Palmgrease’s skeleton crew, left by his manor, became bloodhounds. They abandoned their nooses once meant for a captive Arnzos, and rallied to search for where he had gone. Trackers dusted aside leaves from the brown sediments to look for claw prints. They hacked at bushes. Slashed through unkempt greenery and thick weeds to rule out spots of hiding. Unbeknownst to them, Arnzos couldn’t be found on the ground level.

  He scaled a voluminous tree. Fluffed up with plenty of green cover to conceal his body. He positioned himself by resting his spine against the crumbly bark. Around twenty five feet up. An arm slipped through one of the tree’s divergences. That locked him in place. Set with his foot claws balancing on a wobbly branch. Arnzos was glad that he and his sister had climbed many trees when they were younger. If not for that, he might have been discovered by now.

  Phyletta entered his subconscious. [“What’s your plan?”]

  [“Isolate Modra. There are some questions I need answering.”]

  [“I suggest transporting him to that small ravine over there.”] Phyletta used her ghostly form to point. [“More privacy.”]

  Arnzos mhm’d to affirm her.

  The ravine’s outskirts were sprinkled with brown hedges. A craggy pitfall on the other side. Two ridges mirrored themselves. Clumps of gravel below, in the hollowed out pit, huddled like newborn litters of gray puppies. If he took Modra there, it’d be certain to shut him up. Or at least, be easier to.

  Parties of careful vagabonds roamed the lush fringes of Arhuinim. They gave their commands as they listened; trying to hear any sound unusual for a forest. Modra’s group was around sixty feet from the ravine. Arnzos watched him lead three other bandits. Two of them—back to back. Though he was expected to replicate their behavior with the remaining bandit, Modra had no interest in doing so. His frustration at losing Arnzos made him volatile. He’d spare himself more frustration by patrolling with his back free.

  Arnzos flinched when a gash upon his leg cried out. The wounds were still open. Almost fresh, a third of a day old. Before he slid down the bark, he waited. If he could ambush the two that were close together, it would leave the upcoming battle as a two versus one. Instead of ambushing the straggler, which would leave it three versus one. Ambushing Modra was the worst option. He’d need to subdue him, then fight three. Not ideal.

  The back-to-back duo inched closer into Arnzos’ potential grasp. Patters of boots thumped nearly in unison. He almost laughed, seeing these four so unsuspecting. After a few more seconds, they were in a perfect position to become prey. Arnzos took his arm from the tree’s divergence. Freeing it for a dagger he stored in his ratty trousers. A dagger stolen from one of the executioners.

  It was all Arnzos had in terms of weaponry. Palmgrease told the truth when he talked about stealing Roxbane.

  Should talk to Phyletta first, he thought. [“I’ll take these two idiots under me. Can you blind the one that isn’t Modra?”]

  [“Gladly.”] Her words echoed, but only for him.

  Meanwhile, Modra wrinkled his snout. The futility of his situation nibbled away at him.

  His subordinate quivered. “What happens if we lose him, sir?”

  “I’m gonna blame it all on you.” Modra said.

  “Huh? Wait, me?! But I d-didn’t d-do anything!”

  “That’s exactly what I’ll tell Palmgrease. You didn’t do anything. So he got away.” Modra got eerily close to the grunt. Almost nose to nose. “Better keep looking then, right?”

  There, in that freakish moment of silence, Arnzos struck. He descended, claw against wood, and landed on a grunt’s spine. A cord broken. The grunt immobilized, likely for good. His friend gasped, only to be shut up right after. The dracokin's knife pierced his heart. A wheeze escaped him and he fell to his stomach. Cheeks almost touching with his spine-shattered buddy. Arnzos and Modra glared at one another. If their stares could be turned to weapons, they would kill.

  “There you are.” Modra unsheathed a knife. “Sneaky bastard. Never told me you knew the sorcerum.”

  “I don’t.”

  Arnzos approached the two reprobates, as Phyletta generated a helix-shaped pillar of pure white in her palms. To Modra, there was no one close to Arnzos. No pillar of light to see. Until, an immediate flash of white from nowhere nearly burned his pupils. The only reason it didn’t was because it wasn’t angled at him. His subordinate—a whiny, beardless dwarf—wailed in agony. He tumbled around, eventually tripping over a jetting stone into a dull stump. Wouldn’t be serving the Lord anymore.

  “How? W-what? I d-don’t—” Modra stopped stuttering when Arnzos flung his dagger at him. He moved just enough to avoid it hitting any vital areas, but still felt a tear along his arm. Before Modra could form a coherent thought, Arnzos snatched his pinkish hand. Scratching off white tufts of his fur as he bled. The rodinkin yelped, but shut up soon after. For a scaled fist cracked against his snout. Red ran down the pink nose and across white hair.

