Rythas Brenelle

“Are you alright?” he asked, looking between Locke and Snowdrop. Locke shook his head wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak while his stomach was still performing acrobatics, and dug through his coin pouch. He produced a few coins — most of what was left in the bag — and handed them over. “Thank you, sir. In case you’re unaware, there’s a stall in the market that sells refreshments,” the tollkeeper said. He spoke hesitantly, caught between indulging his own helpful nature and removing himself from the presence of the sick Viera and his protective bird. “A few sips of amra lassi there will help settle your stomach.” Locke answered with a thumbs-up. He had no intention of spending more money than he needed to. The tollkeeper stepped away, and Locke looped the fingers of his good hand around Snowdrop’s reins. He led her away from the noise of Radz-at-Han’s nearby and ever-bustling market, taking the long way to the stables, where the city opened up and the smell of smoke and incense was thinnest. He filled his lungs with slow, deep breaths of fresh air as they walked. Now and then, he felt a twinge of pain across his thighs or his side, irritated by his stroll through the city, and a grimace flickered across his face. But it happened less often than it had a fortnight ago, when he’d awoken from his latest brush with death. He still wore bandages over the worst of his wounds, but a mix of the chirurgeon’s arcanima, mundane medicine, bedrest, and infrequent sips from his supply of potions had seen him through much of the healing process. Time would do the rest.

By the time Locke and Snowdrop arrived at the stables, the former’s stomach had settled but he was ready for a nap, and the latter was looking at the former as if she’d never been subject to such a terrible betrayal. Locke gave her a few consolatory pats and a fistful of greens as an apology. “Be good this time,” he murmured. “No running away. No damaging their stuff. Can’t afford it again. Be on the road soon, visit you every day till then. Promise.” “Warkwark.” Resigned disappointment was written all over the chocobo’s face, but she gave him an affectionate peck on the head anyroad, earning a smile from Locke. “Attagirl.” Locke passed Snowdrop’s reins to one of the grooms. After leaving him with an emphatic warning about the chocobo’s ornery nature and enough gil to cover a sennight of care for her, Locke set off for a cluster of buildings near the marketplace. With each careful, deliberate step, he became more and more aware of the lightness of his coin pouch. It was practically weightless. He could only partially attribute that to the wizard’s enchantment lightening the burdens of his bags. The rest was the result of food, lodgings, travel, and a fortnight of care from Aleport’s chirurgeon. He was probably returning with less money than he’d left with. Locke stepped into a crossroads near the center of the city, overlooked by a number of vibrant buildings, bright colors splashed across the stonework. Crowds of locals and travelers of all sorts came and went, from dancers and performers plying their crafts, to traders pushing their carts and couriers hurrying through the streets. Voices spoke, feet tapped, wheels squeaked. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and perfume and food. Civilization pressed in around Locke, crowds and sounds and smells all swallowing him like he belonged. He trudged through the throng and slipped through the front door of a familiar building, made his way across the lobby, and climbed the stairs to the building’s apex. At the top, he fished a key from his pack and let himself into the cramped little loft beyond a creaky door. The earthy scent of plants and soil rolled over him the moment the door swung open, setting him at ease in a way the city outside never managed. Locke plodded across the entryway and past the little greenhouse in a sideroom to his usual corner, where he dropped his pack and removed his glove and belts and weapons. The moment his swords were set aside and his firearm was on the table and he simply sat on the floor and breathed, two moons’ worth of exhaustion crashed atop him.

Mortal injuries avoided by movements measured in heartbeats. The ache of overused muscles. The fatigue of travel, mundane and Mist-ical alike. Sight headaches. They all hit him at once. He stretched his legs out, leaned his head back against the side of the couch, and let sunlight fall across him through the window, warming his itching skin. His eyes closed. “Locke?” His fingers twitched toward the nearest of his weapons even as his eyes were still fluttering open, vision blurry from sleep. Silver eyes peered down at him like moonlight from behind delicate-looking spectacles, pale face and dark scales illuminated by scattered candles and a small lamp. Locke let his hand fall back to his lap. “Hey, boss.” “Rin,” she corrected. He ignored it. “I’m back.” “I see that.” The idiot at the end was implied. Or so he assumed. Neither her face nor her voice ever seemed to give much away. “You were gone for a while. Did you run into trouble?” “Yeah. A bit.” Locke sat up a little straighter and stretched. He felt the pull of his still-healing injuries under his shirt and bandages and relaxed again, hand lifted up just enough to count his adventures on clawed fingers. “There were bandits. A wolf thing. A phantom knight. Another bandit. Oh, a swordsman from Tural, wouldn’t fight me though. A buncha ashkin. And a voidsent.”

“All of that in Thanalan?” Rin asked. She sat down and melted into the sofa, exhaustion aging her otherwise youthful features.

“Nah. Job took me up to Coerthas. Got this there though.” He produced a red crystal from his pocket, warmth bleeding into his skin, and set it in front of Rin. “It’s lucky.”

She plucked the fire crystal from the table with slender fingers and rolled it in her bandaged palm. There was the faintest hint of skepticism in the knit of her brow as she returned the crystal to the table.

“Looked for more work after. Wandered across most of Eorzea, fought all that stuff. Except the Turali fellow. Got these too.” Locke set his new backpack and matching six pouches in front of Rin. “Hold more stuff than they look like they can. Share two of the little ones with you if you want. Put plants in ‘em or something.”

Rin smiled, the expression ephemeral but bright nonetheless. “I’ll consider it. Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.” He added the voidsent-killing knife to his pile of spoils. Even cracked, the diamond shimmered in the dimly lit loft, and the broken blade of silver shined. “And I got that. Broke when I killed the voidsent though. I think. Passed out afterward. Don’t know if it’s worth anything now.”

Rin looked less pleased at that, silver eyes sweeping past the obviously magical knife to look at Locke instead. “Wasn’t that just a bit too dangerous to do on your own?”

“Never said I was on my own,” he countered.

She watched him for a long, quiet moment, unimpressed. “Of course you were. You hiss and spit like a stray cat thrown into a bath if anyone gets in the way of your fights. You wouldn’t have accepted help.”

“Okay, sure, you’re right. But I wanted a magic sword,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Just got the bags instead though. And the knife, but that was more circumstance than reward. Oh, and, uh, I got this.”

Locke opened one of the pouches and poured a meager pile of gil onto the table, coins clicking and clattering.

“Does it cover rent?” he asked, a hopeful note in his voice. He knew damn well it didn’t.

Rin set slight fingers on the coins and slid them across the table into a new pile as she counted them out. When she finished, she glanced across the table. Her smile was small and quiet. “It’s plenty.”

“Really?” Locke leaned forward, tapping his claws against the coins as he counted them out himself. “Doesn’t seem like enough.”

“It’s plenty,” she repeated. “I’ve been busy here, collecting some plants and lending a hand to a couple alchemists. Rent’s covered for a while. In fact, I even made enough to get you something.”

She stood up and quickly trotted up the stairs to her loft within the loft. When she returned, she set a pearl on the table in front of Locke, not much larger than one of her fingernails.

He picked up the object and rolled it across his palm. It was perfectly smooth, save for a pair of prongs on one side. “An earring? Guess I can fit more.”

“It’s a linkpearl. Wear it on one of your ears, and the next time you wander off, I can use mine to keep in touch.” She motioned to an identical pearl tied to her right horn, worn on a thin string. “Interference happens occasionally, but barring that, we should be able to speak regardless of distance.”

“Oh! That’s useful.” Locke looked up from the pearl to flash a smile at Rin. “Thanks, boss. Tell you the truth, I was planning on getting back on the road before long. Soon as I can fight without opening all my cuts back up.”

“Already? We don’t need gil that badly,” she said. The ghost of a frown weighed her mouth down, slight and almost imperceptible, but present nonetheless. “Really, I’ve been doing well recently. You can relax for a little while, maybe take a few easy jobs around the city.”

Locke shook his head quickly. “No, no. Not for money. Well, not just for money. Heard there are plenty of great swordsmen in Tural. Wanna check it out for myself. Fight a few. Learn from them.”

“That sounds like it could be productive,” Rin admitted. She opened her mouth to say more, then stopped and stood up instead. She took several steps away, over to the nearby kitchen and the cabinets on the wall. She set about heating a kettle and preparing tea.

Locke watched, curiosity announced by the slight tilt of his head, but she kept her eyes forward. Silence filled the apartment.

Do not repeat my mistake.

“Never been to Tural either, have you?” Locke asked. Rin finally glanced back at him. “Could be nice to get out of Thavnair for a bit.”

She turned to lean against the counter. “I can’t just drop my work at a moment’s notice. Besides, we would need gil for food and lodging. Not to mention rent. The landlord will still want to be paid, whether we’re here or not.”

“Can pick up some jobs while you’re wrapping up your stuff,” Locke suggested. “Find something easy, use that time to heal. And I can hunt for food there if I really need to.”

“Okay. As long as you don’t reopen anything, that’s fine,” Rin said slowly, weighing her words. “But there’s also the matter of securing passage overseas. That’ll be a greater expense upfront than food or shelter.”

“Airship to Limsa Lominsa from here isn’t too bad. We can come up with the coin for it,” Locke said, gesturing toward the door and Radz-at-Han’s airships somewhere beyond it. “Then a boat from there. Know someone who knows someone. Said he can get us from Vylbrand to Tural cheap.”

The idea was winning her over, he was certain. She folded her arms and peered somewhere past him, silver eyes distant and narrowed in thought.

“Let’s say we spend all that gil to get there and pay for lodging and food," she finally said. "You can pick your fights and, if needed, make a bit of coin while we travel. As you said, you can also hunt to keep expenses down. You’ll have no shortage of things to do and ways to make the trip lucrative.

“But what am I to do?”

“That’s easy. Heard there’s plenty of strange plants for you to obsess over. Whole forest of ‘em.”

“Oh.” Rin went silent again. This time, however, she only needed a moment to contemplate the idea. “Well. Since you’ve put some thought into this, and you’re asking rather than wandering off on your own with hardly a word, I suppose I can join you this time."

“Figured you’d be out for a few more suns yet,” the boatman said, his bulky frame filling the doorway. He had a pleased smile on his face. “Feels like I should be,” Locke groaned. His back and arm felt stiff, and he reached up, trying to stretch the latter. Pain jolted up the limb for his trouble. “What happened?” “You didn’t come out of that cave is what happened.” The boatman stepped inside and grabbed a chair, one of the few furnishings in the little room. The scrape of wood on wood as he pulled it to the bedside got little drums thumping behind Locke’s eyes. “Here now though. Guess you went in to get me?” Locke asked. When the boatman nodded, Locke scoffed. “Coulda died.” “I don’t doubt it. I saw all of the, uh, the bones. And those symbols painted everywhere. Almost turned and ran, but, well, I just couldn’t make myself do it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sentimental, I guess. I couldn’t leave before seeing if you were alive. Good thing I did, too. You were in really bad shape.” “Sure feel like it.” Locke frowned down at his body, all bound in clean linen. “Dumb to go in there. Appreciate you pulling me out anyroad.” “Happy to help,” the boatman said. He looked ready to clap Locke on the shoulder, then — thankfully — must have thought better of it. “Really, it’s the least I could do, seeing as you killed that voidsent and all.”

Locke sat up a little straighter. “Oh, that’s right! Checked on Swarmhas since then?”

“Truthfully? I didn’t want to go over there before you woke up. His business is with you, after all.” The boatman glanced out the window before looking back at Locke. “But after we left the cave, I did notice the fog had cleared up. All those voices were gone too. Whatever sorcery he and that voidsent were using is gone now.”

