Unlike Granamere’s caravan station—which was just an emptied out square in the town made for carriages and wagons to stop by—Braskir had beast stables, water fountains, and designated resting points for registered drivers to stay on. All that, of course, was necessary for the amount of travelers Braskir had to deal with on a daily basis. The eastern caravan station breathed steam from mule nostrils and mountain-ram muzzles, while a hundred overlapping tongues filled the air. Mostly merchants arguing over axle repairs with local craftsmen, porters advertising their services, and drunk adventurers hauling themselves onto wagons as they prepared to either go big or go home.

  Dain was none of them. He wasn’t here to sightsee, and he already knew the wagon he was looking for.

  Anisa said my chartered ride is at the resting point next to the amber tree, so…

  A shout cut through the noise. “Mister Sorowyn!”

  He turned, and the crowd was just thin enough for him to see Drenn sitting on the driver’s bench of his wagon. Drenn, the young man who’d driven him and the girls here in the first place. The dark lacquered wood wagon was much the same, but instead of one four-horned mountain ram pulling it, there were now two of them, breaths curling like smoke as they eyed Dain up and down.

  “Over here, Mister Sorowyn!” Drenn called again, waving at him.

  He smiled and weaved towards the wagon. “Good to see you again, Drenn,” he said honestly, climbing onto the back of the wagon. “I see you bought yourself another ram. Either you’ve gotten rich or you’ve gotten kidnapped by someone rich. Which is it?”

  Drenn laughed. “Neither! Miss Anisa hired me straight from Granamere a week ago, telling me to send you straight to Karatash within five days, and she paid me ten thousand curons to boot! That’s hardly rich, but that’s enough to get me another ram!”

  Dain settled himself against the side board, wings discreetly wrapping around his shoulders with a possessive rustle. His owl construct, however, hopped off his shoulder and onto the front board, staring at Drenn with a tilted head.

  “Oh, but you look… different now, Mister Sorowyn,” Drenn said, squinting back at him with a finger tucked under his chain. “You have more relics. And you’ve got a third eye. Planning on getting four the next time we meet?”

  “Not planning on it.” Dain chuckled. “Can you really get me to Karatash in five days?”

  “With two rams?” Drenn said cheerfully, and that, in itself, was the young man’s answer. He cracked the reins, and the rams lurched forward.

  The wagon surged with a smoothness that made Dain’s first ride with Drenn feel like a snail in comparison. They quickly rolled towards the opened eastern gate, and as they passed beneath the shadow of the gate—leaving Braskir behind—Dain looked back for a bit longer than he meant to.

  Braskir’s a good town.

  I’d like to come back and visit one day, if I could.

  But right now, he still had three unused Tags in his pockets. If he wanted to stop Stonewraith—if he wanted to even compete with her on semi-even ground—he couldn’t keep fighting the way he’d been fighting: relying solely on relics. Relics were wonderful. Relics were unfair. But Stonewraith had relics, too, and she knew how to fight on top of that.

  On the way to Karatash, he had to obtain at least one acquired skill with his Tags, and he supposed he wanted…

  A swordsmanship skill from one of the Seven Founding Swordstyles. Any one would do.

  He needed the muscle memories. He needed to know how to grip his blade properly. He needed proper footwork and swinging form and defensive form and everything in between just to survive in a melee against Stonewraith, and without a doubt, Stonewraith would try to make it a melee. Now that she knew he wasn’t a trained soldier, she’d have no reservations charging in and just ending him in a split second as opposed to setting up an elaborate trap to stab him in the back.

  “... You wouldn’t happen to be trained in any Swordstyle, would you, Drenn?” he asked.

  Drenn glanced around briefly. “Why would a driver know a Swordstyle, Mister Sorowyn?”

  “Forget I asked, then.”

  Unfortunately, the main offering to any Skill Tag was always blood from a person who already possessed that skill, whether they acquired it through a Skill Tag or learned it naturally. If he wanted to acquire a swordsmanship skill in any of the seven styles, he’d have to find someone who had the skill first.

  But will I really stumble onto someone like that on my way to Karatash?

  I’ll probably be busy tracking down Stonewraith the second I get there, so I won’t have any time to look for—

  The wagon’s momentum died so suddenly his stomach—and his entire body—lurched forward.

  The rams snorted and stamped. Dust puffed up in a small cloud before them, and Dain braced a hand on the front board as he pulled himself up.

  “If we’re stopping to admire the scenery,” he grumbled, “you might as well tell me first—”

  “Not scenery,” Drenn said, pointing ahead. “Look.”