  Arnzos lifted him up. He ran for the hedge-sprinkled ridge, slid down a shallow till, and threw Modra against the collection of little rocks in the ravine. More tiny wounds. More tiny problems. The rodinkin took a breath—hoping to scream as loud as possible. But his opponent seized his lips and sealed them. Followed by him sticking a dagger to Modra’s chest.

  “I’m going to let go. Make any noise louder than a whisper and you die.”

  Modra solemnly nodded. The clawed grasp left his mouth. Arnzos recognized a shaking desperation within this mouseman. Different from the suave confidence he was used to seeing in him. Well, he had been bested before. The dracokin didn’t understand why Modra thought he had a chance a second time around. The mouse needed tons more training for him to reach the excellence of his Lord.

  Arnzos grasped the rodinkin’s gambeson. “Tell me why Palmgrease is raiding that place. The Luh… Lohfi—”

  “The ruins of Lahf’ikon,” Modra said quietly. “I’m not tellin’ you a damn thing about it.”

  “I’m too tired to play games.”

  He cleaved off a grubby digit of the mouse, as his eyes nearly popped out in response. Before he could alert the other patrolmen with a shriek of pain, Arnzos clamped down on his mouth again. Feeling the hot breath mixed with verbal suffering. Red spurted from the nub and Modra’s scream began to calm. Transitioned into a series of soft cries.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Better use your pyromancy,” Arnzos urged. “Don’t want that to get infected.”

  “The f-flame… won’t be… potent enough.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  He could tell Modra fell into the 'novice' category of sorcery practitioning.

  From what Arnzos heard, the Pure Sorcerum manifested itself in four different tiers that dictated how strong a magician was. Novice, intermediate, expert, and vertex. Novices and intermediates could perform the simple tasks with their magic. Heat or cool a room. Fill a canteen with water. Charge a metal doorknob with a shock. Intermediates obviously generated more sorcerous vigor, but nothing mind-boggling like an expert. Those were national champions, heroes of history. Prodigies in the Pure Sorcerum. The Whirlwind and the Maiden fit into that tier, he estimated. Masters of weather and element.

  The vertex, those were the mortals nearly made gods. Able to shift the geology of countries. Altering them permanently. Those in that tier made the Sorcerum Constructs. Like the one Arnzos defeated two years ago. That’s how Sunslash landed in his lap. A limb of a weakened Mini Construct. If he had fought a regular one, at its full power with its creator alive, he would not be here. With Modra pinned against this slippery till.

  He thought about how much easier it would have been to interrogate Modra with a threatening blade like Sunslash. Regardless, he was doing well without it.

  Arnzos slammed Modra’s head against a smoothed stone in the dirt. “Why is Palmgrease raiding the ruins?!”

  “Just end it. Hurry up and—”

  “Another finger then.”

  “No. No! All right, I’ll tell you.” Modra’s lower lip trembled, as he sniffled. “Three weeks ago, a scout of his found a trove of Psiona pearls in those ruins. Lahf’ikon was an old felinian settlement destroyed by some war thousands of years ago. Around here, it was assumed that the ruins held nothing of importance. But the Lord got lucky. He had issues with House Butcherie’s leader, King Sin, and found a way to overthrow him. Using those pearls, he can activate the constructs outside that lake we found you at.”

  “Where is Lahf’ikon?”

  “At the very northern tip of the Southern Gathering. Follow the mountains in the distance. From here, it should be straight forward toward them.”

  The dracokin eased his grip slightly. “Why were you the one who was gonna betray Palmgrease?”

  “Sin is stability. Palmgrease is chaos. The King is a certain future, while the Lord unnerves me every day I see him in power. I’d make a better house head than he would. He only had seniority because he was friends with the King when they were in that adventuring group together.”

  That’s right. From all the shit he was dragged through, Arnzos forgot about that part of the Lord’s past. He wondered if they had a conflict with the felinian tribes here to make them so hateful. Constantly scaring and beating and executing them. For what? Had to be a personal reason. Perhaps an attack on their part, like if their group was mistaken for some other party. Still, he wouldn’t give them too much sympathy. Everyone in Ystryx has their sob stories. Some more valid than others.

  “Did you have a plan for betraying him?” Arnzos kept on.

  “Eat shit, blue. I ain’t tellin’ you that.”

  “Fine. I’ll skip the fingers. Go for your whole hand instead.”

  “Okay, wait,” Modra said softly. “Palmgrease’s team. The three adventurers he’s sending to work through the ruins. I’m with one of them.”

