“You grew up in this place, Boss?”

Bane’s cool gaze slid to the snapper – Flint, he was called – ambling along to her left. “North of here, yeah. My old clan lived near the Sundial.”

“How come we’re not going there, then?” he asked.

Flashes of faces she once knew, friends she had stolen from, people she had killed, surfaced in her mind. She blinked and they evaporated. “Too many people there know me. It’ll draw too much attention when we need to lay low.”

The dragons traipsing behind her were pretending not to eavesdrop, but Bane knew they were. She was cagey about her past, and while her Raiders had never pressed her for information, they were understandably curious. To think that their leader, cold and unyielding as a pillar of ice, was ever a vulnerable pup in some ragtag Light clan was an unusual thought for them to process.

“I still think we coulda taken those bots out,” Ratha, her second in command, muttered.

Bane turned her gaze on the guardian, whose red eyes were slitted against the bright sunlight. A large gash on her shoulder was dripping rust into the yellow grass and her face was fixed into a scowl.

“You were welcome to stay behind and die if you wanted,” was all Bane said. She kept walking.

Ratha grunted in response but she didn’t argue.

Bane and her band of raiders had carved out a decent niche for themselves in the hot, unforgiving desert of the northern Lightning territory. Here, they had taken what they needed from weaker clans in the area or attacked trade caravans passing through. Locals had learned to fear them and travelers had learned to avoid them, and eventually word had gotten back to the central command in the Tempest Spire that these dragons were more dangerous than your average highwaymen. A horde of peacekeeping automatons was sent into the Carrion Canyon to neutralize them, and Bane had eventually called a retreat because she valued her life more than her territory.

Many of her raiders had argued. Many had wanted to cling to their honor, to stand and fight. Bane, however, was a survivor, not a warrior, and she was wise enough to know when they were outnumbered. As she fell back, her raiders had followed her despite their misgivings, because as far as they trusted their own strength, they trusted their leader’s judgment even further.

Bane kept her memories at bay as they plodded through fields of golden wheat, forests of towering pines, and the ruins of forgotten cities. Anytime they came too close to a clan’s territory, she quietly corrected their route so as to stay out of their way. Bane was not in the mood to encounter any familiar faces just yet.

“Hey boss,” Flint piped up again. “Where are you taking us, then?”

The leader of the Badland Raiders fixed her eyes on the shadowy ruins in the distance, which were shrouded in darkness despite the permeating sun.

“A quiet place,” was all she said.

The Raiders did not speak for several hours, exhausted from the battle and the defeat and the journey. Their healer, Styx, occasionally poked and prodded at his clansmen, asking after their wellbeing, but more often than not he was shrugged off. He was used to this behavior by now, anyway, and Bane knew that the wildclaw would be more adamant about treatment once they stopped to rest.

“What if we do run into someone who recognizes us?” A sudden voice at her shoulder asked.

Maerys, the only other Raider who had lived in the Light domain besides Bane, trotted at her leader’s side. She had the pale green eyes of a Wind dragon, but she had served in the Lightweaver’s exalted forces for most of her life before joining Bane’s crew. She was fully aware that the Ruins were nothing like the lawless lands of the Carrion Canyon, and that carelessly attacking dragons here could bring down entire armies on their backs. The Raiders were in no state to take a hit like that, especially after the beating those automatons had given them.

Bane thought for a moment before replying, “Hopefully convince them to leave us alone.”

There was a hesitant pause. Bane could tell another question was on Maerys’ lips, but she was wary of voicing it.

Bane sighed. “Speak.”

Maerys looked troubled as she asked, “What if it’s Alacrith?”

The scar tissue where her fourth eye should have been throbbed with a ghost of pain. The memories tugging at her became more insistent, but she forced them back with a low growl. Maerys, thinking the growl was intended for her, averted her eyes as she awaited an answer.