  Dain leaned out.

  Just a few ways down the beaten road, four people stood in their way.

  Ilvaren stood with her shortswords loose at her sides. Kargun’s floating gauntlets hovered near his forearms, thick and heavy and bobbing up and down. Sahlir curled his whip-blade in an idle loop behind him, while Rena stood slightly behind all three of them with that cool, unsettling calm as ever, guarding over their heavy satchels.

  Dain’s scowl came out full and immediate. He muttered an ‘apologies’ to Drenn, then hopped off the wagon with his cane thumping the ground.

  “... The hell are you guys doing out here?” he shouted over, eyes flicking from face to face. “Did Braskir finally kick you out for fighting in the Guild again?”

  “What are we doin’ out here?” Kargun echoed. “What in the gods’ names d’ye think ye’re doin’, boss?”

  “I’m leaving,” he said plainly. “Sorry for getting you guys caught up in that nonsense in the forest, but I’ve been told you’ve all been paid generously for the trouble. You’ve got enough that you don’t have to adventure for the next three months, right? I’d say we’re even, then, so could you please move out of the—”

  Ilvaren raised her shortswords.

  Dain blinked.

  No flourishing. No warning. Just a burst of speed that made Dain jerk his oreblade up in an instant, blocking Ilvaren’s straight cross with an impact that rang through his arms and up into his teeth.

  “Can you… not?” he hissed. “What the hell are you—”

  Kargun’s giant gauntlets swung in from the side like boulders on chains. Dain jerked away, wings flaring, and kicked off the ground using his wings’ lift to redirect himself mid-air. He was about to leap over Kargun’s head when Sahlir’s whip-blade snapped upward, wrapping around his leg with a cruel little clink—-and before he could swear, Sahlir yanked down.

  The world tilted. Dain slammed into the ground hard enough to knock a grunt out of him, dust exploding into his face.

  Tch.

  Ilvaren and Kargun rushed in to pummel him on the ground. He channeled mana into his prosthetic and fired a windsphere straight down, kicking up a violent spray of dirt into Sahlir’s eyes. The hawkkin cursed in his blunt, broken way—more angry sound than language—and the whip-blade loosened just enough for Dain to twist free.

  He rolled to his feet, lungs pulling in dust., but Ilvaren and Kargun were still on him. The elf’s shortsword swung at his waist. He blocked, then fired a windsphere at her feet to kick up another cloud of dirt—but the elf didn’t care. Blind as she was, disoriented as he was, she managed to track him as he backtracked and kicked, driving a boot into his stomach

  Air punched out of him. Pain flared. He staggered, and in that stagger, Kargun’s gauntlets dropped from above like a falling anvil. He threw his prosthetic up and blocked the crushing blow. The force rattled through his shoulder. His teeth clicked. Sahlir was there again, whip-blade snapping in from the side, and he caught it with his cane before his wings curled to shield him from Ilvaren’s shortswords from the other side.

  Three angles. Three rhythms. Three different kinds of violence. They weren’t trying to kill him, he thought, but damn if they weren’t annoying him with this unprovoked aggression.

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  His annoyance sharpened into something colder as he continued to duck, block, and twist his way out of every attack under their relentless pressure. They didn’t have Stonewraith’s speed and ruthlessness, but the feeling was close enough to make his skin crawl. Multiple opponents. No room to breathe. Every mistake punished instantly. He was permanently on the backfoot, and there was nothing he could do to go on the offensive.

  … Or was there?

  As he blocked another heavy blow from Kargun’s gauntlet and skidded back, a cruel little gift from someone else’s memory flashed in his head, and he heard it.

  ‘Of all seven classes of relics, Elementum-Class relics are the ones that swing battles the most,’ someone whispered. ‘Don’t show your hand too soon. Let them think they’ve learned you. Let them think you’ve run out of answers.’

  ‘Then, find the perfect moment, and let them have it.’

  ‘Show me your strongest attack, Stonewraith.’

  His jaw tightened as he took another step back, narrowing his eyes.

  Alright.

  You guys are asking for it.

  As the three warriors converged on him again, he took a step back—and then he flared his Fearlight Eye, making sure all of them were in his field of vision as he did.

  The reddish-purple glow that shone from his eye made all Ilvaren falter mid-step. Sahlir’s breath hitched in his throat like he’d swallowed ice. Even Kargun, sturdy as a stone pillar, paused with a grimace as if the air itself had grown teeth.

