"I think...I need to sit a moment..." Arlen managed before his legs gave way.
The world tilted. Darkness rushed in from the edges of his vision, swallowing light and sound. As consciousness slipped away, fragments of conversation drifted past him like leaves on water.
"Think he'll make it?"
"If infection doesn't set in."
"That's a nice blade, Senna." Something strange lurked beneath the man's words, but Arlen couldn't grasp it before the darkness took him completely.
Heat on his face roused him. Not the gray haze of day, but something warmer.
Arlen cracked his eyes open. Stars wheeled overhead, patterns he'd never seen before. An unfamiliar sky for an unfamiliar land. He tried sitting up. Pain stabbed through his ribs, forcing out a strangled sound somewhere between a curse and a groan.
"About time," a voice said. "Was starting to wonder if you'd sleep through till morning."
The thin man from earlier sat across a modest fire, whittling at a piece of wood with a small knife. In the firelight, Arlen could see him properly. The cloth that had been between his teeth during the fight now hung loose around his neck, revealing sharp features and a jaw that looked wrong, as if broken and healed poorly. His partial ear caught the light in a way that made the missing piece all the more obvious.
Arlen glanced around. No sign of the woman. They'd moved since the fight—rock formations rose around them on three sides, cutting the constant wind to a low moan.
"Your friend?" Arlen asked, voice raspy from thirst.
"Senna? Making sure nothing followed us." The man tossed his carving aside and offered a waterskin. "Vocht Eickus."
Arlen took a careful sip, then a longer drink when his stomach didn't rebel. He checked himself over. Someone had wrapped his ribs with strips of cloth, tight enough to stabilize but not so tight he couldn't breathe. His leg wounds had been cleaned and dressed. His belongings lay within arm's reach, the saber among them.
"Arlen," he replied, leaving his family name unspoken.
"Where are we?"
Vocht gestured vaguely eastward. "Few clicks closer to Dazeen. Dragged you here before the winds picked up." He nodded toward the rock wall behind them. "Good timing too. Dry Storm almost took us."
"Dry Storm?" Arlen asked.
"High winds around this region."
"Why help me?" Arlen pressed.
Vocht shrugged one shoulder. "Been traveling with Senna two months. Gets boring. You're the most interesting thing we've seen in weeks."
Arlen studied him, taking in details he'd missed during the fight. The strange small sheath at Vocht's side that had somehow produced a blade far longer than should have been possible. The way he held himself, like a man ready for trouble even in supposed safety.
"That cloth," Arlen said, nodding toward Vocht's neck. "During the fight. You had it in your mouth. Why?"
Something flickered across Vocht's face—surprise, maybe, that this was Arlen's first question. He touched the strip of fabric absently.
"Grind my teeth," he said after a moment. "During combat. Broke my jaw once because of it." His fingers traced the misaligned bone. "Cloth between the teeth keeps them from wearing down. Old habit now."
Arlen nodded as if this made perfect sense, though he suspected there was more to it. "That sword of yours... unusual."
The corner of Vocht's mouth twitched upward. "Noticed that, did you?" He touched the small sheath at his hip. It looked barely large enough to hold a dagger, let alone the blade Arlen had seen him wield. "Most do."
"You're Kindled? No—Wrought," Arlen corrected himself, recalling the focused precision of Vocht's fighting. To his surprise, this man was no less than Headmen Conroi.
Vocht's eyebrows rose. "You know your Flare stages. Yes, Wrought. Four years now." He drew the hilt from its sheath—just the hilt, no blade attached. "This is my Brand. The Quiet Matron, I call her."
"You name your sword?" Arlen asked.
"She named herself," Vocht replied as if this were obvious. "The day the blade first manifested from my heart." He slid the hilt back into its sheath, and Arlen caught a flicker of that midnight blue light before it disappeared. "You're Registry, aren't you? You fought like one. Trained, but not tested."
Arlen tensed. "I was."
"Was," Vocht repeated, not pushing further.
He stirred something in a small pot nestled in the coals and passed Arlen a wooden bowl filled with some kind of stew. The smell hit Arlen's empty stomach like a fist, reminding him how long it had been since he'd eaten.
"How'd you end up with Senna?" Arlen asked between careful bites.
"Found her in Dazeen. Bridge town a few miles east." Vocht blew on his own stew before taking a bite. "She'd been ready to leave, but stayed when the rock-backs started coming down from the heights." He snorted. "Not that anyone thanked her for it."
"And you?"
Vocht's eyes flicked to Arlen, then back to the fire. "Passing through," he said, his tone shifting to something more guarded. "Heading to Kimash. For the tournament."
"What tournament?"
"High King holds one each year. Winner becomes a High Mark."
"Important, is it? This position?"
Vocht's expression closed further. "Very. Especially to someone with something to prove."
Arlen sensed he'd hit a wall. Whatever drove Vocht toward this tournament, he wasn't ready to share it with a stranger he'd pulled from the jaws of death mere hours ago.
"Family business?" Arlen guessed.
"Something like that," Vocht replied, effectively ending that line of questioning. He prodded the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling upward. "What about you? What brings a Mazandrian across the border alone?"
The question caught Arlen off-guard. He hadn't thought his origins were so obvious.
