Chapter Two (Rough Draft still need name for Female Character But I thought that at least I could start getting some comments on it)

2!!! This is chapter 2!!!!!

The clouds gave away the sun’s morning entrance, basking in its light before it climbed over the crest of the horizon and the trees. Red light entered the room as it reflected off the glass windows of the buildings surrounding the palace’s western wall. But Arkeir didn’t notice. His eyes had adjusted from the darkness of night, to the grey of the predawn, and then to the dawn itself as he stared at the whitewash ceiling above his bed. Unfolding his arms from behind his head he silently leaped from top bunk to land in a crouch on the stone floor, cold beneath his bare feet. The other boys in the room, five not including him, slept soundly. (Rumpford) had returned from the infirmary before supper and now snored in peace, bandages wrapped around several parts of his body, making it look like more bandages and odd lumps then skin.

Each orphan had their own bed, which were in the fashion of bunks to conserve room. Not that the rooms were small by anyone’s standards, but when you had six children to a room, you conserved whatever space you could. Each child also had their own desk, which consisted of a wooden table with drawers and a chair. These desks could be positioned throughout the room and a rotation was sit up in most rooms so that no one person would ever have the widow spot all too themselves.

The rooms weren’t nearly as lavish as the guests to the crown room, but neither were they as bad as what some of the children had come from.

Arkeir looked underneath his bunk to where Dorian lay, mumbling, “Just one more cherry tart.” Shaking his head, Arkeir crossed to his dresser throwing on loose pants that had been, cut at the knees to allow for greater mobility. He then dragged on a cream tunic, however, this one had been worn so many times in so many rigorous activities that it had accumulated several holes and numerous stains that stubbornly could not be washed out, over his head and belted on his weapons belt which held two scimitars at his hips and a long dagger alongside his left. He threw on socks and laced up his boots and padded silently out of their room, opening and closing the door with barely a breath of air sounding.

He walked down the blue walled hall passing doors on his left and right that led to more rooms filled with boys of several ages.

He kept his head bowed, staring at the carpet beneath his feet which was wearing thin from the several hundred pairs of feet that had scuffed, shuffled, walked, and ran on it daily for tens of years.

Describe Carpet

As he entered the dining hall several heads of the few patrons lifted from their meals or turned from their conversations to see who was entering. Seeing that it was Arkeir many immediately turned back, while a few took in his appearance lingering on the brown leather scabbards at his waist.

Teachers, students, and orphans alike ate in the dining hall, many choosing to intermix with those of separate groups, but for the most part many stayed within their year groups, especially the orphans. Long wooden tables took up most of the room. Each had around fifty chairs on either side, around because most of the patrons ended up moving chairs to other tables so that they could sit with their friends, or around anyone who was telling a story, a bit of news, or the latest gossip.

Arkeir went to a table along one of the walls and began selecting food from several heated metal containers to eat for breakfast. Moving off he sat by himself near a large recess in the wall where its wooden bottom was laden with dirty plates, cups, utensils, and containers. As he began to eat a servant came over and pulled a rope that went up and into the sealing. Within seconds, the wooden slab began to lower into what was a shaft that reached down into the kitchens. Arkeir took his time eating his breakfast and didn’t look up as several people came by and dropped their dirty utensils off during the course of his meal. Many of the orphans glanced at him as they passed, while the students that came from the more wealthy families of the city openly gawked at him. Those teachers that passed him said some variation of “good morning” to him as they walked by. Showing them proper respect he’d reply but always without looking up from his food.

After finishing he took his utensils up and then headed for the staircase next to the door on the opposite side of the room from which he had entered. A group of gaggling orphans and students looked up at him. Those who only came for their studies quickly ran away as he moved in their direction. The orphans, all who were no older than seven years old stared up at him, some even had their mouths hanging open as Arkeir’s lean body stood over them. “Excuse me please,” he said in his deep tones. The orphans quickly shuffled to make a path for them. “Thanks.” He walked between them, opening the door and making his way down the staircase, which circled in on itself. After dropping six flights of stairs he came out into long tunnel whose walls and roof curved into a half circle.

Guards started flowing out of doors in the wall that led to their barracks, bleary eyed and yawning, all attired in their personal or issued armor and weapons. They formed into loose ranks and snapped to attention as Bernard appeared in front of them bellowing at the top of his longs. Insults and threats echoed in the long enclosed tunnel as the men jumped to attention. As soon as he was satisfied that they were in a decent formation he turned on his heel and marched out of the open doors and raised portcullis which was guarded by two other soldiers. The guards nodded as he passed by them and he acknowledged them with a similar nod.