Bane knew in the deepest sinews of her heart that she and her former mentor would cross paths again someday. She also knew that bringing her band of raiders into the Light domain would greatly increase the chances of such an encounter. Whether or not she was ready to face Alacrith again, she could not say.

“I guess we’ll see when it happens,” she finally replied.

The silence between the Raiders thickened with tension as Bane caught a few of them exchanging glances. But they wisely kept their mouths shut as they followed their leader through the golden plains of the Sunbeam Ruins, just as they would follow her through hellfire.

 --

Jenris kept the brim of her hat pulled low over her eyes as she watched the fight in the training ring. She was in her bipedal form, elbows leaning on the railing, listening to the clang of dulled training swords as they met and parted and met again. The two students in the ring were stepping neatly around each other, sharp eyes watching their opponent, searching for openings, anticipating attacks. Jenris herself had never set foot in this ring, for good reason, but she did enjoy observing from time to time. The sun was hot on her brown neck, and dust swirled in the air from the dragons’ footwork.

The taller one, Rhys, she recognized easily as the youngest guardsman in Clan Sunsharp. His steps were almost dainty as he slipped and skirted around his sparring partner’s attacks. The other dragon, an exaltee passing through Clan Sunsharp’s combatives school whose name Jenris did not know, was sloppier with his technique but more brutal with his attacks. Jenris knew aggression when she saw it, and could tell there was a lot of power behind the swing of his sword. Rhys, on the other hand, was practically dancing away from his opponent’s attacks, staying on the defensive unless he was absolutely certain of an opening he could take.

She narrowed her eyes when she saw the exaltee willingly take a jab from Rhys’s sword in order to land a hit. Reckless, but effective, she noted, and the ring of metal on metal sang in her heart.

“You know you’re allowed to go in there, right?”

Jenris stiffened, fingers twitching for the cutlass at her side, before her brain caught up to her instinct and she recognized the voice at her back. She managed to pass off the movement to touching the brim of her hat as she turned to face Vorlen, the training instructor of the day and the combat director for Clan Sunsharp. How he managed to approach without her noticing, Jenris didn’t know, but she figured a fellow like him probably had a few more years of experience under his swordbelt than she did. She nodded respectfully at the wildclaw and leaned her back against the wooden fence post.

“Yes, sir, I’m aware,” she said. Jenris liked Vorlen well enough, and certainly believed he had earned the banner draped on his shoulder that proclaimed his rank, but sometimes he was a bit too gentle for his own good.

“I’ve never seen you set foot in there,” he said, folding his arms in a casual manner but still maintaining an air of scrutiny. “I just wanted to make sure you knew you’re welcome to pick up a training sword, yourself.”

“I know, sir, thank you,” Jenris responded, unable to keep the southern twang that marked her as an outsider out of her voice. “I think I’ll stick to my cutlass, though, if that’s alright.”

Vorlen stared at her a few seconds longer before offering her an understanding smile. “It is alright, yes,” he affirmed. A sharp swear from one of the trainees in the ring drew his attention, and he moved to stand beside her at the railing. Together, they watched the young dragons swing and dodge and parry their way around each other.  Occasionally the combat director would critique their actions while Jenris kept her comments to herself.

“How are you settling in?” Vorlen asked at length.

Jenris chewed on her bottom lip. “Not quite sure if ‘settling’ is the word I’d use,” she said.

The wildclaw gave her a curious look. “Why not? You’ve been here a month now.”

Jenris offered a wordless shrug. Truth be told, ‘settling’ wasn’t really in her vocabulary. She had grown up roaming the badlands of the Lightning domain, never staying in one place for too long. During this time she had belonged to a clan, if it could even be called a clan, but she never considered it home. She had never considered anyplace or anyone home. The fact that she had remained in Clan Sunsharp longer than a few days was a surprise to her.

Instead of giving Vorlen a reply, she angled her chin at the trainees in the ring. “That bigger fellow had better invest in a good set of armor if he’s gonna keep taking hits like that.”