Locke swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tested them. They didn’t hold him well, and he had to grab for the bedside table to avoid falling on his face, but he didn’t fall. Technically. “Get the boat ready then. Let’s see the old magician.”

“What? Shouldn’t you wait? I'm certain the healer wants you to get more bedrest,” the boatman said quickly, hands raised toward Locke to both usher him back to bed and prepare to catch him.

Locke ignored the gesture and shuffled across the room to where his weapons and clothes were waiting for him. Most of the latter were a tattered mess, but there was a loose shirt and slightly too long trousers mixed in with his things.

“Thoughtful.”

The boatman turned away, giving him a measure of privacy as he hissed, grunted, and swore his way into getting dressed. By the time his hips were laden with their usual weapons and the magician’s knife — the end of its blade had snapped off with the voidsent’s death, and cracks spiderwebbed across the diamond in its pommel, but he wore it on his belt anyroad — he was out of breath.

“Come on, come on,” Locke said, motioning for the boatman to follow. “Let's go see the wizard.”

It took some ticks before Locke and the boatman were leaving the docks behind. The boatman had to give the skiff a once-over, and by the time he had finished the healer had caught wind of what they were up to and arrived at the pier to chew them out.

But after hurried promises that they would return soon and Locke would be a perfect patient when they did, they were off to the Isles of Umbra. The ocean was calm, gentle waves shimmering under the midday sun, and the wind was at their back.

And true to the boatman’s word, they encountered no mist or fog on the brief voyage. Even the shores were clear, the ashkin that had previously stood in Locke’s way having vanished entirely.

Locke ventured to Swarmhas' cavern abode alone anyroad, the boatman citing a long list of incidents around the isles that encouraged him not to so much as set a toe on their shores if it could be helped.

The journey there was quiet. Waves rolled against sand and stone in the distance, and the occasional cry of a bird floated on the wind. But otherwise, Locke was left with his thoughts in silence.

Finally, he arrived at the mouth of the cave. He tapped his knuckles against the stone and called, “Wizard? You here?”

More silence.

Locke loosened his Doman sword in its sheath and moved forward, following the tunnels to Swarmhas' lair, fingers hooked loosely around the handle of a lit lantern. When he arrived, it was much the same as he remembered it. A bed, an old desk, shelves stacked with books and jars. Candles and torches were scattered throughout the cavern, extinguished.

There was no wizard.

“Swarmhas?” Locke said, walking a circle around the room. It wasn’t exactly rife with hiding places, and those that he did find — under the bed, the ilm of space behind the shelves — were predictably empty.

He’d just taken a step toward the tunnel when something thudded against the desk. Hewhirled on the noise, arm struggling to lift the lantern to swing it at the source.

A gull stood there, staring at Locke with beady yellow eyes.

“The hells did you come from?”

The gull opened its beak, as if to answer. Locke yelped when it spoke.

“Greetings, slayer of voidsent.” The gull chortled, dry as an aristocrat reacting to a story etiquette required them to find funny. “Truthfully, I did not expect you to succeed. Inexperienced, reckless, arrogant. You presented yourself as everything a hunter of the void should not be.”

“Okay, none of that’s called for,” Locke grumbled, setting the lantern on the table so he could put a hand on his hip and glare down at the gull. Its blank stare didn’t change, and words continued to emanate from its open beak.

“I apologize for sending you there regardless. I was desperate to see my failures rectified. With your help, my wish has been fulfilled. I’m finally free. But more importantly, my daughter is free. Thank you, swordsman. We can finally rest.”

“You’re welcome,” Locke told the gull. “You dead then?”

It ignored his question, of course.

“You’ll find your reward in a trunk under my bed. I had little time to spare once I was freed of the pact—”

The next parts of the message were lost, buried beneath the groan of wood and iron hurriedly scratching stone. Locke flipped the trunk open and found a leather backpack there, along with half a dozen belt pouches. He frowned, picking each of them up. They were well-made but otherwise seemed perfectly ordinary.

“—enchanted to weigh less and carry more than their sizes suggest. They should be of use to you on the road.”

“Oh!” Locke looked toward the gull, then the bags. He removed his backpack and belt pouches and began transferring their contents to the magic bags. Once he was done, he slung the new backpack over his shoulder — wincing at the pressure on his injuries there — and paced around the room.

“This is light!” Locke said, grinning at the bird. “Barely feels like I’m carrying the pack at all, let alone the stuff inside. Thanks, wizard.”

“Unfortunately,” the gull continued, heedless of Locke’s side of the conversation, “I used your gold ingot in preparing the inks that were used for these enchantments. Not that you would have expected to get it back after we traded for it, but now that I am gone and you are surrounded by my possessions, I’m certain the thought crossed your mind. I was an adventurer once too, after all.”

Locke silently conceded the point. He had been a little curious about the gold bar. Surely it could have covered at least a moon of rent, were he able to recover it.

“If you don’t mind, I think it is only fitting that the rest of my belongings be given to the Maelstrom to use as they see fit. I have little of value, but perhaps my research notes will prove useful to fellow magicians. Ah, but you are welcome to any potions on my shelves. I daresay you’ll need them if you insist on testing yourself against Odin.”

The gull chuckled again, but only for a moment. Its voice soon turned somber.

“On that note, I would leave you with one last thing: Advice. You needn’t do everything on your own, swordsman.”

Locke frowned at the gull and leaned against the table. His thumb idly rubbed the pommel of the magician’s knife, and his claw clicked against the cracked diamond in its center. But his eyes were set on the gull, weighing the wizard’s wisdom.

“My own arrogance led me to this island and all of the tragedy you have been compelled to resolve. For all my research and all my plans, it took your assistance to free me and my daughter. Do not repeat my mistake. Find allies. Make friends. Open your heart. You will be richer for it.”

Locke hummed noncommittally. But his eyes and ears remained set on the bird, committing the magician’s last words to memory.

“Farewell. Truly, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The gull closed its beak and, with a reverent bow of its head, began to dissipate. Tendrils of Mist unfurled from its body, its silhouette diminishing with each unraveled thread. Then it was gone.

Locke watched the spot where the last remnant of Swarmhas had lingered for a few moments more. He walked around the cavern one last time, collecting what few items seemed useful but leaving the rest of Swarmhas’ possessions in accordance with his wishes.

He left the cavern behind, rejoining the boatman on the isle’s shore. Their return to Aleport was slower than their journey away, traveling against the wind now, and they lapsed into silence after Locke told the boatman most of what had transpired. It gave Locke ample time to weigh the wizard’s last words — he’d kept that part of the message to himself, personal as it was — as he turned the broken knife over in his hand.

The silence also, however, gave the boatman the opportunity to strike up a conversation. As much for his own sake as Locke’s, probably, after everything that had happened.

“So, traveler. Once you’re given leave to be on the move again, where will it be? Elsewhere on Vylbrand? Back to Aldenard?”

“Hm.” Locke lifted his eyes from the dagger to look at the boatman, the faint sheen of sweat visible on the Roegadyn’s brow. He’d taken a break from rowing to peer back at Locke.

“Back to Radz-at-Han to check in with my boss, I guess. After that, don’t know. Got a couple ideas. Nothing certain. Wherever the wind nudges me, maybe.”

“Ah. You’re in good company then.” The boatman smiled and motioned to the skiff beneath them, slowly drifting along with the waves.

His back hit the cavern wall. The voidsent advanced, crossing the fulms between them in a single step and looming over him, pretty face contorted with unrestrained glee. It swiped at Locke’s side, polearm shrinking into something more compact.

Locke parried a cutlass and darted to one side, trying to get space, but the voidsent was in front of him before he’d even finished taking a second step. Metal rang out against metal as Locke defended himself again.

The sound faded, replaced by the rasp and rattle of chains. A flail slid past his guard and swung toward his head. He jerked his upper body back, arm stretching out further to hold the chain away, and avoided having his jaw smashed. Spikes nicked his cheek, however, and warmth trickled down his face.

The voidsent ripped the flail back, forcing Locke to stumble forward or surrender his sword. He scrambled, trying to regain his footing, but a boot struck him in the back right as the chain vanished from around his sword. The metal lining of his boots screeched against the stone as he pitched forward and slipped.

Laughter again. He righted himself and whirled on the voidsent, sword up and ready to intercept whatever came next, but the Roegadyn was out of reach. It stood back, smiling pleasantly, savoring the situation. This isn’t working.

Every exchange ended with a new wound and more of his blood being spilled. The moment the voidsent grew tired of torturing him, it would find its way past his guard yet again, and that would be the end.

Swarmhas would remain cursed and pactbound, damned to live long after his time should have come.

His daughter would never rest properly, her corpse puppeteered by a monster. Locke would lose to a smug, shite-talking voidsent.

He tightened his fist around his sword and drew what meager Mist he had, Sight lighting up the cavern, previously illuminated only by a lantern on the ground. Wisps of glowing purple crawled up the Roegadyn’s silhouette and cast a long shadow at its feet.

The voidsent hesitated, the mask falling away for only a second. Its yellow eyes narrowed, and its slender fingers tightened around its shifting weapon. Locke stepped in and struck at the Roegadyn’s neck in a single fluid motion. The blade skated across a shield held but an ilm away, but Locke shifted his weight easily, thrusting toward the voidsent’s stomach. It batted the sword away with one of its own.

He pressed the attack, flowing from one practiced motion to the next, steel glinting in the lamplight. He attacked from every angle and position he’d ever learned, earning tar-stained scratches on pale skin as he drove the voidsent to the far wall.

The moment the voidsent’s heel touched the stone, its face twisted into a horrible facsimile of a person, eyes bulging and lips tearing until its mouth reached from ear to ear and crooked needles jutted from its maw.

Locke saw the Mist in the corpse’s muscles shift. An array of sweeping lights materialized, purple tendrils flickering through the air between them.

He slid back a step, creating space as his eyes darted about in search of safety, but the lights pressed in and the voidsent followed a heartbeat later. Sword, spear, and scythe danced, steel fluid as water and fast as thought.

For each deathblow he evaded, the voidsent wounded him. Crimson blossomed across his skin and darkened his shirt. He stumbled back, settling most of his weight on his right leg. Though he couldn’t see it, he felt blood running down his left.

The voidsent stood several paces away, yellow eyes surveying its work. “Tell you what. You’re an amusing creature, so I’ll extend to you a deal,” it said with its many voices. “If you were to serve as my vessel, then perhaps I could restore your left arm? Think about it! The damsel is free, and she gets the eternal rest her father has denied her. With that, Father gets half of what he wants. And you will, in a sense, live on, whole once again. Not broken.

“Everybody wins. It’s quite the bargain, considering your current position.” Locke tried to tighten his fingers around his sword. His grip felt weak. He was certain he’d be disarmed the next time they traded blows.

“Why change your mind?” he asked. His voice was weak, hoarse. The words grated against his throat. The voidsent’s blue lips curled into a smile. “I believe I’ve come to understand you. You want to be strong. Faced with a superior opponent, you dig your heels in and fight regardless. You’re not unlike one of us in that regard.”

“Like you,” Locke muttered. Brief though they were, the words tasted bitter. “Like a voidsent,” it clarified, taking Locke’s musing for a question. He felt his lip curl.

“Power is ephemeral, you see,” the voices lectured. It held its scythe aloft, and the weapon reformed itself ten times in the blink of an eye, stopping only once it had transformed into a replica of Locke’s own sword. “Outwit someone stronger and consume their essence, and just like that, you’ve taken their place. Be outwitted and consumed, and you’ve lost yours.