When he caught up with the Sergeant Major, Bernard said without looking down, “I swear ta yee, yuh can’ ever fin’ good help these days. Ever’one is a lazy sack o’ horse shit fresh outta their mother’s arses.” His grim expression never changed behind his beard as he ranted about the men and women not two feet behind him. Arkeir just followed in silence.

Bernard sighed heavily. “Yee know,” he said drawing out his speech. “Yee coul’ talk a lil’ bit more ever’ now an’ then.”

Arkeir kept walking, staring straight ahead, his face a stern but indifferent mask.

“You’ll be working with Herbert today.”

This caught Arkeir’s attention. He looked up at Bernard with disapproval in his eyes, but said nothing.

Bernard peeked down at him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to protest aloud. When Arkeir looked away, Bernard smacked him upside the back of his head.

He stumbled, nearly falling in the dirt. “Why’d you do that,” Arkeir asked indignantly.

It was Bernard’s turn to stare straight ahead. “Figure i’ out fur yeeself. Plus ‘e coul’ use the help.”

Arkeir looked back over his shoulder to where he saw the young pimply man in question, gangly and seemingly uncoordinated in his own body as he tripped over his own feet. He snorted derisively, “he needs more help than just with a blade.”

The back of Bernard’s hand connected with the back of Arkeir’s head again, causing his body to jerk weirdly as his feet carried him forward and his head was pushed back. Instead of reacting, Arkeir merely moved farther ahead, jogging to the trampled earth of the practice field used by the part of the army that was stationed inside the palace grounds.

Dew still clung to the sparse tufts of grass that somehow had survived the many practice sessions and drills that took place here. They shone brilliantly in the morning sun as Arkeir slowed to a walk. He performed a few simple stretches before deftly sliding his scimitars out of their sheaths. He began to drill alone, first holding both swords tip down and then smoothly and slowly with meticulous precision he transferred his body into a fighting stance. He then moved from stance to stance shifting his weight here blocking a sword strike, a spear thrust, an axe cleave all with barely any effort. He continued to flow through his repertoire of blocks, parries, and attacks until the (company/platoon/etc) had finished drilling in their full formation.

Even then Arkeir continued with his exercises as if nothing was happening around. Herbert showed up and stared at Arkeir’s gracefulness in open admiration and waited to be noticed. Arkeir continued to ignore him, until finally Herbert cleared his throat and, his speech stumbling over his own tongue, said “Arkeir, s-sir, th’ the Sergeant Maj-j-jor instructed me-e-e to…to…”

Arkeir stood up from his latest form and stared at the gangly young man with open contempt. “I know why you are here Herby, now, are you ready to begin or are you going to sit there and shat yourself in excitement?”

Herbert seemingly unaware that he had just been insulted jumped to attention, consequentially banging his own sword against his helm. “Yes-ow!”

Shaking his head Arkeir began to approach Herbert, raising his twin swords into a more ready position.

Herbert, after rearranging his helm and chainmail coif, jumped in surprise, startled to see Arkeir moving towards him with what looked like he had every intention to attack. “Wha-What are you doing?” he (squeaked/yelled) in fear.

Continuing forward Arkeir replied, “Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to spar.”

All the color drained from Herbert’s face, “But I’ve never sparred with live steel before. At least that is none that hasn’t been wrapped before.” As he finished this last statement Arkeir swung at his helm.

Describe Spar?

***

“And this, (sires) and (ladies), is where the army trains when their rotation has them stationed here as guards.” Lady Madeliene was leading around a group of splendidly dressed (rulers) who had come to the invitation of Lady Madeliene for a council.

A chubby little man at the front of the group, whose belly pressured the buttons of his coat to nearly bursting, began stroking his groomed (mustache/goatee) with bejeweled fingers as if he were considering the properties of some philosophical question. Without turning he raised the large and stubby index finger of his stroking hand into the air, and wagging it he tutted and asked, “you say that they are on a rotation, my lady? Would you be so kind as to explain this concept to me? I have never heard of such a thing. Most keep a soldier posted at his post and that’s that. No rotations, no changes.” He was looking at the group as if he were looking for the right vegetable among a crate of them, although one would doubt that he’d ever done such a thing in his life.

“It is our belief that by never keeping the same soldiers at the same post, they have time to eventually truly rest and learn new skills and hone others by constantly changing how they must keep lookouts and guard their post. That and by leaving a guard to look at the same tree day in and day out, is to (create) boredom and then laziness, and this is the time that the enemy would choose to attack.”