  He didn’t give them time to recover. He raised his prosthetic to the sky, black plates catching the sun,and channeled as much mana as he could into it. The plates started undulating. The spiral etchings lit up red and purple. Wind, cold wind, coiled around the prosthetic, and dirt and grit and dry leaves swirled in tight circles as a small cyclone formed around him.

  Can’t… breathe… He grimaced. But this is… good!

  Ilvaren’s stance broke first. She tried to plant her heel and push through, but the growing cyclone shoved at her knees and stole her balance. Sahlir’s whip-blade wavered, its loop losing shape as dust stung his eyes again. Only Kargun remained steady, spreading his feet and leaning into it with the stubbornness of a mountain.

  Dain’s attention snapped to the dwarf. If one of them had to be dealt with first, it had to be the one still standing.

  He dashed straight at Kargun, wings snapping open for a heartbeat to give him a forward shove. Kargun drew his floating gauntlets before him, pressing them together like a gate.

  “Ye think a wee breeze’ll—”

  Dain shoved his oreblade into the narrow, narrow gap between the gauntlets and ignited it violently. Firelight roared. That alone didn’t do much to the gauntlets, but then he gripped the middle of the burning oreblade with his prosthetic hand, firing a windsphere forward along the blade.

  His blade couldn’t break through Kargun’s defense, but as long as there was a tiny gap, wind would always find its way through, and wind carrying fire was a devastating blow.

  The burst of fiery wind punched Kargun in the face, singing his beard with a vicious fwoom and making him yelp something unrepeatable in at least three dialects. He stumbled back, hands jerking away—the floating gauntlets dropping in sync—as he slapped at and tried to extinguish his smoking beard.

  That’s the dwarf out of the fight.

  Movement flickered in Dain’s peripheral vision as he extinguished his oreblade. Sahlir lunged in from behind, whip-blade snapping toward his ribs, while Ilvaren surged from the front with both shortswords angled to scissor his forearm.

  He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. His owl construct saw where he was looking and dove off Drenn’s wagon, talons out and raking Sahlir across the face with a screech that sounded offended on Dain’s behalf. Sahlir jerked away on instinct, whip-blade flailing wide as he tried to shield his eyes without actually striking the owl.

  “No hit bird!” Sahlir barked, furious and pained at the same time. “Stupid! Stupid fight!”

  Then Dain snapped his prosthetic at Ilvaren and churned it, swirling a wall of wind that quickly thickened into a barrier. Her shortswords slammed into it and slid off with a harsh, scraping shhk like steel dragged across stone. She scowled. She hadn’t expected this new defense from him, and she didn’t expect him to release the wall of wind forward, throwing her back and forcing her to cross her shortswords before her to brace.

  Dain used that.

  He stepped forward and leapt, wings flicking just enough to carry him up and over her head. As he cleared her, he fired a windsphere straight down. It smacked her crown like a blunt hammer made of air. Ilvaren hit the dirt hard, rolling once with a grunt, and when he landed beside her, he made sure to hover his extinguished oreblade above her neck. In the same motion, he whipped his prosthetic at Sahlir, who was still trying to fend off his attacking owl construct without hurting it, while his wings pointed at Kargun, who was rolling on the ground still trying to extinguish his beard.

  For a single, blessed moment, all three warriors went still.

  He sucked in greedy gasps of air, his lungs tight. Gods, his prosthetic’s new ability to continuously swirl wind was powerful, but using it left him more breathless than ever before. He’d really have to pay attention not to go overboard with continuous usage in the future, but for now…

  “Don’t move,” he breathed, still panting. “Are we… done here?”

  Ilvaren’s grin flashed up.

  Before Dain could even shift his blade, she kicked the back of his knee, rolled out from under his blade, and then sprang up to snap her legs around his head.

  Oh, you accursed—

  She used her weight and momentum to wrench him sideways, and he hit the ground with a heavy grunt, oreblade jolting out of his hand.

  “Get off me,” he growled, trying to pry her legs off. Ilvaren laughed in refusal. Thankfully, Rena finally moved in before he could escalate it by using his prosthetic again, whacking Ilvaren on the back of her head with a heavy satchel.

  “That’s enough,” Rena said. “You’ve all proven your point, right?”

  Ilvaren clicked her tongue but let herself be pulled away, still smiling.

  While Sahlir finally managed to fend the owl construct back to Drenn’s wagon and Kargun extinguished his beard by rubbing dirt into it, Rena offered Dain a helping hand and hauled him upright. She dusted his coat like he was a child who’d fallen in a bakery, then brushed more dirt off his cheek with two fingers, humming faintly to herself.

  Dain swatted at her hand after the second brush. “I’m not a cushion.”