“You understand. You would be well-suited to our methods. Not that you would be a proper voidsent, but as my vessel… well, you would be close, no?” Locke stared at the voidsent’s eyes, meeting its gaze. He tilted his head, weighing his options. But there was never anything to consider.” “See your point.” “Excellent!” the voidsent cried out. “Then I’ll cast aside—”

“Understand that all I gotta do is outwit you, like weak voidsent do, and that’s that.” Locke lifted his shaking arm, pointing his sword at the voidsent, and forced his lips to twist into a grin. “Then the girl gets to rest. Her father knows peace. I get to brag about taking your head. “Everybody wins. Right?”

The mask fell away. The Roegadyn stared back at him with a dull expression, eyes narrowed to glowing slits, needle teeth poking through gaps in its cheeks. “Your mocking irks me.” The sword leapt from the Roegadyn’s fingers, springing as if shot from a bowstring, and smashed the lantern on the floor. Flames scattered across the floor before sputtering out, leaving Locke submerged in the dark.

A flicker of purple shot across the room, giving Locke only a moment’s warning before a footstep tapped the stone beside him and icy metal cut across his neck. He felt blood, hot on his clammy skin, run down his throat. Though he swung toward the noise, his sword found only empty air. He clenched his teeth and lifted the blade, taking a guarded stance. A second flash appeared, brighter, just a little too fast for Locke to respond. A boot clicked against the ground just as something heavy smashed into his ribs, forcing a wet gasp from his chest. He stumbled but stayed on his feet, and his sword clattered to the floor. He dropped his unfeeling fingers to his belt, blindly grabbing for the magician’s knife. His fingers closed around something firm. Wide, bloodshot eyes scanned the dark even as sharp fingers pried his skull apart and prodded at his brain.

Purple flared an ilm from his chest.

Locke pulled away from it, but only by a finger’s width. Proper footwork was beyond him, and the voidsent could easily have better reach than him with its ever-changing arsenal of weapons.

Instead, Locke waited for the telltale footstep to tap the stone in front of him, and prayed.

Something impossibly sharp lacerated his skin from abdomen to shoulder. Pain ignited across his torso, and a strangled yell erupted from his throat.

He slammed the magician’s knife into the voidsent in the same moment. The puppet corpse’s flesh gave way to the silver blade without resistance, effortlessly piercing its body from point to handle. The diamond pommel burned Locke where it touched his gloved palm, but he tightened his grip and twisted the knife, driving it deeper into the voidsent’s gut.

Locke smiled wider and turned to look ahead again. Their conversation done, only the sound of the boatman’s rowing and water lapping against stone and wood reached his ears. If the voidsent had any of the magician’s tricks, like the whispering fog or the army of undead sentries, Locke couldn’t hear them.

The skiff drifted to a stop just shy of a rocky shore emerging from the dark.

Locke stood and traipsed his way to the bow of the boat. He set his lantern aside just long enough to brush his hands over his gear, ensuring he had everything: gunblade on his back, revolver and katana on his hips, the magician’s knife newly sheathed on his belt. His fingers traced the outline of the gemstone piercings in his ears, a silent prayer on his lips. “I’m off,” he told the boatman after a moment. “Remember. Do not leave without me. I’m coming back. Okay?”

“Of course.” The boatman made no effort to hide the skepticism written across his rough features.

Locke hopped from the boat, metal-lined boots clicking against the wet rock. He ventured forward without looking back, lantern held aloft to cast its weak light further. What he wouldn’t have given for his left arm to still be functioning. Useful as the lantern was, he wanted to feel the reassuring weight of a weapon, any weapon, in his hand. But there was nothing he could do about that. He shook his head and pushed onward, eyes narrowed to search the dark.

He’d been walking for a while, passing stalagmites and stalactites but otherwise seeing only smooth stone passages before him, when something struck his foot and rolled forward, clattering against the ground. A frown weighing at his lips, he followed the noise, lantern lowered to better aid his search. The light fell onto a long bone, picked clean, lined with teeth marks. Promising.

As he advanced, bones of different shapes and sizes became more common. Ribs, fingers, skulls. Runes started to appear on the walls, painted upon the stone in dull shades of rust. They slowly grew more complex, appearing in longer sequences and alien diagrams, surrounding them and filling the spaces between. Perhaps, Locke thought, Yiruru the little mage could make sense of them. But to him, they were merely a sign he was in the right place, as telling as a trail of wet crimson on Skatay snow.

“I smell a visitor,” voices sang, words carried to Locke by echoes. “Putrid death. Cloying blood. Mountain snow and cherry blossoms and road dirt. What has Father sent this time?” Locke lowered his head and pressed on.

“Does he approach with a bargain? Oh! I quiver! The anticipation is simply too much.” A frown weighed at the corners of Locke’s mouth. He itched to draw his sword, to silence the voices, but he kept his fingers on the handle of the lantern and his mouth shut. Swarmhas had insisted that the voidsent was not to be spoken to. Only killed as quickly as possible.

“I simply cannot bear to wait,” the voices crooned, hot breath ghosting across his ear. He whirled, lantern swinging, but he was alone. Teeth grinding, he continued on.

“Am I to wear you? Are you a surrogate for Father’s dear little seabird?” Laughter throughout the caverns, from every direction, as if the skulls scattered across the ground had joined in. “Were you deceived? Or mayhaps you were lured here by the promise of ending the tragedy he devised? Are you perhaps a noble soul, sacrificing yourself to reunite a poor old man and his sweet little girl?”

The passage opened up, and Locke found himself in a larger cavern, easily the size of an inn’s common room. Glyphs marked every ilm of the walls, the floor, the ceiling. They encircled the stalagmites and stalactites. They were carved into the gnawed bones piled high in one corner of the cave.

They stained the skin of the statuesque woman standing at the cavern’s heart.

“The hero is here! The damsel rejoices!” The Roegadyn woman mouthed the words, and a dozen voices spoke them. “She so desperately wishes for freedom, you see.”

The Roegadyn crossed twenty fulms with a single step. She paced around Locke, yellow eyes glittering in the lamplight as she examined him.

“Surely you wish to save her? To let me wear you in her stead?” Light fingers wandered across Locke’s shoulder, his upper back, coming to rest on his left arm, wrapped in dirty bandages. “Oh, but you’re no good. Poor, broken little—” Locke dipped low, lantern clattering against the stone at his feet, and swung his clawed hand upward in an uppercut. The voidsent returned to the center of the room in a heartbeat, glaring at him through a tangled mess of moss-colored hair and dark lashes. “Not interested in your rambling,” Locke spat, straightening and stepping around the lantern. “Not a sir-Roega-whatever or a hero. Not godsdamn broken. And you’re not gonna wear me.” His daughter is gone. She’s just a corpse on strings. A demon ghost puppet thing.

Locke drew the sword from the scabbard on his hip. Its familiar weight calmed him, slowing the frantic beating of his heart and easing the thoughts twisting in his head over and over like leaves atop a whirlpool.

The voidsent lifted a hand from its side. Mist coalesced, and a single-headed battle axe fell into the Roegadyn’s palm. It twirled the weapon once, haft dancing between its slender, callused fingers, as if it weighed no more than a stick.

They were chaff. An unliving throng meant to deter intruders through numbers alone. There wasn’t a proper fighter among them. He cut this newest ashkin down, separating swordhand from wrist and head from neck, and pressed onward to do the same to the next. Again and again, until he stood alone, heaps of twice-dead corpses marking his path. “That’s quite enough damage, don’t you think?” a voice asked. Cordial and proper, but raspy. Its owner stepped forward, a wide yet hunched silhouette in the fog, leaning on a staff as long as he was tall. “I’ll have no soldiers left if you continue to rampage across my island.”

Locke set bleary eyes, blue and bloodshot, on the figure. “Swarmhas.”

“Aye. Why are you here? I hope you have a reason beyond your wanton massacre.”

“Looking for you,” Locke answered.

“Oh?” Dry and unsurprised. Even without a view of his face, his tone said enough.

“Need a weapon that can kill a legend called Odin.” Locke glanced toward the katana in his hand, the tar-like blood clinging to its blade evidence of its effectiveness. “Preferably this one, but stronger. Heard you're a magician. Old and powerful. Magic it up or whatever.”

Swarmhas was silent for some moments. Weighing his request, Locke hoped. But when the silence broke, it was with a brief bark of laughter.

“You can't best Odin. Not as you are, and certainly not alone.” The figure stepped closer. Locke saw dark, sunken eyes set in a sallow face. The Roegadyn smiled, black teeth between blue lips. “But you won't accept help, will you? It's meaningless if it's not you, and only you.”

Locke nodded. “Right.”

“Right,” he echoed drily. He turned and hobbled off into the fog, motioning for Locke to follow with withered fingers.

Locke complied.

“But that’s irrelevant,” Swarmhas continued without looking back. “It's a meaningless endeavor in its entirety. Whatever you're seeking, you won't find it with Odin. Nor with that Gelmorran ghost. Nor the vengeance-seeking viper, nor the wolfish wildling. Just as you didn't find it in Doma, or Dalmasca, or Bozja. Not even Garlemald sated you.

“Aren't you exhausted?”

“Chatty for a dead man,” Locke grumbled. But the words rang true, if not in the way Swarmhas intended. He removed a potion from his belt and downed it in one pull, ice cooling his throat and settling in his stomach. The aching in his muscles receded, and his steps quickened. “How do you know about all that anyroad? You been stalking me?”

“I possess a gift for opening people’s minds,” Swarmhas explained. His fingers tapped the side of his head, through long and wispy hair the color of moss. “Perhaps you could do it too, if you cared to learn.”

“Don't really see the point.”

“No, I don't imagine you would. You have other talents. Ah, here we are.” Swarmhas stopped their trek through fog and across sand at the mouth of a large tunnel, set in one of the island’s many stone outcroppings.

He stepped inside. Golden light spilled from the head of his walking stick, lighting up the passage.

Locke, still holding his bloody sword, followed.

They descended into the dark, wood and metal clicking against the floor. Droplets of water dripped from the ceiling in a sluggish, halting rhythm.

Swarmhas stopped only once they reached a cavern. It was something like a lair, Locke supposed, hosting a bed, a rickety wooden desk, and shelves laden with hefty tomes and jars and vials. Candles and torches scattered across the cavern flickered to life.

Swarmhas shuffled over to the desk and slowly lowered himself into the chair behind it. He motioned for Locke to take a seat on the bed, but Locke declined with a shake of his head. He leaned against the nearest wall instead.

“Now. I can't assist you with killing Odin, unfortunately. But,” he said, raising one finger, silently requesting Locke stow his imminent protests, “I can work some magic to help you on your other travels. For a price.”

Locke shrugged free of his pack and produced the solid gold bar from its wood and velvet box. He set it on the desk in front of Swarmhas for appraisal.

“How's that?”

“Worth a great deal, I imagine. But it's not enough.”

Locke frowned. “How? Twenty ponzs of gold should be more than enough.”

“Monetarily? Yes, you're correct. It will cover every reagent I could possibly need. But alas, I need a favor from you as well.”

Always with the swiving favors.

“Like what?” Locke asked, brow knitted, good hand on his hip.

“I've need of a hunter. It's an unusual target for you, but I believe you can handle it.” Swarmhas smiled. Maybe it was meant to be encouraging. With his drawn, almost skeletal features half-swathed in shadows cast by flickering flames, it was anything but.

“Depends,” Locke said slowly, drawing the word out. He already didn’t like this. “What is it?”

