We didn't make it to the famous "No Weapons" sign by a hundred steps. Exactly enough for the rules of the "Warm Place" not to apply yet, leaving our right to hospitality as nothing more than a nice idea. Lightning lashed out from the dry red grass—the air tore open with a sharp ozone crack, singeing my eyebrows. Clever, very clever; Leliana doesn't extend her magic of calm this far, and we had already relaxed, exhausted from the fight with the dragon.
Vikandrius stepped out from the shadows of the boulders. His face was twisted with a resentment so thick it was as if I had personally stolen his childhood, packed it in a sack, and sold it at the nearest tavern. However, considering Dylan had called me the "Son of the Black Wolf" yesterday, I was beginning to understand the nature of this rage. Vikandrius didn't see me as a thief; he saw a competitor who had suddenly overtaken him.
"You damned half-breed," he wheezed, raising his staff. "You’re supposed to die here. In the dust, not sleeping in Leliana’s clean sheets."
Two more bolts scorched the sky—one at our feet, one overhead—cutting off our retreat. Two archers appeared on the ridge, and from the flanks, as if on cue, swordsmen lunged. A sorcerer in the rear already held his hands in a bowl, gathering freezing air; icy flashes danced around him. Further off, I noticed Dylan—standing with arms crossed, not even bothering to draw his blade. He was simply watching to see how his "investment" would scramble out of this pit.
And somewhere there, almost dissolved in the haze, stood Loren—a motionless spectator in the front row.
At that moment, a sharp, pulsing cramp shot through my shoulder. The Wolf’s Mark. The very tattoo Dylan had spoken of. It didn't just hurt; it sang, pointing out directions. I felt Dylan and Loren like two glowing coals in absolute darkness. It was a strange, predatory feeling: I understood where the other "officers" of the pack were without even looking at them. A bond that couldn't be broken.
"Breathe. Tempo. Fear is just extra noise. We are the music itself," Krauser’s voice echoed inside. He was no longer a stranger trying to seize the helm. He had become part of me, my most effective tool, knowing how to turn panic into cold calculation.
I flicked my coin: one—inhale, two—exhale. My heart skipped beats, but I hammered the rhythm into my own body, forcing it to obey.
Priorin gave a low growl behind me. Sensing the threat, the Shield of Milather whistled off his shoulder and began describing wide, humming circles, shielding us from the archers. Gellia already had her dark blade drawn. After the dragon fight, her face was a stone mask, devoid of emotion. She wasn't afraid of the ambush; she was looking for whom to strike first.
"We bring the Scroll to the Mistress!" Faurgar shouted, raising a hand. "Anyone who attacks us here becomes an enemy of the entire Valley!"
"The Valley is far, and I am here!" Vikandrius shrieked and brought down a wall of fire on us.
The battle began without warning.
The sorcerer’s first volley nearly took Gellia down—her aura flared and instantly died under the pressure of the ice storm. She dropped to a knee, hidden by a whirlwind of stinging shards, but by the way she gripped her sword hilt, I knew she was breathing. And she was furious.
Priorin took two hits that should have split him in half. He buckled, but his Animated Shield vibrated as if a living, trapped heart were beating in the metal. The disk clanged against arrows and magical bolts, circling the Leonin like a mad steel hornet.
Faurgar moved among us like a ghost. His voice, usually dry and analytical, now lashed out like a whip: "Live," "Hold on." He was patching our holes on the fly, pouring crumbs of magic into our battered bodies.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"Stand still!" Vikandrius lunged toward me, his staff belching another bolt of lightning.
I shifted half a step—the Boots seemed to anticipate the trajectory themselves, pulling my body out of the line of fire. The air crackled. The fear lashed at my stomach as usual, but this time something was different. The heat of the Mark on my shoulder mingled with a rising anger from within. Anger at this pup with the staff, at Dylan, at this whole damned world.
Dylan, watching the chaos from the side, didn't even raise his voice:
"Say the word, Flint, and I’m on your side. Or stand there and die for your ridiculous principles."
My internal fear, cowardly and sticky, treacherously whispered: "Agree. It’s easier. It’s life."
But Krauser inside me only gave an icy smirk. There was no command in his voice, only mockery: "Let them strike. We strike back. Leave pride for later. Right now—work."
I felt the fear transform. It became fuel. I no longer wanted to run. I wanted Vikandrius to be silent. Forever.
I saw Faurgar turn his head. His gaze caught the enemy sorcerer on the ridge. A short, authoritative word—and I felt the enemy's will sag like a rotten rope.
"Look at me. And listen," Faurgar commanded.
