in the sky, and spreading a warm orange across the grass.
"I probably need to develop thicker skin," he said half jokingly.
"Or just learn to avoid getting hit," Lyssari replied teasingly.
He playfully nudged her with his elbow. "You did a great job as a healer's assistant. Are you going to take her job next?"
"Uh, no way," she said with a mock-horrified expression. "She bites!"
"She does," Luenor laughed, "But she doesn't mean any harm."
They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the rest the wind made as it moved through the leaves.
And then Luenor said, almost to himself, "Mellon is probably going to be the next battlefield."
Lyssari looked at him. "So soon? Like actually soon?"
"Always someone new," he murmured. "Someone trying to hide something. Someone that thinks they are untouchable."
She hardly spoke. Just watched him and the fire inside him burn.
"Do you think we will ever stop fighting?" she questioned, and Luenor was looking out at the horizon that had disappeared.