  “Cushions don’t complain,” she said brightly. “Just sit there and take deep breaths for a while, yeah?”

  He grumbled but sat anyways, because his lungs needed a moment. A long, long moment.

  Okay.

  Note to self… take deep breaths before I use my prosthetic from now on.

  Then Ilvaren planted her boots in front of him, sheathing her shortswords and crossing her arms.

  “If it takes you this much effort and mana to beat us, then you still don’t stand a chance against that masked bitch,” she said.

  Dain scowled up at her. “You attacked me first.”

  “You need training,” she shot back, ignoring him completely. “You need skills. You fight like a merchant who got lucky. Fortunately, I smell Tags on your body, so guess what? We just so happen to have skills that you might need.” With that, she thumped a fist to her chest. “I know many skills, but my windbreath skill will help you feel movement by wind and wind alone. You’ll be harder to sneak up on.”

  Kargun grunted, climbing to his feet. “And I’ve got earthpoise. Makes you hard t’ knock off your feet. Which, considerin’ how often you get thrown around lately, might do ye some good.”

  Sahlir pointed two fingers at himself. “Galewind Swordsmanship. Real style. I give blood, you stop being embarrassing.”

  “How about it, human?” Ilvaren said. “We can give you our blood so you can use them to obtain our skills.”

  Dain scowled at her, suspicious by default.

  “And?” he said. “You didn’t haul yourselves out here and jump me for the sheer joy of exercise. You’re not doing this out of charity, either. What do you want?”

  Kargun snorted, rubbing at the singed edge of his beard. “First thing’s first. Ye still haven’t explained what in the hells happened back in that forest, but more’n that—” His heavy brow lowered as he growled. “We’re adventurers. Proud ones. And we don’t take kindly to gettin’ our arses handed to us by some masked bastard.”

  Ilvaren didn’t bother dancing around it. “I wanna see her dead,” she said bluntly. “That one-eyed bitch beat us half to death and walked away laughing. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re going to hunt her down, and we’re not stupid enough to miss that trail.”

  Sahlir nodded as well. “She drew blood. I must draw, too.”

  Rena, finally, clasped her hands behind her back and smiled in that ever-relaxed way of hers. “I just go where they go,” she said lightly. “So if they want to follow you, then I suppose I will, too.”

  “... The people I’m going after are dangerous,” Dain said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t some… Guild bounty with a tidy reward at the end. This has nothing to do with any of you.”

  Ilvaren shrugged. “Don’t care.”

  “Aye,” Kargun agreed. “We don’t like losin’. Simple as that.”

  Sahlir clicked his beak. “Want eat her guts.”

  “And Braskir isn’t exactly tying us down,” Rena added cheerfully. “Guilds are everywhere across Obric. Wherever you’re headed, there’ll be work for us, so it’s not like you’ll have to pay for us or anything.”

  Dain fell quiet at that.

  Windbreath, earthpoise, and Galewind Swordsmanship.

  Galewind Swordsmanship, specifically, was something he was interested in. Despite being called ‘Swordstyles’, they weren’t just applicable to swords. They were general combat styles that could be applied to all forms of weapons, including one’s bare fists, so it was undeniable that Sahlir’s skill would come in handy against Stonewraith.

  I could just take their blood and leave them here.

  But…

  The thought lingered and then faded.

  Whatever Stonewraith was planning in Karatash might not be something a simple relic merchant could stop alone, and he knew that the four of them were more than capable of holding their own in a fight. At the very least, he could use them as four extra pairs of hands.

  And it’s not like they’re completely uninvolved at this point, either.

  Don’t I owe them a bit of an explanation for what they saw back in that abandoned town?

  He weighed the decision for a moment longer—feeling the road under him, the east wind on his face, and the four pairs of eyes on his—before turning back to face Drenn, who was snacking on walnuts out of a small pouch watching them fight.

  “Drenn.”

  “Yep, Mister Sorowyn?”

  “Can your wagon carry four more extremely inconvenient passengers?”

  Drenn grinned from his seat. “I’ve hauled worse loads for less pay,” he said brightly. “Climb on, Mister Sorowyn’s friends!”

  With the confirmation, Dain looked back at the four of them. “Alright. You can follow me. But you’ll listen when I give instructions, and don’t expect to have any time to take on Guild work. I’m strictly hunting that one-eyed bastard. Understood?”

  Four nods. No hesitation.

  He huffed once, then turned and climbed back onto the wagon, settling himself against the side board.

  “Alright then,” he muttered, eyes fixed eastward. “To Karatash we go.”

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