The sorcerer under his Crown of Madness froze. His eyes instantly became empty, like the winter sky over the Abyss. The battle tipped in our favor. Two swordsmen fell under Priorin’s axe; the third caught the "smile" of Gellia’s blade—she finally stood up, and her light no longer warmed. It had become cold and spiteful.
On the ridge, an archer fell—I "shifted" the trajectory of his shot, and he missed so awkwardly that he lost his balance and went tumbling down the rocks.
"Take him alive!" I barked, gripping my blade. "We need a tongue!"
The sorcerer, bound to Faurgar's will, obeyed. His palm flared with tomb-cold energy, and he unleashed the spell directly into the chest of his former leader. The ice went in deep and clean.
Vikandrius collapsed into the dust, managing only to look at me with profound, childlike bewilderment before his eyes rolled back.
Silence fell as sharply as a guillotine. The two survivors of the gang, seeing their mage's fate, threw down their swords. I raised my palm, feeling the Mark on my shoulder gradually cool, leaving only a dull, aching pain behind.
"Your lives for the truth. Speak—and go to hell," my voice sounded alien even to me.
They began to talk, choking on their words. About how Dylan paid them for the "test," where their camp was, how one can't even trust road signs anymore... I listened, filtering the trash and remembering the essentials.
Krauser inside demanded blood: "Kill them both. Fear is more useful than truth. Blood seals memory! If you let them go, they’ll return with reinforcements."
But I squeezed the coin in my fist so hard the edge bit into my skin. I had handled the fear myself, without his help. And I would make the decision myself.
"Get out," I wheezed. This wasn't a tactic. It was my own "No," thrown in the face of the wolf that had nearly chewed through my will. Dylan saw it and smirked, but I didn't care. At that moment, I just wanted to remain Flint.
Dylan grimaced as if he had taken a sip of truly foul, soured wine. He looked at the bound bandits, at Vikandrius foaming in the dust, and finally—at me. There was no anger in his gaze, only the dry disappointment of an investor whose bet had paid off, but not quite as planned.
"A pity," he remarked, adjusting his collar. "My help, it seems, was unnecessary. You learn quickly, 'Son.' Much faster than I anticipated."
He turned and walked away without looking back, whistling a tune like he owned the place. Loren simply dissolved into the shadows, as if he had never been there.
Priorin caught Gellia by the arm. She didn't protest—her rage had burned to ash, leaving only grey exhaustion. The Hovering Shield, having performed its dance of death, obediently descended and froze behind the Leonin’s back, turning once again into an ordinary piece of metal. But I saw it trembling, like a hound after a long hunt.
Faurgar rested his hand on my shoulder for a second. His gaze was questioning—he had seen my "negotiations" with Dylan; he had heard the whisper of the Mark.
"Information gathered," he said quietly, recording the end of the episode in his internal files. "Let’s go."
The Price of Autonomy.
Key Analysis:
-
The Animated Shield: Priorin’s shield is now a full participant in combat. It’s no longer just gear; it’s a Sentinel. Notice how it "trembles like a hound" after the fight — the metal is starting to mimic life.
-
Faurgar’s Authority: Faurgar is no longer just "the guy with the map." His use of Crown of Madness shows a cold, surgical willingness to turn enemies against each other. He is the group's "Brain," and he’s starting to treat the battlefield like a chessboard.
-
Flint’s "No": This is the biggest character beat. Dylan offered him an easy out, a chance to embrace his "Destiny." By refusing and letting the bandits go, Flint is fighting his own bloodline. He chose to remain "Flint," even if it means being the "weakest" link in a pack of wolves.
Questions for the readers:
-
Dylan’s Game: He calls himself an "Investor." Do you think he’s disappointed that Flint refused his help, or was this "test" exactly what he wanted to see?
-
The Mark: The Wolf’s Mark allowed Flint to "feel" the other officers. Is this a tool he should use, or is it a leash he should cut off?
-
Gellia’s Aura: Her light is becoming "cold and spiteful." Is she losing her connection to Tyr, or is she just adapting to the Forbidden Lands?
?? SUPPORT THE JOURNEY & UNLOCK THE DM VAULT
"Wolf's Mark" progression system or the Stat-Blocks for the Red Bandana Ambushers, head over to my Patreon!
DM Vault this week:
-
Mechanic: The Crown of Madness (Tactical Variant). How to use social status to enhance Enchantment spells.
-
Item: The Animated Shield of the Bastion. Full stats for the "Hovering Sentinel" mode.
[Link to Patreon — Join the Pack]