Back in the north, amongst Peteshko’s Crown, nestled in an isolated valley amongst a growing settlement of religious assassins there was a house sheltering an old man.

  During the same night which Arcos and his friends were busy securing an unnerving alliance with an equally unnerving man, an extensively older man was having a similarly unnerving sleep.

  The bedding wasn’t cold nor clammy. The bed wasn’t uneven nor weakened. The mattress wasn’t thin nor lumpy. It was, by all accounts, a perfectly comfortable bed. Well designed for swift slumbers. But despite all of that and all the food and drink and comfort from the books he read that night to lull his troubled mind, Brother Archibald Scribe couldn’t attain true rest.

  Oh, he was able to sleep. Snatching a couple of hours throughout the day, but never a true slumber that a man of his age would welcome as dearly as hot soup in the winter. A drop of poppy tea helped somewhat, but nothing could dispel the gnawing worry in his gut. And that robbed him of the rest he could gleam from the hours he gained under the Slumbering Mother’s care.

  Again, Archibald snapped open his eyes. He lay in bed, in his nightgown and sleeping cap. His thin fingers gripped the edge of the blanket as it tucked under his white beard. He stared at the ceiling and his mind wandered to the events that had transpired after the three Fledglings’ flight from the Guild. His heart ached. They were good students, the three of them. Even Fledgling Boras showed some interest in the histories of Tashiish. Fledglings Arcos and Reeva displayed hungers for knowledge that made Archibald proud to have been a Scribe.

  Their dissension against the Guild due to the Silverstreak massacre was bad enough before their escape. But now as Apostates, Archibald was forced to consider them dead as all the other Children had. Which only got worse when word returned to the Guild that Sibling Tilda lost a fight against Arcos in a duel. Archibald couldn’t see himself, let alone imagine, attacking a child whom he had a hand in raising. So his pains and heart went out to poor, poor Tilda.

  Tilda. She hadn’t returned to the Guild since that fight a week ago. She was seen, in the fields and amongst the mountains that rose between the Guild and Silverstreak. But she didn’t attend prayers. She didn’t train. Nor did she visit Sibling Valari or himself for any counsel. She took the departure of her students worse than all of them. She had actively shunned the Guild. Seeking no companionship or care. He hadn’t seen her in such a state since the young lad Torrance abandoned her. Archibald rubbed his beard.

  Perhaps that was it.

  Tilda had not come to terms with Torrance leaving and it seems that she never would. The trio’s departure had only salted the old wound she bore against her old lover.

  All of this had left a dour mood over the Guild and its people. Siblings Vance and Custio and a greater amount of the Guild still maintained that they had made the correct choice in not involving the Guild with Silverstreak matters and daily condemn the recent Apostates’ actions. Valari and the remaining of the Guild had voiced their displeasure for allowing the deaths to occur, but remain immobile. This had of course led to a tension between the two factions. Even the three Elders had been seen in the Temple, engaged in heated states of conversations around this subject. Gristle and Divana arguing against Lowan’s insistence to keep tabs of the Apostates for more information.

  And there was Archibald himself, silent and worried. For he knew more than them all. Arcos, poor, angry Arcos, had a power with him which should not have been found by mortal hands. And he had no doubt left with it. Why didn’t he leave Alaintiqam behind? And why didn’t Archibald stop him?

  A creak in the floorboards alerted the old man’s senses, causing his head to jerk towards the noise. His room was all shadow and book dust. He was alone with his books when he had called for sleep. But not anymore it seemed.

  “Who’s there?” He uttered. He wondered where he had kept his letter knife. Damnation, it was on his desk downstairs.

  “Just me.” A woman’s voice. Tilda.

  Archibald felt himself sink into his bed with relief. “Oh… dear Sibling. You’ve come back to us.”

  “Aye.” Tilda’s voice said from the shadows. “What have the Elders forbidden you to speak of?”

  Archibald froze. Tilda was never one to bandy words needlessly.

  “Oh. Yes. They did.” Archibald nodded. “It was for the sake of calming minds. Information that doesn’t need to be known now. With all that has happened, it is the correct path.”