The wind blew his hair back into his face as soon as he dropped his hand back to his side. “If you’re sure it won’t sink,” he said. “I’d swear it to the Navigator herself,” the boatman boasted. “Alright. Need you to take me to the Isles of Umbra. Around there.” Locke pointed toward the distant tower. “I know where the Isles of Umbra are, friend,” the boatman said, his almost-smile returning. “Not a sailor in La Noscea who doesn’t, on account of trying to avoid them. Lots of bad business happens there.” Locke nodded. “That’s why I’m going.” “Ah. A professional problem-solver. Your problem solving has netted you enough coin to pay me, I hope?” Locke produced some gil from his coin pouch — lighter than it used to be, but not empty yet — and set it into the boatman’s outstretched palm. “My thanks.” The boatman freed the skiff from the dock it had been moored to and dropped the sails. They immediately snapped out, catching the wind, and the skiff glided away from the dock. Locke settled onto a seat near the stern. He checked his gunblade and revolver as they traveled, ensuring they were dry — sometimes easier said than done when the skiff hit the waves and sprayed water at him — and loaded. Once he was satisfied, he laid his Doman sword across his lap and waited. “So, what are you looking for out here anyroad?” the boatman called back from the helm. “Other than the usual tragedies the isles are known for.” Locke plodded his way to the bow, knowing his voice would likely be lost to the wind otherwise, and took a seat there. “A wizard. Name of Swarmhas,” Locke said. “Know him?” “I know the story,” the boatman said. “Or stories, I should say. Most of them sound more like faerie tales to me. But I saw him that last day in Aleport. As I remember it, he was in rough shape. Naught but skin and bones and a tattered robe. There’s truth in that story, at least.”

“Heard something similar. But he’s immortal now.”

“Supposedly.” The boatman looked over his shoulder at Locke, sea green eyes narrowed against the sun and wind and sea spray. “Is that what you’re looking for, friend? Immortality?”

Locke shook his head. “Wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Nah, need some magic done.”

The boatman hummed thoughtfully. “You’ll find him difficult to deal with then, I daresay. He was loath to assist anyone in Aleport before. Seclusion has likely made him less helpful, rather than more.”

“Maybe. Not asking him to work for free though.” Locke had been certain to bring his pack and the gold bar Yiruru gave him back in Thanalan. Surely twenty or so ponzs of solid gold would get him somewhere.

“Well, for your sake I hope he’s willing to hear you out.” Under his breath, Locke heard the boatman add, “If he truly still lives.”

The boatman said nothing else for a time, and Locke was content to sit in silence, watching as the distant tower drew closer. The ocean filled the gap in conversation with the crash of waves and slap of water against wood.

It was only when thin tendrils of mist started to curl along the edge of the skiff that Locke heard voices again.

Promise me you'll take care of him? the fog whispered. Teach him well and watch over him and keep him on the right path?

“Did you hear that?” Locke asked. He rose to his feet, grabbing the line nearest him to keep his balance as waves rocked the skiff. He looked around, searching, but all he saw were dark silhouettes, the suggestion of dry land beyond a thickening veil of mist. “I heard a voice.”

“It's the fog,” the boatman said. “It plays tricks. Do your best to ignore it, we’ll reach the shore soon enough.”

Locke nodded and dropped back into his seat. His fingers tightened around his sword, still in its sheath. “Got it.”

Scrappy isn't good enough, kit. One day you'll encounter something, someone, that doesn't give you a chance to be scrappy. Now, again. On your feet.

Tall, straight-backed, spear in hand. Patient, even with him. A perfect Wood-warder. 

Locke felt his heart squeeze. He shook his head and tried to dispel the memory of the stern man looming over him.

Come on, Master, let me try. I'm ready!

Another had taken its place. Bright eyes and a soft face, every thought flashing across his features.

Locke bit the inside of his cheek.

Master, look!

An arrow struck the target, dead center. It was hard to tell who was prouder.

Do I really have to?

Remorseful eyes, caught between prey and mentor. He yielded. Just once.

Please! I can handle this! 

Bone and blood gave way to metal and fire. Too gentle, too sweet.

Reynir!

A ring of corpses like fallen petals. Perfect to the last.

Death. To. Savages.

A mountain of metal crowned by a corpse. Mangled flesh and fractured bone cast aside.

Useless.

Beautiful, the fog sighed.

“Hey, problem-solver,” a hoarse voice said.

Locke lifted his head to look at the boatman. His eyes were red, wet; Locke doubted his own were any better.

“We’re here. Go find your wizard.”

“Egbert! Come on down now!” Saewyn called. The cat glanced at her just long enough to confirm he did, in fact, hear her. And then he set his head back down. Saewyn chuckled. “He’s always been a difficult one.”

Locke handed the fish to the woman, shrugged his backpack from his shoulders to leave it with Snowdrop, and marched over to the base of the tree. He hopped up and grabbed the lowest branch, then pulled himself up with his one working arm.

Overhead, Egbert dropped the facade and glared down at Locke with naked resentment.

Locke ascended the tree without incident, but by the time he drew near the top, Egbert retreated to the far end of the branch they shared. Neither of them appeared happy about it.

“Come here, Egbert,” Locke said, voice soft and injected with false fondness. “Hop into my arm. We’ll head down to mama. Come here—”

The cat dropped to the nearest branch beneath it, then back to the trunk, where the branches were thicker and it had more room to continue its swift descent.

“—you little bastard.” Locke followed, dropping several branches down and catching himself to slow his fall. The maneuver jarred his arm, but it brought him low enough that he could swing from the branch and drop toward the ground from a more comfortable height.

Egbert returned to the earth just heartbeats before Locke. The cat zipped past Saewyn, past Snowdrop, and toward the rolling hills of La Noscea. “Egbert, wait!” Saewyn cried out to no avail.

Locke hit the ground, rolled to reduce the impact as if he had done it a thousand times before, and popped back up onto his feet. He kept the momentum and shot past Saewyn, who was trying to pursue her pet but didn’t have a chance of keeping up, and Snowdrop, who could have easily outpaced the cat if she’d cared enough to try.

“I’ll get him!” Locke called over his shoulder before looking forward again. His eyes and ears alike followed the small figure scurrying through clumps of tall grass and underneath stubby bushes. The cat took a hard turn toward the nearby river, and Locke followed. Egbert leapt across several stones, avoiding the gurgling water just below, then ran toward a mossy, towering rock on the other side.

The rock shuddered to life just as Egbert drew near its base. One long arm lashed out toward the cat, fingers grabbing for him. Egbert shrieked and twisted, rolling between the goobbue’s gnarled digits, and changed direction. He zipped back across the river and leapt toward Locke. Locke caught the cat between his chest and good arm. He glanced down for only a second, situating Egbert so that he was safely cradled, and by the time he looked up again, dull yellow eyes had locked onto him. He started to retreat back across the wet rocks, boots clicking and thudding with each jump. As he neared the edge of the water, his right leg slipped out from under him, sending him splashing into the knee-high river and earning another shriek from Egbert. He quickly regained his footing and sloshed his way back to the river bank before scrabbling upward.

Behind him, the goobbue rumbled and charged, closing the distance before Locke had taken more than ten strides on dry land. Holding the cat close, Locke ducked under a swung arm, air whistling in his ears. He twirled past the other arm but felt rough fingertips graze the side of his head. Claws pierced his shirt and dug into his skin as Egbert yowled against his chest. The goobbue lunged, fingers closing around Locke’s ankle and ripping him from the ground. It held him up over its waiting mouth, cavernous maw open, yellow teeth glistening. A stench like decaying plants washed over Locke. His eyes watered, and he gagged, saliva running up — down — his cheek. Egbert clung desperately to his lifeline, back paws kicking Locke’s face.

Though he couldn’t see it, he felt and heard his revolver slide from its holster and clatter to the ground. His gunblade and katana remained in their scabbards, tightly fit as they were, but his one arm was committed to keeping Egbert from plummeting into the goobbue’s maw.

Take what I said yesternight back. Dying like this would be too humiliating.

Clenching his teeth, Locke tore the cat away from his chest and swung his body upward, throwing the cat straight up into the air. Egbert’s betrayed cries ringing in his ears, Locke glared down at the goobbue. Its yellow eyes tracked the feline flying overhead, heedless of the Viera it still held.

He grabbed for his gunblade with his newly free arm, wrenched it free of its scabbard, and took aim at the dull yellow targets just a few fulms away. Peals of thunder rolled across the hills as bullets streaked through the air, three to each eye. The goobbue staggered to one side, fingers loosening around Locke’s ankle, but too slowly. He hacked himself free, blood and gray fingers flying, and flung the gunblade aside as he fell. He hit the ground hard but forced himself to scramble to his feet, breathless, and dove for the plummeting cat.

A shrieking voidsent wearing the guise of a cat fell into Locke’s arm and atop his chest. Egbert hissed and smacked and clawed his way free of Locke’s protective grasp. He leapt away, agile as ever, and rushed off in the direction of Saewyn.

He disembarked from the ship on wobbly legs, his poor balance made worse by the time at sea and the weight in his bag. Though he led Snowdrop with her reins, he relied on the chocobo to keep him steady.

The pair meandered through the port city, following the crowds, the calls of traders, and the smell of food. Though the latter proved fruitful — Locke chewed on a grilled trout as they ventured further from the dock — nothing he saw yelled This is what you’re looking for! and held his attention for more than a few seconds. The city was every bit as relaxed as the voyage he’d just completed.

They found their way back to the docks, where they could get a clear view of the sun sinking into the distant blue horizon and dyeing it orange. Locke contemplated the waves as he bit a chunk of roasted meat and peppers off of a skewer. Snowdrop noisily devoured her meal of mixed greens beside him.

“Era of peace indeed,” he muttered. The opportunity to laze about should have appealed to him. He loved doing nothing. It was one of his favorite pastimes, up there with eating and sleeping. He could spend the next two hundred years of his life doing nothing and, at the end, he’d consider it a life well-lived. But the Green Word had made him a hunter. He wanted to fight. He needed to hear steel and blood sing their intoxicating duet in his ears while his heart drummed in his chest. It was the only thing he’d ever been meant for. He could — he would — chase that high forever. And if it led him to his death, that too would be a life well-lived.

Would living a fleeting fourth of his life before dying honor his master and apprentice? Were their regrets bitter on their tongues when they returned to the mountains forever? He thumbed the gemstones in his ear and wondered if they still watched him, or if they perhaps left him when he embraced exile.

Locke leaned over until he was laying against Snowdrop. The chocobo pecked the top of his head, gently as a mother might, and returned to her meal. He bit off the last piece of his miq'abob before tossing the skewer into the water. In time, the ocean swallowed the sun, and night swathed the port city in a blanket of blue and black and silver.

“Too much thinking. I’m no good at it,” he told Snowdrop. He patted Snowdrop’s beak before pushing himself up onto his feet. “Come on, girl. Won’t beat that mythical forest swordsman sitting around here.”

Locke put Snowdrop in the care of a stable on the dry outskirts of the city, then he trudged to a nearby inn. Despite the late bell, a smattering of patrons lingered at the bar and the table nearest it. Locke ordered a mug of grape juice and found an empty table to sit.

The patrons traded stories as they ate and drank. Tales of old pirate crews and sea monsters, of foggy nights and sirens. Locke listened idly throughout, but it wasn’t until he heard mention of an undying wizard on a nearby isle that he swiveled his ears toward the storyteller.

“Old Swarmhas was dying, ya see. Cursed, ill, wounded. Not a soul agrees on the how. But he was dying, that much is sure. Something dark eating away at him. Powerful wizard like him, he tried everything he knew, every ritual, every concoction, every bit of magic he’d amassed in his long life.