He clapped his (chubby), little hands together, the gold rings clinking together. “Oh, that is splendid, absolutely genius,” he proclaimed. “I shall have to implement this hence I return to (land/fiefdom/etc).”

The crowd behind them began to murmur (appreciatively) to their spouses and other rulers in agreement or otherwise about the idea of adopting this style of guarding one’s lands.

A mighty roar caused the whispering group to jump in the air and scurry behind Lady Madeleine who stood still, watching as Bernard stomped over to a woman bearing a long sword. The squat man peeked around the slender form or Lady Madeleine whose frame did nothing to hide his overly large one. Sweat beaded on his balding (palette) as he asked nervously, “what or who was that my Lady?”

She smiled mischieviously to herself, “that is my sergeant major.”

Bernard’s tirade reached their ears as he verbally berated the female soldier, “yee stupi’ whore, sired by a brain adle’ pig and rabid bitch of a mother. Wha’ the in the twelve hells do yee think yur doin’?”

Many of the men of Lady Madeleine’s company gasped in shock as all of the women did at the way he was speaking to a woman. The man who had been speaking to Lady Madeleine of late only muttered, “Oh, (blimey/bugger/how dreadful).” His face turning whiter than its paleness already had it at.

“Do not think less of him,” she instructed them, knowing full well what it was that had caused their reaction. “It is for her own good.”

A few in the crowd mumbled about the indignanty of it all and eyed him despicably through narrowed slits.

“Who might that be?” asked one of the ladies from the side of the group, pointing off towards the side of the main group of fighters.

All turned to face the direction she had indicated and saw a pair in heated combat. One was scampering backwards, pleading with the other not to kill him, asking what wrong he had done to him. The other was a flurry of movement as he slashed and stabbed with near reckless abandon at his retreating foe. But, all could see his calm demeanor as he calculated each move and continued to rain in blow after blow, slapping the flat of his blades against the man instead of actually dicing him up, which would have been an easy matter indeed.

Lady Madeleine’s face fell and a grimace spread across her earlier expressionless face. “That ladies and gentlemen is an example of the aftermath of our enemies’ atrocities. A hollowed out shell filled with a single mindedness of revenge and power. Compassion, even though it has been shown since the death of their parents, is not in their nature and (while/since) they do not ask for it, neither do they give it.” The faces of those next to her fell at her explanation and no one pushed for further information as the man fell backwards, his sword flying from his grasp. The other walked over to him and savagely kicked him in his ribs, yelling at him to get up and regain his sword. The man merely gathered himself up into a ball and cried in pain and in fear.

“Do not let his example become the stereotype for the others,” she said, a note of disappointment in her voice. The group of rulers murmured their consent and agreement, a few nodding along with their spoken acknowledgement. With a tone of authority that brooked no argument she instructed, “Why don’t we continue on with the tour of the grounds.” Again the group unanimously agreed in a dull murmur and, as one, followed the Lady Madeleine, throwing glances over their shoulders.

***

“Get up!”

Arkeir’s foot swung back again and with all of the force he could muster, he kicked forward. But his foot caught at the farthest point of ascent. Pivoting he turned to see who had grabbed him, even though he had a pretty good guess of who it was. Bernard stood one massive hand grasping Arkeir’s entire ankle in its might grasp. The sergeant major’s eyes burned with an anger that was seldom, if ever, seen by those not across from him in true battle. His chest heaved in an effort to slow his breathing as his fury rose to a boiling point. Face growing red, several veins in his head began pulsing furiously as his teeth grinded against each other.

When he finally spoke it was in a low growl, “If yee were one o’ mine, I’d have yee whipped like the rabid demon yee’re actin’ like.”

A nerve inside Arkeir twanged as it was pulled and snapped. His face fell at the underhanded blow and looking at the ground, his eyes hooded by hair and shadow he intoned in a similar way, “I was only doing what you told me to do. I did as you have taught.”

At that Bernard dropped his foot in shock, the anger quickly dissipating from his system, his face returning to a pale hue. He stared at Arkeir his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. His mind reeled as he thought of all of their conversations, all of their discussions, and all of the lectures he and Arkeir had been a part of. And he found that he could not rebuttal.

Arkeir spun on his heel, walking off with the confident stride that was his trademark. He slid the scimitars into their respective sheaths and walking by the whimpering Herbert (said in a low voice, “Your blocking has gotten better.”) With that he made his way back to the west wing of the palace, leaving behind him a shocked (platoon) and an even more stunned sergeant major.