  “Is it? The correct path?” Came the voice that was so cold and calm. Like a light snowfall after a battle. There was a sound of shifting metal and a flash of glinting moonlight swung across the shadows. The glint that could come from only a drawn sword. Scar-Sire.

  Archibald suddenly felt very unsafe. He shifted into an upright position in his bed and strained his eyes to see Tilda. But she had positioned herself well enough to be utterly invisible.

  “Sibling Tilda?” He ventured. “Why have you drawn your blade?”

  There was a pause. Then… “I’m not sure. Why do you think I have?”

  “I wish not to assume. That- that you would use it to harm me…?”

  “Perhaps.” There was no emotion in that voice.

  Archibald’s eyes flicked to the door that led to the stairs down to his first floor and his ground floor and the exit. But he knew Tilda well enough, knew her speed. She would cut him down the second he touched the door’s handle.

  “Why are you here?” He asked.

  “Because I am tired. Like you.”

  Movement in the shadows and the sound of a scraping chair dragged on floorboards brought Tilda into the light. Whilst she moved, Archibald gingerly reached for the sulphur matches and struck one alight. With a shaking hand, he lit the candle that was jammed into its brass holder. With the new light, Archibald was able to see Tilda fully sitting before him on her chair and for the first time since her self-impose exile.

  By the Black…

  The first thing Archibald saw was the gaunt shadows under her violet eyes. They sagged with fatigue, making the youthful woman seem so much older. The light in those vibrant eyes were dulled, equally matching the unrest which showed in her face. When was the last time she had slept? There was tension and strain in the cheeks and the mouth, stretching to the point of wrinkles. Her hair, normally braided and tidy, was now a lank mess, hanging in strands on either side of her face. True enough, it did little to diminish her natural beauty, but she looked like a pearl that had been dragged through mud and filth. Sitting there, she had Scar-sire resting on her knees.

  One hand gripped the hilt and the other flicked against the tip of the sabre. The tinging sound seemed to echo in the silence. It was the only sound that ruled the room.

  “Oh… my dear child.” Archibald pitied. “Why are you so tired?”

  “I cannot sleep.” She replied.

  “That I can see.”

  Tilda placed the tip of Scar-Sire into the floorboard and began to nonchalantly twist the black steel into the wood. It started to scratch a hole into the wood with an air-grinding scrape. She did not take her eyes off Archibald.

  “The Apostates. They were supposed to be under guard.” She said.

  “Yes… I- I suppose they were.”

  “When they left their chambers, they had to go through the fields, through the Revenants. When I followed them, I found no signs of fighting. Not a single casualty from them or our scarecrows. Isn’t that strange?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Perhaps it is. If you are saying that I allowed them to let the children go, then you are mistaken.”

  “Do not lie to me.” Tilda tapped Scar-Sire into the floorboard, chipping away a small piece of wood.

  “I… I was asked.” Archibald quickly admitted. “Just for that night, I was told to keep the Revenants in a pleasant state.”

  “By who?”

  Archibald drew in a breath. But said nothing. Tilda cocked her head with a thin mouth but she shook her head.

  “Fine. Let’s try something else… Months ago,” she diverted, “you had Blade visiting you for many days during his time here. You would teach him about the history of our order, our ways, our creed.”

  “That is what I did with all our Initiates. I did the same for you.”

  “Ah. Yes. You did. But did you also go beyond what you were permitted and teach him other histories that we do not know? Histories that the Elders have asked you to remain silent of?”

  “Yes, but I have already told you.”

  “No, you have only told me why. Not what. What did you tell Blade that you will not tell us?”

  Archibald remained silent but he stared at Tilda.

  Tilda nodded once. “When he and the others began their Test to hunt Elder Lowan, Arcos broke away from the group to complete the task alone. He had a sword with him. A sword which he parted with soon afterwards and one which no one here saw again. He had that sword since Silverstreak. I remember the bright hilt as clearly as I would know my name. I gave him a sword which he could use as his own. But he broke it before he left. I lay there in Silverstreak, wondering why he would throw away a sword he would need. Unless, he had a sword already in his possession. The sword strapped to his back. So… That sword. What do you know about it?”