“When it all failed him, he prayed to the Twelve. He begged the Twelveswood’s horned children. He called out to anything that might be listening to cure him.”

The storyteller paused, took a long swig from his mug while he scanned the room. His eyes met Locke’s for a moment before sweeping past.

“Reckon something must’ve answered. Last anyone saw, he was little more than a skeleton, rowing out to the Isles of Umbra. Ships started disappearing there—”

“Oh, that’s some codswallop, everyone knows that was the siren!” a patron protested.

“—and,” the storyteller continued pointedly, “people hear Old Swarmhas calling to them through the fog and the mist, even now. Luring them in—”

“That’s the siren too!”

“—for his dark designs. They disappear, but he endures, still grappling with his mortality.”

“Alright, alright, it’s my turn now!” a Miqo’te with short salt and pepper hair declared. He banged his empty mug on the table like a gavel. “How about the time I tangled with Leviathan?”

A few groans rolled through the little crowd, but the Miqo’te launched into his tale anyroad, pointedly ignoring the man beside him pantomiming the story and mouthing parts of it verbatim.

Locke collected his empty mug and plodded over to the previous storyteller, requesting his attention with light taps on his shoulder.

The storyteller raised his bushy eyebrows at Locke. “What can I do for you, young’un?”

“Here you go, friend,” the chef and, apparently, bartender said. A plate clattered onto the bar in front of Locke, silverware clicking, and a mug followed. The smell of meat, onion, and garlic overpowered the lingering stench of booze and unwashed sailor, a change Locke would have welcomed even if his stomach hadn't been loudly declaring his hunger for the last bell.

He murmured his appreciation and speared the steak on his fork. Cutting it while his left arm was indisposed was too much of a hassle, and his poor table manners hardly earned him a second glance here.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said of his weapons.

A tall man leaned against the bar on Locke’s right. Another, shorter but not so short he didn't tower over Locke, took his place on Locke’s left.

He ignored them and took a long draft of orange juice from the mug.

“Don’t like imperials,” the taller man announced.

“Don't like ‘em one bit,” his cohort agreed.

“Not since they set up their castrum just north of here.”

“Okay.” Locke tore off another mouthful of steak. He chewed and wiped a dribble of juice from one corner of his mouth with the back of his glove.

“That means you. We don't like you.”

“Notnmprr,” Locke answered with a full mouth.

“Huh?” the shorter of the two snapped. Though he lifted one finger, silently telling them to wait a second, Locke took his time chewing his food. The marmot was cooked to perfection, more than juicy enough that he didn’t need to chew so thoroughly, but he was taking his time relishing the flavor. More than that, he relished the twitch in the shorter man’s brow and the working of the taller one’s jaw as they waited. Finally, he deigned to speak. “Not an imperial.”

“Is that so? Because I saw my share of Garlean officers in my time with the Flames,” the taller man said. He reached for the handle of the gunblade over Locke’s shoulder. “And some of them carried swords just like—”

Locke drove his fist into the man’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He curled his fingers into the man’s hair while he was reeling from the ambush and smashed his head into the edge of the bar once, twice.

The barkeep yelled for everyone to calm down; someone else screamed something about a guard and threw the door open. Chairs squealed, plates were set aside, boots hit the floor as people made room and made bets. Locke swiveled his ears away from the noise and toward the man’s comrade.

The shorter one went for the knife on his belt. By the time Locke whirled on him, he was lunging forward.

Locke pivoted, the knife gliding past his side, and half-drew the Doman sword on his hip in a single fluid motion. He felt the shifting of bone through the handle as the pommel smashed into the man’s fingers. The knife clattered to the ground, and Locke kicked it away as he danced two steps back, sword snapping back into its sheath.

“Not in the swiving bar! Outside! Take it outside!” the barkeep barked.

Heedless of the barkeep’s orders, the pair turned on Locke. A streak of crimson painted one side of the taller man’s face, trickling into his eye. The other cradled two crooked fingers.

Blood sang in Locke’s ears, and a broad grin stretched its way across his lips. He kept his stance narrow, all too aware that they were bigger than he was, outnumbered him, and each had two working arms.

With weapons, he liked his chances regardless. He’d achieved mastery as a Wood-warder before either of them were even born.

In a brawl? He’d have to make it up as he went.

The taller man stepped in, knees bent, body low. Locke dodged to one side, tried to circle the man, but it led him into a left cross from his cohort. Arms squeezed Locke’s ribs as he stumbled, encircling him. He grabbed the taller man’s head again, and his thumb claw found the wound from the bar. He dug in.

A pained, grating shout erupted from the man, but it only pushed him harder as he tore Locke from the ground and rushed forward. The room shook as the back of Locke’s head bounced against the wall. He squirmed and lashed out, kicking wildly at the man’s knees and thighs, claws shredding more of the man’s skin.

Finally, he found what he’d been looking for, catching the man’s groin with a metal-lined boot. The grip around Locke loosened, the man gagged, and a second kick sent them both falling to the floor in a heap.

Locke landed on top, scrambled away and started to push himself onto his feet. Footsteps thudded against the floor as the shorter man rushed forward this time, the toe of his boot catching Locke in the ribs and knocking him back over. A second kick left Locke breathless.

Hand clawing against the floor, he found the leg of a chair that had been vacated during the scuffle. He twisted his upper body, swinging the chair in a wide arc, wood scraping loudly against stone.

It crashed into the man, just enough of an obstacle to trip him up. Locke braced himself with his good arm and kicked toward the man’s face, smashing a bootheel into his teeth.

Locke rolled onto his feet, breathing hard but eager for more, blue eyes narrowed and dancing between the pair. The shorter one was unsteady, hand held to his mouth, blood leaking between his fingers. His breaths came out as low, wet whistles. The taller one was trying to straighten up to his full height but couldn’t seem to quite manage it. He looked ready to vomit.

Locke shifted his weight and was about to rush the latter when the door behind him burst open. He swung his head toward the noise just as a deep voice thundered through the bar.

“You lot, stop!”

Shame.

Locke lifted one clawed hand above his head in a gesture of compliance before the newcomer, a Roegadyn clad in a Brass Blade’s attire, could utter the command. The two men Locke had been fighting with did the same as best they could. Locke couldn’t help but grin at them.

“You, Red!” the Brass Blade called.

“Right here. No need to keep being so loud,” Locke grumbled, the grin gone from his face.

The comment earned him a glare. “You and I can talk first. Come on outside.”

Locke shrugged and led the way out of the bar, the Roegadyn following not a step behind. He paused only to bark orders at his subordinates, ensuring that the two men Locke had fought would be watched while the Roegadyn was away.

Outside, seated on a barrel under the watchful eyes of the Thanalan sun and the Brass Blade bigshot, Locke explained the circumstances leading up to the brawl. Once he finished, he received only a “Stay there,” and the Roegadyn was off again.

Locke passed several minutes prodding at the cracked scabs underneath his shirt, reopened from the brawl, and wincing at what would likely be bruising around his ribs. He was sure there would be a knot on his head too from where he’d connected with the wall.

If he was going to end up with a headache anyroad, he could’ve just used his Sight in the first place.

“Mister Locke!”

A bright voice cut through the air, and Locke lifted his head to see a Lalafell in a lacy, too heavy for the weather dress hurrying across the plaza. Her smile dimmed as she stopped just in front of Locke’s barrel, scrutinizing him from below.

“Little mage.”

“What happened to you?” she asked. He didn’t need to read the look on her face to know she was concerned. It was thick in her voice.

“Bar fight,” he answered, waving a dismissive hand at the Pissed Peiste behind him. “I won. In case you were wondering.”

“I… I was not, no, but that’s good to hear. Did you get kicked out for fighting?”

“Kinda. Blade’s giving the losers a talking to. Dunno if I’m arrested or free to go after or what.”

“I see.” She frowned and peered at the ground, seemingly deep in thought. Whatever she decided, she looked up at Locke afterward with her round face set in a determined expression. “Very well. I’ll go talk to this Brass Blade.”

“Don’t know if he cares what a mage has to say. No offense.”

“He’ll care. I’ll be right back, Mister Locke.”

Yiruru marched up the steps and entered the bar, leaving Locke to resume sitting around on the barrel and waiting. He kicked his legs and leaned back, caught between enjoying the sun warming his face and wishing he could dunk his head into a tub of ice.

It wasn’t long before Yiruru returned, the door swinging shut behind her and cutting off a call that sounded suspiciously like “Thank you, Lady Yiruru!”

“It’s taken care of, Mister Locke. You’re free to continue on your way,” she assured him, that easy smile returning to her face.

“Huh. Just like that?” He eased himself off the barrel, trying — and failing — not to wince at the unpleasant tug across his side.

“Just like that,” she echoed, stepping back to give him space. “But enough of that! Before your ship arrives, would you come with me?”

Locke shrugged a shoulder and followed Yiruru to the port town’s gate. A pair of chocobos, a carriage, and a dapper-looking Hyuran fellow clad in a black uniform awaited them there.

“Mister Locke, this is Edwyn! Edwyn, this is Mister Locke!”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Edwyn said, dipping his head toward Locke in acknowledgment.

“Uh. You too.” Locke looked at Yiruru, questions written plainly across his face, but she either didn’t notice or disregarded them entirely.

“Edwyn, would you get Mister Locke’s payment? And perhaps the first aid kit.” As Edwyn stepped away, Yiruru flashed a smile up at Locke. “He carries all sorts of ointments and works miracles with a needle and thread. You’ll be good as new by the time you reach Vylbrand.”

“Right. You a queen or something?”

Yiruru chortled and waved the question away. “Don’t be silly.”

Before Locke could press her for a proper answer, Edwyn returned with a rectangular box in both hands. He offered it to Locke with an impassive expression, but it wasn’t until Yiruru motioned for him to accept it that Locke took the box under his arm.

It was heavy, and holding it against his side sent a dozen aches skittering through him. He wrinkled his nose and lowered the box to the ground so he could unlatch it and flip it open.

A bar of solid gold swathed in a cushioning layer of velvet glittered up at Locke, sunlight shining along its surface. He blinked at it slowly, then at Yiruru.

“For me?”

“For you. Consider it not only payment for your assistance with my trial, but for the ring as well. I would have liked to have something properly made for you. However, you already have your swords and your firearm, and you seem eager to continue your adventuring. At least with this, you can purchase whatever you want or need.

“I only ask that you put some of it toward treats for Snowdrop. I would hate for her to get jealous.”

Locke looked at the bar again, and his disbelieving frown gave way to a wide smile. He leaned down to offer her his hand, and she slapped hers against it in a low five.

“Good effort,” he said, hand on his hip as he watched the Lalafell drag herself back onto dry land. She flopped onto the dirt, covered in wet muck and slime. “I might have defeated it,” she insisted between short breaths. “You didn’t need to step in.” “Yeah?” Locke looked back and hummed as he considered the dead toad. “Okay. Trust you to get it right next time.” “I will. After a break.” She raised a hand from where she rested and beckoned with her fingers. When Locke stepped closer, head tilted with curiosity, she elaborated, “Not you. My journal and writing utensils, please.” “Oh.” Locke produced the leather book, quill, and ink bottle from his pack — entrusted to him for safekeeping while she attempted her trial — and set them on the ground beside her. “Thank you.” She sat up and collected them, then began scratching a block of black runes onto the page. Locke peered at the book for a moment before shrugging and returning to the nook in the stone where Snowdrop rested. He stretched before settling into place against the chocobo, using her as a pillow. As much as he itched to get moving again, he had to admit this was one of the lazier jobs he’d been hired to do. Yiruru had such a fondness for journaling that it left him with plenty of time to lounge around.