The combat director followed her line of sight and frowned. Rhys stabbed, wasplike, at his opponent, and danced away before the blunted sword swinging at his ribs could catch him. The other dragon swore as his weapon sang harmlessly through the air.

“Ajax,” Vorlen called, “Remember that power is worthless without technique. Control your swing.”

The student named Ajax shot Vorlen an exasperated look. “Doesn’t matter how much control I have, I’m never hitting Twinkletoes over here in a million years.”

“Not with that attitude, y’ain’t,” Jenris said lowly. Sure, the skydancer was quick, but he was also overconfident, and she knew from experience that such confidence could be taken advantage of.

She did not expect anyone but Vorlen to hear her, but Rhys turned his sharp cheekbones on her with interest. “What attitude does he need, then?” he asked.

There was a challenge in his voice. Jenris knew because she had issued that challenge before, too. An I-know-what-I’m-about challenge. An I-dare-you-to-try-me challenge. She tugged at the brim of her hat and met his electric gaze unwaveringly.

“You gotta remember you’re both just kids,” she said to Ajax, but kept her eyes on Rhys. “He ain’t some swordfighting god just cause he’s good. He’s got weaknesses like everyone else – he just hides ‘em better.”

The skydancer hefted his sword over his shoulder and smiled. “You’re a kid too, you know,” was all he said. Otherwise, he seemed undaunted. Jenris didn’t like his confident sneer, but she did have to admit he had a pretty mouth.

Vorlen, eyebrows raised, glanced between the two of them before shrugging and nodding at Ajax. “She’s right. Everyone has a weakness. Yours is recklessness.”

“His is arrogance,” Jenris added.

Three sets of eyes turned on the ridgeback and she realized she had voiced her thoughts aloud. Suddenly she became very interested in the wood grain of the railing, and she studied it closely while she chewed on her lip.

The sound of light footsteps approaching drew her eyes back up. Rhys had forgotten the sparring match entirely and was now studying Jenris closely. “I’ve seen you around here a lot, Jenris,” he observed.

“Yeah, I’m kinda livin’ here right now,” she replied.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Around the trainees. Near the yard. By this ring. During exercises.” He lifted his sword off of his shoulder and gave it a lazy twirl. “You think just because you’re always watching us that you know everything about fighting?”

You had to go and open your big stupid goddamn mouth, Jenris thought darkly to herself. She looked to Vorlen for help, but he was watching with interest. If he had any intent to intervene, he was not choosing to do so just yet.

She returned her stare to Rhys’s challenging eyes, tugged at the brim of her hat, and shrugged. “Not everything, no.”

“No,” Rhys agreed. “Perhaps you’d like to learn.”

He gave his training sword a light toss in the air, caught the dull blade in his palm, hilt out, and offered it to her. Jenris stared at it like he was handing her a declaration of war.

“I ain’t looking for a fight,” she said lowly.

“Aren’t you?” Rhys shot back.

Jenris didn’t like the way he put emphasis on the word aren’t. She curled her fingers instinctively around the hilt of her cutlass, but made no move to draw it. Her blood beat steady in her ears.

Words finally worked their way through the silence of her mouth. “Thanks for the offer, pretty boy, but I ain’t interested,” she said. “Maybe some other day.”

He held her gaze a bit longer, but finally he nodded. “Maybe.” He flipped his sword back around so that he was grasping the hilt and turned his eyes to his classmate. “Again?” he asked.

Ajax was already unstrapping his armor. “No way, I’ve had enough,” he muttered. Then he glanced at Vorlen in question. “If we’re dismissed?”

The combat director was still looking between Jenris and Rhys, brows drawn. Ajax’s question drew his attention, however, and his expression cleared. He nodded approvingly. “Yes, you are dismissed. Good work, both of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ajax muttered, slotting his training sword into its place on the rack. As he moved past Jenris, he gave her a clap on the shoulder. “You were right to turn him down,” he told her. Then, loud enough for Rhys to hear, “I admit it’d be fun to watch someone put him in his place, though.”