  Tilda stepped towards Archibald and leant over him with one hand on his headboard and the other gripping Scar-Sire. Archibald felt himself sink into his bed as the woman loomed over him.

  “Tilda…” Archibald uttered. “I am swore under oath to reveal nothing. The Elders are trying to protect the Guild. Arcos has proven too unruly for this place.”

  Tilda lowered her head to his and whispered.

  “That unruly child was my student. Before whatever you told him and what that girl from the mining town changed his mind. This knowledge which has only gone and endangered the lives of my other two students. I will not suffer secrets from anyone, not when they would hurt me, them or you. Even the Elders themselves will not dissuade me. So speak, or bid me a fond hello to the Black.”

  Archibald rubbed his face. He was too tired and old for the chaos of life. All these youngsters were too impatient for the world’s knowledge and he was growing too old to give them.

  He sighed and nodded. It was clear to him that Tilda was in no mood for placation and had a murderous intent that Archibald recognised when a mother’s cub was threatened.

  “May I stand up?” He asked.

  Tilda backed away, still having Scar-Sire drawn.

  He shook his head. “You will not need Scar-Sire.”

  He took up the candle holder and headed for the bedroom door and through it. Tilda followed him like a second shadow.

  Half an hour passed and the sun began its ascension. The slivers of early dawn had started their journey of light across the sky and over the mountains. The faint greying blue filled the room of the library. Sat at the desk, where she had sat as a Fledgling so many years ago and many times since, Tilda watched in rapt silence as Archibald closed the final page of the small black tome he had hidden for nearly a year. The same tome which he had opened for Arcos when he asked about Alaintiqam’s history.

  Archibald sighed deeply as a weight came away from his back. He had held this knowledge, this secret of Alaintiqam for so long and had longed just as much to talk about it with someone who’d understand. Who better than the Guild’s most honourable Child and Arcos's teacher?

  He looked at the face of the woman that forced him to break his oath. She looked like she had wished she hadn’t. Scar-sire had been sheathed long before and her hand was now rubbing her mouth and chin in deepening thought. Her eyes had banished the fatigue. There was that light again, that alertness. Archibald couldn’t help smiling. Tilda was back.

  “What are you thinking?” Archibald asked her.

  “I-… I had never thought it would be that sword.” She said, almost hoarsely. “Of all the weapons that foolish boy had found in Malachi’s estate… he finds a sword that predates the Fracture… Was it fate? The Black’s design?”

  “Indeed.” Archibald tapped the black leather of the tome. “Fate. The Black’s will… Or… rather worryingly, that Alaintiqam wished to be found.”

  “But… the sword… it was a sword crafted by the Light. The Black’s sibling. Why would it allow itself to be wielded by a Child of the Black, the Light’s adversary?”

  Archibald shook his head. “Who are we to interpret the wills of our creator and destructor? But there is a worry which had gnawed me.”

  “Which is?”

  Archibald tapped the tome with a chipped fingernail. “In all the stories I have found. It is the same scenario. Nearing the end of the Calamity, the Swordsman - whom had last fought with Alaintiqam - became a demonic force of elemental power… The histories do not tell why he had become this way. But he did all the same. A true destruction who hunted any and all evil in the world. From the mass murderers to the petty thieves and liars… No one was spared, not even a child. And our Arcos, he had proven himself to be pulled by the passions of his heart. He is impulsive and reactionary.”

  “Much like this Swordsman.” Tilda concluded. “You are concerned he may lose control.”

  “You are his teacher. Do you deny Arcos’s descent?”

  Tilda took a moment to think it over. She tightened her lips and shook her head. “No, he is linked to his vengeance.”

  Archibald looked grave. “And if he has taken that sword with him… who knows what will be wrought from the vengeance that drives young Blade?”

  “It would be something truly devastating to force him to become that. I have trained that boy long enough to know him in some regard. He is filled with rage at the life he had. But he is not a cold-blooded killer. He has some control.” She made a half smirk. “Not like some other people.”