Still, the sooner she succeeded, the sooner he could be on his way. She'd handled the peiste well, after adjusting to using her spells without meeting its paralyzing gaze.

But the toad was a problem for her. She wasn't clumsy, exactly, but she was insistent that she had to plant her feet when she did all her chanting and focusing. It made her an easy target.

If I could just keep it occupied, she'd have passed her test by now. But then, that was probably by design. She had to learn to do this on her own. Yiruru’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Mister Locke?” “Hm?”

She sat on the ground across from him and looked at him with a serious expression, brow furrowed and lips pulled into a line. “Be honest with me.” “Usually am,” he said. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, the wrappings around his useless arm rasping against the dirt as it was dragged along. “What?” “Am I hopeless?”

Locke didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened on her journal, as if the question hurt to ask. He supposed it would. “Wouldn’t go that far,” Locke said. “You’re just inexperienced. Nothing wrong with that. Starting at the same place everyone does.” “But the other apprentices started a little while after I did, and they’ve already completed this test,” she muttered, shoulders drooping as she shrunk in on herself. “I’m falling behind. What would you do if you were in my position?” “Keep chipping away at it until it works, I guess,” he answered. She made a face that seemed to say it wasn’t helpful advice, however, so he thought about her question a little more.

“When I was a Wood-warder,” he eventually said, “one of the first things my master taught me was how to sneak around. Especially as a kit, most of the beasts in the Skatay could flatten me. So I had to be smarter. Set up traps. Sneak up on them. Attack before they knew I was there. Usually where they couldn’t reach me.

“You and that toad are the same. It’s bigger than you. Until you’re stronger, you have to be faster, smarter, or both.”

Yiruru lifted her head from her journal. She’d been taking notes again. “I should ambush it then?”

“Maybe. Hard when you’re walking into its territory. But you’ve still got an advantage. Fought one, know how their tongues work now.” Locke leaned forward to tap a claw against the open page. “Put your brain to work, figure out a way to dodge or disable its tongue. I’d cut it off. Maybe you can… don’t know. Freeze it? Like licking a lamppost in Coerthas?”

Yiruru blinked her green eyes at him, and a bemused expression crossed her face. “Have you really tried that?”

“Don’t matter. On task, little mage.”

She rolled her eyes before dropping them back down to her journal. She was soon lost in thought, so Locke settled back into place against Snowdrop. The chocobo chirped at the side of his head, demanding a pat, and Locke complied before closing his eyes to let Yiruru work.

He dreamed of cold, snowy days and a fidgety shadow at his side. The shadow was only just starting to grow comfortable in his presence, a laugh like a squeaky wagon wheel bubbling up from its lips, when Locke felt a gentle tap on his shoulder and opened his eyes to a blue and orange sky.

“Mister Locke, I believe I’m ready.” Though Yiruru’s round features were composed into a stoic mask, and he was still groggy, he didn’t miss the slight quiver in her voice.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before clambering to his feet.

Yiruru began to set off, but Locke stopped her with a wordless grumble and a tug on her hood.

He slipped the leather cord off of his neck and removed the silver ring from it. Blue, red, and black gemstones glittered under the sunlight, if a little duller than before, having spent the better part of a sennight resting against Locke’s throat while he sweated under the Thanalan sun.

“Should help you get more outta your magic. Might as well use it.”

“This looks expensive,” she observed after Locke pressed it into her hand. She turned it a few times, admiring how the sunlight danced across the gemstones. “You didn’t steal this, did you?”

“That’s what you think of me? Give it back then.” He motioned for her to drop it into his palm, but she quickly shook her head.

“Certainly not!” She quickly slipped it onto her finger. Though too large for her — it had been sized for the Hyuran merchant who’d given it to Locke, after all — she beamed down at it all the same. “Thank you, Mister Locke. I’ll give it back as soon as I finish my trial.”

“Nah. Give me something for it instead. Wanted to trade it anyroad, just didn’t get the chance to see a jeweler about it before leaving Ul’dah.” Locke shot a look toward Snowdrop. The chocobo didn’t meet his gaze.

“Well then, if you’re certain. Wish me luck!” Yiruru slipped the wand from her belt and set off for the deeper parts of the ravine once more.

Locke trailed after her, hand resting lightly on his revolver. Though he intended to keep his word and avoid interfering this time, he wouldn’t stand by and watch the little mage get eaten. Or crushed. Or dashed upon the ravine wall.

Thinking about it, there were a lot of ways a dozen fulm tall toad could kill her.

But he’d said he would trust her. So when she found her quarry and lifted the wand, launching a streak of flame forward, Locke sat back and watched silently. She still insisted on planting her feet when she channeled her magic, though he supposed it could be like archery. Altos had been the same in their early days as master and apprentice, when the bow was new to him.

The toad shook off the fire with little more than a singed hide. Its bulging eyes found the source immediately, and it snapped its mouth open, launching its tongue toward Yiruru.

She yelped and took several quick steps to the side, only just avoiding a repeat incident. Her wand swished through the air, and she cried out an incantation, Mist coalescing. The spell lurched forward, catching the tip of the toad’s tongue before it could dart away.

A compact spire of ice, not a fulm tall, sprouted from the water’s surface and formed around the end of the toad’s tongue. It made a low rumbling noise and started to pull against the trap of arcane ice.

Locke opened his mouth to call out, but he swallowed the words in the same moment Yiruru started to act again, another burst of Mist collecting at the end of her wand. It ran up the outstretched tongue, icicles tethering flesh to the water below, and found the toad itself, wrenching its jaws open further.

Completing the trial from there was a formality. Yiruru carried the task out as quickly as she could, striking the restrained toad down with a few more gestures and muttered words.

When she turned away, frost still rolling off of her fingers, she looked at Locke with an expression caught somewhere between the focus her trial had demanded and disbelief.

Locke smiled, and Yiruru’s confusion melted away, replaced by a broad grin. She splashed through the water and ran up to Locke, her small hand meeting his glove in a low five.

Locke slid from Snowdrop’s back, giving her a break from carrying him and choosing to instead walk beside her, his good arm outstretched to rest on her flank. The rustle of feathers under his claws where they protruded from his gloves was a reassuring sound and put a smile, minuscule though it was, on his face.

It was just enough to distract him from the lump in the road until the figure was nearly underfoot. Snowdrop halted, large talons hovering just above the bundle of cloth, and uttered a low wark of warning.

Locke followed the bird’s eyes to peer down at the lump. It shifted and uttered a low groan into the dirt.

Snowdrop pecked the lump. It yelped and rolled away, kicking up little bits of dirt and road dust. One arm lifted, as if to shield the lump’s face, while the other fumbled for something at its belt.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Locke warned, fingers dropping away from Snowdrop to rest on the handle of his revolver.

The lump stopped. It lifted its hands, fingers splayed to show it held nothing, then pulled back its hood.

Vivid green eyes set in a round, dirty face stared up at them, blinking quickly under the early morning sun. The Lalafell coughed through the dust and brushed dark tresses back from their cheeks. “I don’t have anything, I swear,” she uttered in a hoarse voice. “Really.” “Got that, dontcha?” Locke asked, nodding toward the wand slipped into her belt. “Oh, well, yes. I suppose I do.” She frowned, considering, then quickly lifted her hands again. “But it’s not worth a lot! It certainly hasn't done me much good.”

“Seems a waste to carry it then. But relax, not robbing you. Just passing through.” Locke moved to step around the Lalafell, Snowdrop following, but the Lalafell quickly scampered to stand in their path.

His hand rested more heavily on his revolver. “You robbing us then?”

“Wark!” Snowdrop weighed in, a menacing glare crossing her avian countenance.

“Nonono!” the Lalafell spluttered. “Um, I need help, actually!” “Mm.” Locke swiveled his ears and cast his eyes across the dirt and rocks around them, searching for anything unusual. Everything here reeked of a setup.

“I do! I’m a student, you see. At the Arrzaneth Ossuary. We can go there right now and they’ll tell you so!”

“Uh-huh. Go there and get help then.” Locke stepped to the other side of the road, intending to pass, but the Lalafell scampered in front of him again.

“I can’t right now, I’m undergoing a trial. I’m supposed to do it on my own, but I just…” she trailed off, a frown weighing at the corners of her mouth. It took her several moments before she uttered, “I can’t.”

“Go find a new career then.” Locke paced to the left side of the road, again, and found himself blocked, again. He sighed.

“It’s not that easy!” the Lalafell snapped, glaring up at Locke. “I have to succeed here! So I need your help.” “Thought you said you had to do it on your own?” Locke asked. He gave up on getting past the Lalafell and sat down in the middle of the road across from where she stood.

“I do,” she confirmed. “But you look like you’ve fought a lot. I mean, you’ve got that scar. And your arm is all bandaged, like you just had a proper dust-up!” Locke grimaced. “And you’re carrying all those weapons, you seem quite professional!” the Lalafell continued, heedless of Locke’s expression. “So I bet you’ve got the experience to maybe give me a couple pointers?” The expression on her face was hopeful, her eyes bright, a smile pulling at her lips and showing white teeth.

He sighed. He’d seen the same expression before. It had worked when his first apprentice used it three decades ago, and it worked now. “Okay. Sure. What do you want to know?” “Um, well,” the Lalafell began. “I need to kill a peiste.”

“Mind the eyes. Can paralyze you if you’re not careful. Carve them out if you can, it’s an easy fight then. Otherwise, just keep cutting and bleed it dry,” Locke said. His eyes dropped to the wand on her hip. “Or shooting. Whatever you’re doing with that thing.” The Lalafell rummaged through her robe and produced a small journal, a quill, and an inkpot that somehow went undamaged in whatever incident led to her crumpling into a heap on the road. She scrawled something on the page, then looked up at Locke expectantly.

“What?” he asked. “What else?”

“Uh.” Locke glanced toward Snowdrop, as if the chocobo might give him an answer, but she had wandered off to one side and found a patch of grass to rest in. He was on his own. “Well,” he continued, “you should avoid getting hit?”

“That much is obvious,” the Lalafell muttered.

“Then you know all you need to know about peistes. Rest is just practice.”

“Hmm.” Somehow, the Lalafell didn’t seem convinced. “What about giant toads?”

“Cut out the tongue. Don’t get smashed,” he said simply. The Lalafell made another note, then she looked up at Locke and arched one delicate eyebrow. “Is there more?”

“Uh. No, I think that covers giant toads.”

“I see.” She looked down at her notes — Locke leaned forward to look at them too, noting that there were thick blocks of writing on much of the two open pages, but only brief lines where her quill hovered over wet ink — then back up at Locke. “I get the feeling you don’t think much when you fight.”

“Not really,” he admitted. “Not a lot of time for it, usually.”

“I guess I can give it a try,” she mused. “Would you mind watching me? Maybe you can give more advice if you see something I’m doing wrong? “Or at least ensure that I don’t end up passing out on the road again?”

Locke snickered. “Sure. Don’t work for free though. Just to be clear.” “I don’t expect you to! I’ll pay well for the mentorship,” she assured him. “Hold you to it.”

The Lalafell nodded and, after blowing on her freshly written notes, shut the journal. She stowed it in her pocket, dusted herself off, and started to walk off in the direction Locke presumed the peiste was in.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, spinning around. Locke stumbled in his effort not to bowl her over.

“I’m Yiruru.” The Lalafell curtsied, every bit as proper as any Ishgardian noble Locke had ever seen. “Locke.” He offered his hand, and she reached up and shook it.