***

Arkeir made his way quickly through the tunnel and the staircases, taking an alternative route, from that morning’s, and detours to avoid the greatest amount of people. Not that they’d bother him with questions or conversation, but if they saw the dark mood he was in, it’d cause a wildfire of gossip that would spark a search for the truth, which would be uncovered in no time at all if people were actually looking for it. And then the fear of him would only grow and the teachers and older children would watch him accusingly and suspiciously as if they were waiting for him to lose his mind and start slaughtering the others. He was tired of it. Ever since he had become focused on the art of war people had feared him. They had not liked him since he had even arrived nearly (put him at five years old). He was different. He was quiet, but not in a shy sense.

There was only one person here that had taken to him and been able to penetrate his dark (walls/armor/atmosphere/demeanor), and that was Dorian. Clown of the orphans, Dorian’s talent lied in his ability to get people to laugh and smile, whether he had to tell a story, which were always embellished, do a trick, or pull a prank, he felt a need to do what he did and the attention that it awarded him was not something that he hated one bit. But to say that he craved it would be ignorant.

Arkeir was far from disrespectful, he answered when called upon in class or when he outright knew the answer that he knew no one else would know, he spoke to the teachers, servants, and other adult inhabitants of the palace and city with a (common/equal) level of respect, but he did not go out of his way to converse with them unless he felt that it was, in some way, necessary.

Reaching the boy’s common (bathroom), he stripped, threw his (soiled/dirty) clothes into the hamper chute that allowed any dirty clothes to fall down into a waiting basket that at the end of the day, would be emptied into a giant wash basin. He hung his belt, with scimitars and knife, on a peg near the door and proceeded to the original tub that now served as the bucket filling station so that the bathers could then dump their full buckets, of whatever temperature they wanted, into one of ten basins used for bathing.

Grabbing a wooden bucket from beside the pewter tub, he twisted open both knows so as to increase the pressure and quicken the filling process for goose bumps were already starting to rise off of his chilled skin. Without waiting for the water to warm up, Arkeir filled bucket after bucket as fast as he could, switching off between two so as not to waste any time. Once his basin was full, he lowered himself in to the (How cold? Description) cold water, a sharp intake a breath the only sign that the temperature disturbed him whatsoever. He quickly lathered himself up with the soap on the stand next to his basin rubbing it in to his skin and hair vigorously.

After he had rinsed, the water had warmed up to his body temperature, which compared to what it had been during the process of his bath was warmer than one would think. He submerged his body and rested his head against the rim of the basin, closing his eyes. He let the soft trickle of the disturbed water lull him into a half-sleep as he allowed his mind to go blank.

“Hey there, nakey.”

Arkeir launched himself into the air and, slipping on the bar of soap that he had let fall into the water, flopped back into the water as his feet flew from underneath him. His torso and head were submerged as he had landed on his back, and he flailed his arms and legs wildly. A hand grasped his and he clung to it as he was yanked out of the murderous washbasin. Dripping wet and stark naked, Arkeir heaved the precious air around him into the farthest depths of his frantic lungs, trying to slow his pounding heart.

Dorian stood in front of him and exaggeratedly averted his eyes, slapping a hand over them. “Would the One God please have mercy on my virgin eyes,” he mock-prayed exasperatedly. “I do swear I will go blind at the whiteness of your legs.”

Arkeir sloshed water on his unsuspecting friend, making the crotch of his pants dark. “You always gotta get even don’t cha?” he asked as he looked down at himself in mock dismay.

Arkeir shrugged and made his way carefully across the stone floor to where a rack of piled towels lay. Drying himself off as fast as he could so that he could avoid anything that Dorian might try to do to him.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes you over emotional ogress hermit.”

“Shut up and tell me why you came in here, or was it just to say me in a bath again?” he smirked mischieviously.

Dorian’s eyebrows raised up into his blond hair and he started stomping around the room, throwing his hands up in the air and shouting about the indignation of it all. About how he was more insulted than a king could be even if his daughter’s hand was asked for in marriage by a troll of the lowest birth. By the time he had finished his tirade, Arkeir was fully dried off and had wrapped a dry towel around his waist.

Shoulders hunched, chest heaving, red in the face, Dorian stared at his friend waiting for him to say something.

“Are you ready to go?” Arkeir asked (nonchalantly/mock-bored/feigning boredom).