  “Regardless, the longer he spends with that weapon in his possession, the riskier his life will get and the looser his hold on his mind. I dread anyone getting in his way should that power be unleashed.”

  “And what power is that?” Tilda stood up and started pacing the room. “None of your tomes say anything. ‘Elemental power’? What type?”

  “Yes…” Archibald rubbed his puffy eyes. “All we know is that the weapons of the Aged Ones were just as dangerous as they were. That they could channel the energies of the world, much like the Marked in this age.”

  Tilda looked back to him. “And those three runaways have no idea, do they?”

  “Arcos knows its name and that the blade talks to him. Gives him power. But he swore to me that he would not use it.” Archibald hit his desk with a fist. “If only I had asked for the sword itself, I would have had it destroyed in Sister Valari’s forge that same hour.”

  “I doubt it would have been that easy.” Tilda tapped her boot on the floor. “That settles it.” She turned and made for the door leading to the entrance hall.

  “Where are you going?” Archibald stood up to follow her. “You’re not seriously considering going after them?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Are you sure? They were outcasted by the Elders. Labeled for death by any Child that sees them. If you go, without notifying the Elders…”

  “I know, Archibald!” Tilda had a hand on the front door. She looked back to Archibald. “I know… But I have made a vow to myself and to them. I was supposed to watch over them. To help them. And whilst under my care, my best student’s foster family were slaughtered, my third student was forced to bury a friend that I counted dearly and my first student’s lover was torn away from him…

  I failed them, Archibald. I will not fail them again. I’m sorry for how I intruded into your home. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Archibald said nothing. He stood there in the hall, looking at Tilda. Possibly for the first time. She was taller. Surer. Prouder. “You love them.” He realised. “Don’t you?”

  Tilda screwed her eyebrows in a degree of consternation. “Perhaps.” Was her reply before opening the door.

  Opening it to a group of men and women waiting for her.

  Around twenty, dark hoods down and staring at Tilda who stood in the doorway of Archibald’s home. Tilda blinked as she stared back at the group. “What…?” She said.

  “Well… How the mighty have fallen.” Came a voice filled with over-ripe honey. A man sauntered through the crowd. Stepping into the low light, Tilda could see the perfect smile and perfect jawline. “Brother Vance.” She greeted cooly.

  “Tilda.” He replied without the cordiality. “So good of you to return to us… Going somewhere already?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she replied as she stepped down from the door and coming face to face with Vance. “I was going to bed.”

  “Really.” He said with a bite in his teeth. “I thought you were going after these three rebellious urchins?”

  “Oh no. I think you’re mistaken.”

  Vance’s smile faded. “Not this time.” He pointed back towards the door. Tilda turned and saw a visibly worried Archibald being brought out by the arm, handled as such by Vance’s damned twin, Custio. How in all the hells had she not heard Custio enter the house via the backdoor she had used? Had he been following her? She cursed her fatigue for dampening her senses.

  Tilda snarled at Custio. “Get your hand off of him. He knows nothing. I only visited him to say hello.”

  “Not what we overheard.” Vance replied. “What was it… ‘I failed them, Archibald. I will not fail them again’. We all heard through the opened windows of this hovel as you poured your soul out. You’re losing your edge, Foxhunter.”

  He looked at the group of silent onlookers around them. “Bring them in and rouse the Elders. Let’s see what they’ll make of their star pupil now.”

  Tilda gritted her teeth. But she raised her hands and walked forth, towards the Temple. This was not a fight to win. Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred.

  Vance, she shot him a glare. But he smiled and whispered in a tone that only she could hear. “Elder Lowan won’t be saving you this time. Nor Archibald Scribe for that matter.”

  Tilda looked back to see Archibald, flanked by Custio and another Child. Amongst the group, she could see Sister Valari. But her face spoke of dismay and helpless despair. There was nothing to be done. Tilda could do nothing else. So she bowed her and prayed to the Black that She would be merciful enough to help her.

  She had always walked towards the Temple with senses of belonging and sureness in her soul. But now, as surprising she had found, the two feelings she felt now were their polar opposites.