His steps carried him along Ul’dah’s streets and in the direction of Onyx Lane. He made his way through the crowded market, stopping only to glance at the occasional stall and to buy a snack when the smell of aldgoat wafting on the air set his stomach rumbling and mouth watering. He bit chunks of succulent meat off of a stick as he walked, savory flavors rolling across his tongue. A turn on Onyx Lane took him away from the denser parts of the city, where the air was fresher and didn’t carry quite so much noise. He took a deep breath, savoring the cleaner air, before walking the rest of the way to the livery stable. A pair of buildings stood near one another, with a stretch of dirt, short and hardy grass, and a large patch of growing greens between them. Locke opened the door to the nearest of the two buildings, a squat but wide shop with some sort of sign. Bold yellow runes declared something he couldn’t read. The smell of leather rolled over him before the door had even swung shut behind him, and he was immediately greeted by a Lalafell woman standing — on a stepstool, he was sure — behind the counter. “Hello, welcome to Shichuchu’s Livery Stable!” she said, her round face lit up by a smile. “What can I do for you?” Locke walked up to the counter and leaned some of his weight on it, thankful for the chance to rest his sore legs even a little bit. “Left a bird with you about a moon ago. Here to get her.” The woman nodded, the pleasant smile fixed on her mouth. “Of course, of course! Your name?” “Locke.” She glanced up from the leather-bound book her diminutive hands flipped through. “Surname?” “Oh. Teabrook.” “I see, I see, Locke Tea—” she paused, eyes passing over the page once more before looking up to meet his own. She licked her lips. Nervous. “Teabrook. Uh, chocobo’s name?” Locke got the sense his answer was unnecessary, but he said it anyroad. “Snowdrop.” “Right,” the woman muttered. “Well, Mr. Teabrook, I regret to inform you that there’s been a, uh, an incident with Snowdrop.” Locke narrowed his eyes and leaned harder on the counter. It was rare that he got to loom over anyone, but he took advantage of the opportunity now. “Like what? Is she okay?”

“Oh, well, last we saw, Snowdrop was doing well,” she quickly said. To her credit, she didn’t shrink away from him. Perhaps a short Viera with only one functioning arm didn’t strike her as intimidating.

“She escaped, you see. Smashed through her stall on the way out. It happened just a couple bells ago, we’ve still got a few people out looking for her.” The woman’s smile was shaky but not quite gone. “We’re sure we’ll find her soon. She’s not exactly subtle.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s been reported, uh, running around the city. And through a few shops. Some Brass Blades have tried to stop her, but she’s evaded them thus far.”

Locke heaved a sigh. “Right. Gonna go look for her too then.”

“Wait, Mr. Teabrook,” the woman piped up just as Locke started to step back. “Your deposit was only for two of the four sennights we kept Snowdrop. And there are, um, there are damages that need to be—”

Locke tossed the smaller of his two coin pouches onto the counter and left without waiting for the woman to count through it. Chances were it wasn’t enough, but his first concern was finding Snowdrop.

He hurried back into the city proper and, unable to search for tracks on the stone streets, resorted to running about and calling for the chocobo. Anyone who made eye contact as he yelled out her name soon found themselves engaged with the Viera as he rushed over to hurriedly gasp out questions.

“You seen a runaway chocobo?”

“Chocobo, white feathers, green scarf?”

“Name is Snowdrop, she’s got these big eyes, very cuddly, very peck-y.”

“Chocobo? Sweet girl, kind of a force of nature?”

Though he received a couple of leads, mostly from disgruntled shopkeepers who’d had their displays ravaged by a whirlwind of white feathers, the bird didn’t appear. By evening he’d run all over the city and even outside the wall, calling Snowdrop’s name until his voice went hoarse and his throat stung.

He dropped onto a bench and leaned his head back, panting for breath and rubbing one of his shaking legs.

One more go around the city, he told himself. As soon as he felt like he could stand without falling over. Then he’d check with the livery stable, surely they’d heard something. The Brass Blades, too, he could ask if any of their people had seen her. Perhaps they’d even caught her and were just waiting for him to return to the stable.

Yeah. Yeah, someone’s found her by now, surely.

Locke swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed himself off of the bench, back onto his feet. He started for the market again, following the stable employee’s mention of ravaged shop displays. Maybe Snowdrop would return for more of… whatever she was looking for there.

“Wait! Wait, damn you!”

Locke lifted his head, ears swiveling toward the yell echoing from down the street and around a bend. He forced his legs into motion, trotting in the direction of the voice.

A mass of white feathers scampered down the road, her green scarf trailing behind like a banner. Her head was tucked low, but it lifted at the sight of Locke, and she angled toward him right away.

Behind Snowdrop followed a trio of Brass Blades, helmets cast aside, faces flushed from exertion.

“Viera! Stop that chocobo!” one called.

Locke lifted a hand toward Snowdrop just as she drew level with him. His fingers found puffy feathers and firm muscle beneath them, and he leapt and twisted, pulling himself astride her.

The landing was hard without her saddle, but neither missed a beat, Locke crashing into place on her back and looping his arm around her neck as she continued her hectic dash down the city street. Even without guidance from her missing reins or a command from Locke, she darted down an alley, cutting toward the nearest city gate.

“Wark!” she cried out in greeting.

The sun had traveled a couple bells’ worth further across the sky when Locke spied a spire jutting up from the stone. He shouldered his pack and quickened his pace, moving briskly down the road and closer to the spire.

As he drew near and stepped into the open, more spires reached up from the stone and from buildings arranged across the hills. They loomed over the path, rocky fingers beckoning him to a shaded cavity below.

Locke spared a glance toward one of the buildings as he passed, eyes following the stairs leading up to the door. Though old and worn, it didn’t appear to be in disrepair.

But his gaze was quickly drawn back to the cave. Flanked by columns nursing lit candles and adorned with glittering red and blue ornaments hanging over its mouth like teeth, it had the look of a holy site, though he knew not to what or who.

What he did know was the cave offered shade and shelter, exactly as he’d prayed for.

It seemed rude to decline.

Locke stepped into the tunnel and followed it, the metallic click of his boots on stone echoing all around him with each footfall. Candles and columns lit the path forward, guiding him until he stepped into a chamber.

A stone statue stood at the far end, hooded head bowed, carved eyes shut. Swathed in long, flowing vestments and bearing a sword almost as long as the statue was tall, it towered over Locke. Behind it stood a massive door, carved into the rock.

He crossed the lonely cavern to the altar at the figure’s feet. Smoky incense burned in a censer, rising up in lazy curls and setting Locke’s nose twitching. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sniffled before lowering himself to sit before the altar.

Locke stared up at the sculpture for a while, pondering it. There was no question that it was some sort of deity. Surrounded by lamps and candles and glittering ornaments, watching over an array of urns and their contents, its frame carved so meticulously and maintained despite its age.

If he spoke, would it hear, as his master had once claimed the woods did? And would it speak, as his elders certainly still claimed the woods did?

But his god and his ghosts were half a star away. What questions could he possibly have that wouldn’t be a waste of this foreign deity’s time?

He closed his eyes and let himself rest instead, rousing from his not-quite-sleep only once he felt the worst of the day’s heat had passed. He rose to his feet and stretched before collecting his swords and his pack, returning them all to their proper places.

His eyes wandered up the statue again to peer at its face, composed and at peace throughout its long vigil.

He set a coin on the altar.

“It’s not much,” he apologized. “But thanks for the shade.”

The Hyur’s smile vanished instantly. “You get your show, I get my revenge. Dueling you wasn’t part of our deal. Besides, I’m not done. I still have business with his boss.”

“Kind of business? Cutting him up too?” “More or less.” The Hyur pointed toward one of the mining town’s two large buildings, specifying the one that was sectioned off from the other structures by a metal gate. “He wasn’t in his little somnus den. So I expect he’s hidden in there.”

“Hm.” Locke frowned at the house, then at the Hyur. “Won’t you get arrested if you break in?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But he only keeps a few Brass Blades around here for appearances, and I’ve persuaded them to take the sun off.” He glanced toward the bulky heap on the ground before jerking his head back toward the inn. “The rest of his muscle are independent mercenaries, and most of those are dealt with, much like our good fellow here.

“His finest will be in the house, but I’m certain I can best them as well. I need to do it now, however, while the Blades are away and his men have yet to regroup. If you’ll excuse me.” The Hyur turned from the Roegadyn and began to walk in the direction of the larger house. Locke left both the Roegadyn and his would-be victim in the dirt, instead falling into step behind the Hyur.

“I don’t want help,” the Hyur said, eyes still forward. “Same as before. This is personal.” “Not offering help. Just gonna wait outside. Can spar when you’re done.” “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” “Heard it once or twice.”

Locke followed behind the Hyur as he shoved the front gate open and marched up the path toward the house. Though large by the standards of the mining town, where most of the buildings were a single story and likely only a few rooms, it paled in comparison to the silhouettes of the grand manors Locke had seen in Ishgard. There were no spires or tall columns or banners proudly displaying a coat of arms. Just wood and stone and glass. The Hyur came to a stop, swiping the back of his hand across his bloody forehead, and looked up at the building. His eyebrows knitted together, and his jaw tightened. “Kindly stay here,” he said. “If you’re going to insist on this.”

“Sure.” Locke pulled the sheathed sword from his belt and laid it across his lap as he dropped onto one of the house’s steps to relax. “Best of luck with your revenge thing.” The Hyur drew one of the scimitars from his back. With a grunt and a crash, he kicked the front doors open and stepped inside. Locke leaned his head back and stifled a yawn. Though the doors drifted back so that they were merely ajar, he could track the Hyur’s journey through the house by the light footfalls on the floor, the shouting, the ringing of metal. The stairs creaked as he ascended. His steps were both slower and heavier than they had been moments earlier.

The Hyur reached the landing at the top of the stairs, thumped down what must have been a hallway, and another door was flung open. There was a scream, a man’s voice. Then silence. Locke stretched his legs out and leaned further back. The steps made a poor place to lie down, wood digging into his shoulders and the small of his back, but there was no helping it.

He waited. The sun crept lower toward the horizon, and the dry air grew colder, nipping at his cheeks. It was dusk when the Hyur limped through the doorway. Blood trickled down fresh wounds on his cheek and jaw, falling freely from his chin. Bright, angry wounds were visible through new tears in his coat and trousers. Bloodshot eyes searched out Locke, unfocused even as they settled on him. “Looks like it went well,” Locke said.

The Hyur scoffed wordlessly. He lifted his left arm to point at Locke with one stained scimitar. “Come on then. You wanted to fight me, yeah?” Locke looked him up and down. All the blood and cuts, the loose grip on his swords, the way his right arm hung limply at his side in a way Locke was all too familiar with. He felt his shoulders slump but fought to keep the frown off his face.

“Nah. No sport in dueling corpses.” Locke braced himself with his scabbard, leaning on it as he rose to his feet, and slid it back into place on his hip. “Go see a healer or something. Oh, and drink this, probably die before you get treated otherwise.” He produced a potion from his belt and set it on the step by the Hyur. An unreadable expression flickered across the man’s face as he stowed one of his swords and stooped forward, albeit with visible difficulty, to collect the potion. “I appreciate it. Perhaps we’ll meet again and you’ll get your sparring match another sun. If not, then Tural might be of interest to you? Cross the salt and you’ll find far better swordsmen than I.”

He would have been smart, perhaps, to return to Coerthas and his nook of a workshop. He could repair his arm there, and then he could resume his travels or even return to his boss. He’d earned two coin purses full of gil. It was more than he’d had in a good while. Surely it would cover rent. But the ring around his neck looked valuable, and he knew of no better place to get it appraised than Ul’dah. So he journeyed southward.