“Yea, let’s go,” Dorian said snapping up straight.

Arkeir shook his head at his friend’s spastic randomness.

They exited the (bathing room/bathroom/etc.) and emersed themselves into the crowd that was forcing itself in both directions down the hallway. Kids jostled each other when their shoulders hit. Accusations and threats were volleyed as both parties turned around to see who had run into them. The students were not a violent or overly angry bunch(, though). For the most part the noise and overall dull roar was the pleasant conversations of friends, punctuated by calls across the way to others. Very few girls were in the boy’s (wing/hall) this early in the morning so Arkeir was not overly concerned about who saw him (wrapped up in a towel/with nothing but a towel to cover his nakedness up with).

Dorian barreled his way perpendicularly into the crowd, parting the bodies like a (swan parts the water it glides on. Albeit a muscular swan whose purpose and enjoyment comes from pushing water and leaves out of its path.) People’s features quickly became affronted at his tactic and numerous callings of:

“Watch it!”

“What do you think you’re doing!?”

“Look where you’re going whore!”

One boy in their year even yelled, “Oi! Dung brains, we’re all trying to get somewhere,” when Dorian’s charging, wadding body.

Many of them stopped yelling at him as Arkeir (slipped by them/walked by them as if no one else was in the hallway), weapon’s belt laid across his shoulder, in Dorian’s wake. They stopped then because they didn’t know how he’d react to them and their name-calling. The first time someone had spoken out against Dorian, while Arkeir was around, the boy who was four years older than them at the time, two heads taller, and a minor noble to boot, ended up with just that in the fork of his legs twice before falling to his knees. The young Arkeir, having been at the orphanage for barely a moon turn, then grabbed the boy’s tongue and pulled it out of his mouth and placed his other small, calloused hand on the boy’s smooth jaw. He had intoned, the lighting throwing most of his face into shadow, “If I ever find out that you’ve spoken out against Dorian again….” He pushed up against the boy’s lower jaw, forcing him to bend his head back and begin biting his own tongue off. “I’ll make sure you never speak again.” He released the bully who the toppled over and onto the floor. He and his group of followers had taken off down the hall whimpering.

(tell more about how Dorian walks up to him and is thankful and won’t stop talking?)

That’s when the rumors had started. Dorian had gone and told anyone who would listen giving a full demonstration from both Arkeir’s and the bully’s point of view. He would first be in one spot, acting the pompous noble’s son and then would quickly jump and turn to suddenly become Arkeir. He told the story with no personal embellishments for there was no need to. The story astounded everyone and children of all ages, from the orphanage and from families in the city, came to congratulate him and ask him to tell them what had been going on in his head at the time, wanting to know where he’d learned to fight.

The young Arkeir merely stared at them, his eyes hard and emotionless, while they barraged him with questions. Whenever they would corner him, he would stand there and act as if he was quietly taking in all of their questions, and then would suddenly and unexpectedly walk through the crowd and leave wherever he had been. Even if he was in the middle, or sometimes at the beginning, of eating a meal, he’d take it up and then walk out of the dining hall.

Dorian had constantly sought out his savior, doing whatever he could think of to help out the boy that had stood up for him.

Arkeir ignored him the best he could. Eventually he turned on him and told him flatly to go away and to leave him be. The (sprightly/spiritedly/good intentioned/hopeful/etc.) Dorian explained for nearly an hour all the reasons why he couldn’t do that, following Arkeir as he began to walk away, filling his ear with an (uninterrupting/non-stopping/unstopping) (line of dialogue/line of babble/line of explanations and reasons). Finally Dorian had stopped saying, ‘friends help each other like that.’

Not knowing what to do Arkeir had sighed, and turning away said, ‘Do you want to go get something to eat?’

Dorian and Arkeir finally made it into the other current of students, which were heading back in the direction their room. Finally making it there they arrived to find it empty. Dorian paced around the room, pointedly looking anywhere but at Arkeir as got dressed into the cream tunic and leggings that designated them a ward and student of the palace.

“How’d practice go this morning with the guard?”

Arkeir, not looking up as he pulled his legs through their holes said, “Fine.”

“That’s a lie,” Dorian said in a bored tone as he inspected a quill that he had picked up from the floor. He pocketed the quill and then told him (in the same way he had), “Let me guess, you sparred with someone and they got a hit. Now I understand that you want to be the best and that getting hit means that you’re either hurt or dead. But honestly, how many hits did you get in on him before he was able to get in on you?”

Arkeir continued not to look up at him as he placed his belt around his waist. “Bernard placed me with Herbert.”