  “‘With?’ Like…?”

  “Ungrette. The female cerulian. Dumb bitch thought I was going to marry her after I overthrew Palmgrease. I told her to steal the pearls for me. I couldn’t trust that uppity whore Waterfowl and Aipo is such a freak I wouldn’t talk to him even if I was locked up in a cell with him.”

  “Wow. You actually have a brain after all.” Arnzos chuckled faintly.

  “Fuck you. I know what you’re thinkin’. Lie to Ungrette, or lie to all three of them. Say you’re with Palmgrease. You’re predictable, blue. And it’ll get you slaughtered.”

  He shrugged in response to Modra’s statement. “Hadn’t thought that far yet. But, I like that idea. Thanks.”

  “Wait! Arnzos. I have a son!”

  The bluescale’s dagger plunged into his belly. Angled up nearly to Modra’s chest. Arnzos shook his head lightly. No, had he misheard the mouseman? A son? Why mention a son now? Just to blindside him with a crash of guilt? He couldn’t lie, it worked. He wasn’t sure why it worked either.

  Arnzos had slain a countless number of people. In the Ul-Baqshan-Ontullian War. A few in his independent jobs back in Hylverea. A couple after his disbandment of the Jarzikoy crew. Following the heist on Burgen Mhonto. He was no stranger to the end of life. Still, those six words irked him. Deep in his heart. He thought of how Modra murdered that gray haired felinian. He thought of the prospect that the murder was only one of many. Still, that clamp on his chest remained.

  Perhaps Arnzos found a way to mortalize the living and demortalize the dead. Such were the ways of warriors that killed without stop. If they found no way to cope, they would fall on their own blade. Nonetheless, he was ashamed he felt this way. Guilt for such a piece of garbage. He nearly bubbled up to his talons in anger. As if they could pop off from the pressure drifting through his veins.

  He wrestled with that clamp over his heart. Quite a clamp it was. He gave a final kick to Modra. The corpse slunk down and sputtered at the lips; he seized from no more bodily function. Yet, Arnzos still couldn’t elude the notion of a lonely mouse boy. Calling out to his father. By himself, in a dingy street somewhere. He paced around on the gravel and tried to clear his mind.

  “You think your tricks work on me?” Arnzos said to the corpse. “They don’t! I’m a good person. I’m not a… a fucking—”

  Phyletta’s voice snapped him away from his fervor. [“Arnzos! We should depart. Please.”]

  It was the right course of action. He wouldn’t protest. Arnzos clawed up the side of the ravine and rolled into the leafy ground above. In a stumbly motion, he rose to a stand. Before him, thirty feet to his right, was Armond. He followed the prints left by Modra’s boots. How did he know? Well, they were quite a bit smaller than most other knights. They left more refined prints as well.

  “Uh, hey.” Armond rested his spear by his side. “I surrender. I don’t wanna die.”

  He noticed a height similarity between the two of them. Though the greasy man was a few inches shorter, his hide armor and leggings would fit decently well on him. Anything was better than the torn brown tunic Arnzos wore for days now.

  “If you give me your equipment, I’ll let you live.” Arnzos commanded.

  Armond undressed as fast as his dirty hands could take off clothes. He also tossed his spear to the ground. Soon enough, the leather garments of a House Butcherie knight laid before Arnzos. He slipped on the attire. Pulling it at the edges to tighten it around his bulkier body. It accentuated the features of the dracokin’s chest, since Armond looked like a scarecrow compared to him. Once his new garb was on proper, he went for the spear, held it in both hands, and grunted.

  All Arnzos did after was glare at Armond; he perked up and took off for the hills. Nothing covered his bits other than a pair of undertrousers.

  Arnzos groaned in disgust at wearing this signifier of depravity. If he had any other choice of clothes, he would take them. But he did not. So for now, Butcherie’s hooded leather would do. It would have given him the benefit of blending in with their group, if not for all the mayhem he caused.

  The miscellaneous bandits of Palmgrease checked around stones and logs for clawprints of the bluescale. They didn’t know they had lost him. Just as they didn’t know Modra and his cohorts were never to be capable again. Some because of their injuries. Others because of their halted organs. Arnzos weaved through many jutting plants and blue-thistled behemoths. Until he made it upon freedom. A sweet sensation.

  Though in that moment, freedom granted him the power to free others. Like the felinian tribes that toiled under Butcherie. He followed the mountains, like Modra said, with liberty for innocents clanging in his mind. It was off to Lahf’ikon to begin the Lord’s ruin. First, by taking back his possessions. Roxbane and the horse and the fleece. Then, by destroying his flagrant tyranny.