"The silver in your clothing," Vocht explained, noting his surprise. "Way it's woven through the fabric. Only Mazandrian high-bloods wear it like that, and your ivory skin, of course, you ain't getting anywhere without getting recognized as one."
Arlen considered how much to share. "My father made political enemies," he finally said. "I found myself paying for his choices."
"So you ran?"
"Didn't exactly have a choice," Arlen replied, thinking of his vanishing act from the execution chamber.
Movement from the darkness interrupted them. Senna materialized from the shadows, the mechanism on her arm dormant but still attached. Up close, Arlen could see it was more complex than he'd first thought—twisted metal and carved wood fitted precisely to her forearm, with strange marks etched into both.
"Nothing followed," she announced, dropping onto a log across from Arlen. Her scarred eye caught the firelight oddly, the clouded iris seeming to glow. "You're looking better. For someone who should be dead."
"Thanks to you both," Arlen replied.
"Don't thank us yet," she said, her voice flat. "We still don't know what you're worth."
"Senna," Vocht warned.
She ignored him, fixing Arlen with her good eye. "That's a fine weapon you carry. Mazandrian make, but not standard Registry issue." She tilted her head. "Stolen? Or did someone very important give it to you?"
"My brother," Arlen said, feeling something stir in the back of his mind at the mention of the blade. "It was a gift."
"I'm surprised we left it with you," she said bluntly. "Would fetch a good price."
"You'd rather not touch Mazandrian steel?" Arlen guessed.
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Our kingdoms aren't exactly friendly, are they? Not since your previous King Terren pulled his forces from the eastern shores, letting pirates slip through from south to north." Her expression hardened. "They raided our southern ports for months while your king pretended not to notice. Broke the treaty we'd held for sixty years."
"Before he was assassinated," Arlen added.
Vocht snorted. "Rumored. Not proven."
"How would you know?" Arlen challenged.
"How would you?" Senna countered.
The three of them stared at each other across the flames, tension building, until Arlen found himself laughing. It hurt his ribs but felt good all the same. After a moment, Vocht joined in, the sound rusty but genuine.
Senna looked between them, bewildered. "What's funny about kings being murdered?"
"Who the hell are we?" Vocht gestured broadly. "Three nobodies in the middle of nowhere, arguing about politics like we have any say."
"Fair point," Arlen admitted, the laughter fading. "Though sometimes I think those with no power see clearest."
The wind picked up, carrying sparks from the fire into the night sky. Arlen watched them die one by one among the stars, a strange sense of calm settling over him. For the first time since his interrupted execution, he felt something close to safe.
His eyes drifted to the mechanism on Senna's arm, curiosity getting the better of him. "That weapon of yours," he said. "I've never seen anything like it."
Senna's hand moved to cover it protectively. "You wouldn't have."
"It's her Brand," Vocht explained when she didn't elaborate. "Kindled, like you guessed I was at first."
Senna shot him a look that could have frozen the fire. "He doesn't need to know my business."
"He trusted us with his blade," Vocht countered. "Fair's fair."
She sighed, then extended her arm slightly, allowing Arlen a better view of the device.
"Bright Pin," she said reluctantly. "That's what I call it."
"It fires light," Arlen said, remembering the cobalt beams that had saved his life.
"The will of my heart," she replied, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. "Took form the day my brother died. Haven't removed it since."
Arlen didn't press further. Her grief was still raw, evident in the tightness around her mouth when she mentioned her brother.
"Where are you headed?" he asked instead.
"Danidore," she replied, her hand returning to the mechanism. "I have business there."
"What kind of business?"
Danidore was one of the major cities Arlen recognized, ruled by Prince Kerious.
"The kind that doesn't concern you," she said flatly.
Vocht cleared his throat. "Senna's tracking someone. Someone who-."
"Vocht," she hissed.
He shrugged. "Right, I'm sorry. We all have our demons, Arlen, you know how it is."
Senna glared at him, then turned back to Arlen. "Bad people with worse envoys keep them safe."
"I see?" Arlen said though he felt similar to the truth she'd not given.
She didn't respond, but her fingers traced a pattern on her Brand that spoke volumes.
"Speaking of traveling," Vocht said, standing with a grimace, "we should move. Night travel's safer with the rock-backs around. They hunt mostly at dawn."
"You're joking," Arlen said, looking down at his bandaged leg. "I can barely stand."
"You'll manage," Senna replied, already packing her few possessions. "We'll go slow. For a while."
Arlen tested his weight, teeth clenched against the pain. His wrapped ribs made each breath deliberate. Still, he'd endured worse. Had died worse.
"Why take me with you?" he asked, suspicion finally surfacing. "I'll only slow you down."
Vocht and Senna exchanged a glance he couldn't read.
"Call it curiosity," Vocht finally said, his eyes dropping briefly to Arlen's saber.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting," Senna replied. She tossed him a waterskin. "Drink. We move in ten minutes."
As Arlen gathered his things, a voice slid through his thoughts like oil on water.
"They want something from you," Had'rial whispered. "The woman watches your sword when she thinks you aren't looking."
"Man of the hour." Arlen whispered, too low for them to hear, "I am still waiting to wake up from this damned nightmare!" He scoffed beneath his breath.
"Oh, you'll be here for a lifetime, then!"
Arlen's hand tightened on the saber's hilt. "Why'd you leave suddenly?" he whispered.
"Your meat bag seems to be unshadowed. Endangered."