“Ah,” Dorian said fighting off the mirth that was creeping into the (inflection) in his voice.

He shot him a cold look. “When I complained, he about knocked my head off. And not once but twice. I don’t understand why though, I was only telling the truth and I was treating Herbert just like the Sergeant Major treats everyone when he’s drilling them.”

Dorian peeked out of the corner of his eye to see if Arkeir was dressed. Seeing that he was he turned around and faced him.

“Well….” Dorian’s face became suddenly thoughtful and he looked up at one of the ceiling’s corners, pondering. “Well, you’re just going to have to tell me about on the way to geography.”

They walked out into the hallway, which by now, with most of the boys not yet out of their rooms after returning to them, was relatively empty. At least it was compared to the earlier throng of boys leaving breakfast to return to their rooms to pick up what they needed for the day. Girls were now walking through the Boy’s Wing as it was, for some, the quickest route to where they were heading. Many of them waved, smiled, said hello, or performed any combination of the aforementioned to or at Dorian. He always greeted them in turn, always avoiding using name even if he knew for certain that it was the right one. His reasoning behind this had always been, “The one time you get it wrong, it’ll either be the most inopportune time or it’ll travel around the city that you’re a whoremonger.”

Shaking his head in slight astonishment Arkeir whispered, “Dorian, I have no idea how you keep up with all of-” he waved his hands in the air as if the answer was floating just above him, “-with all of them. The attention, the people, the girls (separating them as if they were another thing altogether).”

Dorian smiled mischievously, “that my friend is showmanship. I am a trouper at heart and in mind and body. You on the other hand are the essence of the warrior.” He finished off his whisperings with a mighty yell, proclaiming it with grandeur, one hand raised in the air in a triumphant fist.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked mock-affronted.

Dorian stuck his nose in the air and taking on a snobbish tone and stance told him, “I am implying that you have neither sense of humor nor a taste for the finer things in life,” as if he were explaining something very simple to someone very stupid.

Arkeir shoved his friend jokingly, however, forgetting his own strength, Dorian stumbled a bit and then fell sidelong into a wall forcing two very pretty noble girls to stop and gasp.

“Oh dear, are you hurt?” the blond one asked as she placed her books off to the side to help pull Dorian upright.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” cried the brunette in severe tones, looking every inch the chastising mother.

Arkeir began to open his mouth.

“Uh uh uh,” the brunette tutted, waving her finger in front of his face to emphasize each word. “I don’t want to hear any of your excuses. Are you alright?” She too dropped to her knees beside Dorian, whom was rubbing head and leaning heavily against the blond.

“I…I think I’ll be ok. I feel much better since you two started looking after me. The One-God must have had us walking in this way at this very moment in time so that when this…brute shoved me, I’d have two of his angels to look after me.”

The girls awed and looked at each other, their eyes wide with the sweetness of his words.

Quickly, Dorian glanced up at Arkeir and gave him a very smug smirk and a conspiratorial wink, before returning back to his previous state of the helpless-victim.

“Wouldn’t you believe it,” he whispered under his breath as the girls began to croon over him again. He turned and began walking away, the girls calling after him all the while.

***

Arkeir walked into a room that had been refurbished into a classroom a few minutes, hallways, and staircases later. On one wall was a map of the known territories and world with as much description as the knowledge of all of those in the city permitted.

Several rolled up maps lay in cubbies while all the tools of a topographer lay inside drawers and on counters around the room. A (birch) desk sat in the corner of the room, papers strewn across it. Thirty desks were placed facing the board, each with a small cutout recesses to hold inkwells. All but two of the desks at the back of the classroom were filled with students, both from the orphanage and the surrounding noble’s district.

Hardly anybody glanced up to see who the new arrival was and those who did looked away, unconcerned.

Almost none of the other students carried live steel weapons on them, or preferred to keep them locked up in their rooms or the weapons shed at the practice grounds rather than lug them around. Those who did, however, hung them up on pegs near the door that were meant for cloaks in the fall and winter months. Arkeir, on the other hand, carried his weapons with him to his desk, removed his weapons belt, and placed it next to his chair on the floor.

Dorian burst through the door, with (teacher) their teacher right behind him. A few chuckled at Dorian’s flirtation with being counted truant.

He sat down with solid thump and let the air woosh out of him.

“Hey,” he whispered breathless.

Arkeir ignored him as (teacher) set down a pile of thin books stacked on top of a crate that jangled when he set it down on top of his desk.