The next several days were comfortably lonely. Locke followed the road, through the fringes of the Twelveswood and down into Thanalan. Without a job to spur him forward, or a companion to drag him along, he traveled at a lazy, easy pace.

The sense that someone — something, more likely — stood just over his shoulder didn’t entirely vanish, regardless of how peacefully his days passed. It was there as he napped beneath the shaded boughs of a large apple tree, there as he fished from a secluded pond, there as he hunched by his campfire and watched the perch he’d caught cook to a perfect golden brown. It was a fact of the Twelveswood, as certain as the sun would rise and the seasons would change. He kept a fire burning low whenever he set up camp for the evening and slept with his arm slung over the scabbard of his Doman sword as if it were a stuffed toy, but otherwise, he accepted the forest as it was.

As he left the Black Shroud behind, the abundant trees thinned out, the paranoia of being watched dissipated, and the ground beneath his feet grew harder. The square silhouettes of distant buildings cropped up on the horizon.

The shadows had grown long by the time the road took Locke into the little mining town at Thanalan’s edge. The homes there were small, squat things, made with function rather than form in mind. He looked about as he ventured further, searching for anything resembling an inn.

The closest thing he found was one of two larger buildings. Unlike its similarly sized counterpart, it had a sign near the door — not that Locke could read it — and lacked a fence or gate, appearing more welcoming for it. He strolled up to the front and reached for the door.

On the other side, something thumped against the floor, footsteps rumbled, and metal clanged against metal. A gruff voice shouted. The noises rolled forward.

Locke took two steps to the side just as the doors swung outward, forced open by a crumpled figure thrown through the air. He hit the dirt hard, rolled once, and groaned but didn’t get up.

A wide silhouette darkened the doorway before lumbering forward. As sunlight fell on the Roegadyn, Locke noted muscular arms laden with scars, bloody knuckles, and a notched broadaxe slung over his shoulder, gray metal glinting. He spared Locke only a glance before continuing on to crouch by the man and rummage through his pockets.

The sounds of fighting rang through the building and spilled out of the open doorway, a cacophony of shouts and splintered wood and whistling steel. Though the action called to Locke, he followed the Roegadyn and squatted by his side.

“Whatcha doing?”

He didn’t look at Locke this time, eyes set instead on the few coins he’d collected from the man. “Taking what the cur owes,” he rumbled.

“Oh. Don’t look like a lot.”

“He’s short,” the Roegadyn explained.

“Huh? What’s that got to do with it?”

“You ask a lot of questions that don’t concern you. It’s annoying.”

Locke shrugged. “I’m curious.”

The Roegadyn scoffed but didn’t say anything else. His eyes settled on a thin band on the man’s left hand. He reached for it with heavy fingers and bloody knuckles.

Locke smacked the Roegadyn’s hand away. “Shouldn’t take that,” he said. “It’s an Eorzean thing, they got emotio— ah!”

He yelped and twisted away, avoiding the back of the Roegadyn’s fist. He half-scurried, half-dragged himself back and out of reach. The man’s thick fingers grabbed at empty air.

“This isn’t your business, boy,” the Roegadyn growled. He stood and squared his shoulders, throwing a shadow over Locke. “Back off.”

A thrill ran through Locke’s stomach, and his hand crossed his abdomen, coming to rest on the sword sheathed at his hip. He widened his stance, one foot in front of the other. Though he didn’t draw his sword, or even speak, it was an obvious challenge.

The Roegadyn grabbed his broadaxe, the leather braid holding it across his back slipping away from one shoulder. He hefted it and charged forward, a bellow erupting from his throat.

Locke didn’t need to See to slip past the axe. It was a sloppy, reckless swing, all brute force and no technique. He stepped in and ducked his head for the sake of his ears, felt and heard the rush of air above, and drew. His sword rasped against the sheath before carving through the air, striking as sure as a scythe harvests wheat.

But rather than flesh, metal found metal, sending a reverberation through Locke’s fingers. A Hyuran man had materialized between him and the Roegadyn, twin scimitars in his gloved hands, capturing Locke’s blade. Dark eyes flicked between Locke and the Roegadyn.

“Mind stepping back?” he asked Locke. A hollow smile flitted across his sun-kissed face, utterly humorless. “I’ve got business with the big guy.”

Locke frowned, considering. On one hand, he’d had a quiet few days and was itching for a fight, and the Roegadyn seemed like good practice. It would keep him sharp in case something more dangerous came up.

On the other hand, those swords the Hyur carried were nice. There wasn’t much in the way of embellishment, just a small maker’s mark on the base of each blade, but at a glance they were well-maintained.

I want to see how he fights.

“I’m still here,” the Roegadyn snarled, bringing the axe back around and swiping it at the pair of them. The arc was predictable, but the axe-head came in fast, strong as the man was.

The Hyur released Locke’s sword from between his own and dodged back in a smooth motion. Locke caught the axe with the flat side of his blade and retreated with the momentum of the blow, shoulder jarred from the impact.

Locke released his breath through his teeth with a small hiss. “Give me a show then, and he’s all yours.”

The Hyur looked at Locke, then back at the Roegadyn. “That’s an odd request, but if that’s what it takes. As you wish then.”

Locke sheathed his sword and trotted over to the man on the ground. He seized him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him along, away from the combatants. The man whimpered and kicked once in protest, but otherwise, he went along with it.

If the axe-wielding Roegadyn had an issue with Locke bowing out of the fight and pulling his quarry a few yalms away, he didn’t — more likely, couldn’t — do anything about it. His eyes were on the Hyur with the twin swords.

The Hyur darted in, quick as thought, swords flashing under the Thanalan sun. They bit into the Roegadyn’s leg once, twice, then they were gone, carried away as the Hyur danced back. The Roegadyn advanced, trying to close the distance, and the Hyur rushed in to meet him. He parried, dodged, slipped past the Roegadyn’s offense in a blink. Steel kissed the taller man’s side and arm, the swords coming away tinged red. Then the Hyur was gone again, graceful as a dancer, as hard to snatch from the air as a raindrop.

“Can we bring her in already?” Locke groaned. Their noise had done his headache no favors. “They’ve probably got a reward posted by now.” “Of course, your reward,” the brigand snarled behind her mask. “You don’t stand for anything, you whore your ideals out for coin.”

“Not my forest, not my problems,” he said drily. “Besides, you stabbed me.” “And I regret that it wasn’t fatal,” she snapped. Locke looked at the hermit and waved his hand in the direction of the brigand. “Does she seem reasonable to you?” “I believe there’s a way forward for all of us in the Twelveswood,” he said. “We just have to find it.”

“Yes, you believe so strongly that you’ve tied me up. Your faith in me is awe-inspiring!" “Word help me.” Locke leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, though he rested his hand near his revolver, unholstered and set atop the table beside him. Maybe the hermit genuinely believed what he was saying and didn’t want her to come to harm, despite everything. But Locke didn’t trust the brigand to feel the same. She was divested of her bow, arrows, and knives, and her hands were bound. She shouldn’t be a threat.

All the same, Locke wasn’t leaving anything to chance. "Even now, your rabbit friend waits for an excuse to attack." A humorless laugh reverberated behind the Keeper's mask. "How can you claim there can be cooperation between us all if it is only offered at knifepoint?" “Perhaps you have a point." The old man's voice turned gentle, thoughtful. “I have not put my trust in you as I should.” Locke righted his head in time to see the old man walking toward him. The hermit stopped at the table, fingers hovering, then collected the brigand’s knives and walked to her side. “Got to be kidding me,” Locke grumbled.

The old man cut the brigand’s hands free, then he extended the knives to her, as if they were some sort of peace offering rather than weapons she’d been wielding not a bell ago. Her yellow eyes flicked between the knives and the hermit, as if searching for any sign of deception. She spared Locke only a single glance before tentatively taking the knives into her clawed fingers. Locke set his hand on his revolver and watched as she slid the knives back into their sheaths.

“The merchant’s belongings stay with us, so that we may return them,” the old man said, a stern expression on his face, as if he was scolding a student. “But you can go. I won’t tell the Wailers about you. Do you agree, wanderer?” Locke met the old man’s gray eyes, then the brigand’s gold ones. Did his opinion really matter? He shrugged his good shoulder. “Whatever.” The brigand looked between them, glowing eyes in her mask narrowing to slits. She took several tentative steps and grabbed her bow from where it rested. Locke’s fingers tightened on his firearm until she slung the bow over her shoulder and collected her quiver to return it to her belt.

“Why?” the brigand asked, her voice no louder than a hiss. “If the Wood Wailers take you, you will either nurse a grudge or not be given the chance to even hold a grudge,” the old man said slowly, seemingly measuring each word. “Like this, perhaps you’ll see things can be different. Not easily, and not quickly. But it’s possible. We can coexist.” “Until your people feed me or my kith or kin to your elementals in appeasement,” she scoffed.

“I hope that never becomes necessary.” “We both know it will. It always does.” The brigand strode to the door, head high, and stepped out. The door thumped back into place behind her. “Regardless, I owe you thanks,” the old man said, taking his seat across from Locke. “For putting your trust in me and restraining yourself. Would you have killed her, had I not interfered?” “Sure. Killed three Elezen just like her up north a few sennights ago. Wouldn’t treat her any different.”

“I see.” The old man looked around the little hut, toward the doorway to the other room, out the broken window. “Well. If you don’t mind one more task, would you return what that woman stole to its rightful owner? I fear you’re more suited to the trip than I.” “You paying?” The hermit considered that. “I don’t have much, as you can see. Not unless an old staff would be of use to you? Perhaps you’d take to conjury?” He lifted his cane, holding it out towards Locke.

“Not likely,” Locke said, and the old man returned the cane to his side. “Pry my reward from the merchant’s hands instead. Here, trade you for his stuff.” Locke produced Odranne’s parcel from the bag and set it on the table between them. A small smile flickered across the old man’s face. “It’s much appreciated. I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble.” “Whole forest is too much trouble, potionmaker included,” Locke answered. He set his hand on the table, steadying himself, and stood. “But I said I’d do it, so it’s done. Hope the medicine helps.” “I’m sure it will. Thank you. Ah, let me get the merchant’s things, they’re in the bedroom.” The old man began to rise, but Locke waved him back into his seat. “I’ll get it. Getting ready to leave anyroad.” Locke stepped through the doorway into the bedroom. The room was sparsely decorated, not much more than a bed, a dresser, and a trunk. It wasn’t difficult to locate the wooden box on the ground, about the size of Locke’s backpack. Once he managed to get the crate under his good arm, he wobbled back into the other room. “Get the door?” Locke asked. The old man opened it, and Locke stepped through. He walked around to the back of the hut and, to his mild surprise, found the chocobo still there, getting to its feet to greet him. “It seems she left you the merchant’s chocobo as well,” the old man observed. His gray eyes crinkled as he smiled. “How generous.” Locke handed the box off to the hermit and untied the bird. After giving it a couple consolatory pats and convincing it he was a friend, he clambered on. Despite a hesitant kweh, it didn’t fling Locke back to the ground, which he took as a good sign.

The hermit passed the box up to Locke. It took some doing, but soon enough Locke had managed to situate the box so it was cradled between him and the chocobo. Not at all ideal, probably not great for the chocobo’s back, but it was working so far. “Thank you again for your help. Both with the medicine and the Keeper,” the old man said. He dipped his head in a small bow. “Should you be in the Twelveswood and in need of a place to stay dry again, don’t be afraid to seek me out.”

“Sure. Good luck with changing the world.” Locke flicked the reins and gave the bird a softly-spoken command. “Go.”