“Dorian, would you be so kind as to distribute the journals and a single inkwell of each color to everybody?” he said kindly as he began shuffling his notes into a neat pile.

“Sir, would it not be a better idea if you had someone else do it? I am obviously out of breath and—”

“Dorain?”

“I have it under control, sir,” Dorian said as he heaved himself up out of his seat.

The class laughed as he jogged to the front of the classroom and began to distribute the items that (teacher) had brought in.

“Today you will be receiving your very own map journal and three inkwells which you will rely on to create the maps of your choice. They are black, blue, and red. The blue and red inks are made nearly the same way that oil paints and glaze are made. Except through its own process and it’s much easier to find the colors in nature itself before mixing all of the ingredients together. The process, if you wish to learn it, can be explained to you by Master (scientist).

But to the point. Each week I will expect a map to be drawn and you will be awarded your grade on how accurate it is, your ingenuity, usage of legends, and the overall explanation of why you chose that area to map out. Just because someone may draw a map of a barren wasteland does not mean that it’s less useful than a map of (city). On the contrary it may be far more useful to that particular person. However, that does not mean that I want to see thirty barren wastelands each week.”

The class laughed at being caught thinking that exact thing.

“Nor does it mean that I want to see thirty such barren wastelands in any one person’s journal,” he said looking obviously at Dorian’s back.

Everyone laughed again except Dorian who continued to hand out stacks of leather bound journals to the front of each row.

Noticing that (teacher) had stopped talking he looked up and saw that everyone was staring at him, turned to see (teacher) looking at him with a smirk on his face and then back to the class.

“Well, would you believe it?” he said indignantly, puffing himself up like a popping jay. “Now why, kind sir, would you think of implying that I would be the one to do such a thing?”

Everyone laughed at the obviousness of it.

(teacher) continued to smirk, “I imply nothing,” he said feigning being insulted. “It is you who infers that I am talking about you. Does the kind sir have a guilty conscience?”

“At least they’d all have brilliant reasons,” he muttered under his breath as he turned back to his task, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The classroom erupted with laughter. Eyes began to water and some even began choking on sobs brought on by the volleying of humorous verbal exchanges between (teacher) and Dorian.

(Teacher) shook his head and said, his tone light, “You will begin today. I will be available at my desk to answer any question or help you in any way I can. I will also be coming around to check on your progress.”

He moved to his seat, placing bifocals on the tip of his nose which he used to magnify the images on the parchment in front of him.

Many of the students moved to the shelves on the left side of the room, including Dorian. Arkeir, on the other hand, went straight to (teacher)’s desk. He waited patiently for him to notice that he was standing there. When he hadn’t he said in low talking voice, “Excuse me.”

(teacher) looked up from the notes map in front of him. “Oh, Arkeir, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could see your maps.” His tone was flat, never broaching a (joking manner).

“Well, I guess so. I’ll have to screen them you know? I can’t just give you every one of my maps.”

“I understand.”

(Teacher) examined Arkeir over the rims of his magnifying glasses. He sighed and took the spectacles away from his nose. He turned around and began fumbling with a ring, an innumerable amount of keys and miscellaneous items dangling from it. He muttered to himself under his breath as he began unlocking the cabinet that contained some of his personal maps.

“Is there anything in particular that you’re wishing to see?” (teacher) asked, his voice slightly muffled due to the fact that he was facing away from Arkeir.

Arkeir thought about it, wrestling with two locations.

(Teacher) swiveled around in his chair to look at Arkeir, cocking an eyebrow as he waited, wondering why Arkeir, who was usually a no non-sense have-everything-planned-and-ready type, wouldn’t have already known what he wanted.

“A map of (Continent) and all of the way stations, or ones that contain the location of way stations and I’ll create my own map that contains only way stations, inns, and the like.”

“Are you talking up-to-date way stations or ones that have been around for years, possibly pre-Great War era?”

“All of them if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Not at all, however, I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all of the maps that I give you,” he said turning back to the cabinet. “Some of these were drawn up by bards.

“I heard that,” Dorian said from somewhere inside the crowd that was still searching the cubbies and drawers for maps that they wanted.

The pair smiled. “In all seriousness though, some of them are only based on what the bard knew of a particular event or piece of history. No one has had time to verify all of them.”

“That’s fine, sir.”

(Teacher) swung back and began digging through the stacks of books and single sheets of parchment, handing the ones he deemed safe for Arkeir too look at over his shoulder without stopping his gathering or looking back. Arkeir stood there bring laying them on (teacher)’s desk. He soon had a small pile of books, journals, and individual pieces of parchment, which he took back to his desk. After lying them down he took a stand from the corner, which could be angled to hold whatever someone was copying. He found one that would give him the basic outline of (Continent) and began sketching with the utmost care and attention to every miniscule detail.

(more?)

At the end of the period a bell rang inside the tower in the center of the courtyard of the Palace. Everyone rushed to put their materials in the bags having stopped their sketching to allow the ink to dry. Arkeir toted his stack of borrowed maps back up to Master (teacher)’s desk.

“Thank you for allowing me to use these, sir.”

“You can come to me if you ever need to see these again. It wouldn’t be fair if you weren’t allowed to see them while everyone else gets to take there’s with them.”

“Sometimes life isn’t fair, sir.”

(Teacher) stared at him, his mouth forming a firm line as his lips pressed together. “Be that as it may, this is my class and not life. It is one of my principles to try and create as equal an opportunity and learning environment for every student that I have.”

“Thank you, Master (teacher).”

“Whew,” Dorian sighed as they left the Master (Topographer/Cartographer)’s classroom. “That is by far one of the most pointless classes I’ve ever taken. And if you remember correctly I’ve taken some real snoozers.”

History is so boring,” he said drawing it out. “I mean, honestly, the only time it gets interesting is when there was someone fighting, or one person buggering the wife of another.”

Arkeir snickered at Dorian’s brutal honesty and straightforward humor. “They wouldn’t have made it a required class if wasn’t important though,” he reasoned.

Dorian rolled his eyes exasperatedly has they made their way down one of the old-servant’s tightly winding staircases. “Are you telling me that mathematics is necessary? There is no way that it is.”

“What about money.”

“All I need to know is how to count: one, two, three.” He raised and pointed to three of his fingers in turn. “That obviously is needed. But (trajectory)? I think not.”

“Measuring the distance and strength of catapults and other volleying weapons?”

“Keep firing and move it as you go.”

“What if you have a limited amount of ammuniton?”

“Get it right the first time,” Dorian said bluntly.

“And would you do that one, oh wise and intelligent Dorian?” he asked mockingly. “You never did teach your soldiers how to judge range or how to adjust for everything!”

“Be lucky.”

Dorian said this last answer so seriously that Arkeir couldn’t help but laugh a little. Most of their arguments, or debates and teachings-of-Arkeir as Dorian liked to call them, ended like this. Dorian would come up with an answer to every question and scenario that Arkeir threw at him no matter how ridiculous his answers were. And whenever Arkeir complained that it wasn’t logical, Dorian would waggle his finger in front of Arkeir’s face and tell him, “You never said it had to be logical.”

Every student that planned on being a part of the Palace’s school system for a substantial period of time, and therefore, by default, every orphan, was required to take certain classes over the years. Some of the required classes could be taken whenever the individual wanted to while they were inside the palace, but before they reached the age of eighteen. Others were given a set age as to when they had to be taken. (Cartography/Topography) was one of the required classes with a specific year on it. Other required classes consisted of: mathematics (basic and intermediate), basic medicine, and etiquette to name a few. Classes available ranged from alchemy to zoology and classes were even created and altered to fit the needs and wants of students. A student could even take part in their own class, which was deemed “independent studies” by the adults and “relaxation and mischief studies” by the students. Dorian went a bit farther referring to it as “the time to get stuff done that should have been done a long time ago for another class.” The student would then create reports and projects for themselves to present to the (dean) of students, who got to choose whether or not they were making any progress, and whether or not they got to continue the course they were studying.

They entered into the tunnel that Arkeir had joined the Guard earlier that morning and made their way out to the practice field at a leisurely pace. The leaves had turned to the vibrant colors of fall. Reds, golds, and oranges set the trees all over the city and palace grounds ablaze, mimicking the torches that some preferred at night. In fact, the forest that surrounded the city and its farms looked like nothing short of a sea of fire.

Arriving at their destination before they had to be there the two of them sat on a wooden bench beside the break shed that stored all of their practice gear and even some of the students’ personal weapons.

Bernard strolled out, laden with several wooden quarterstaffs. They looked like no more than kindling in his bulky arms even though every one of them was five feet long and (a measurement) in diameter. He laid them down in front of Arkeir and Dorian.

“‘Ello, Dorian, Arkeir, beautiful day it is turday.” He gave no hint that this morning had ever happened, for that, Arkeir was grateful.

“‘Ello, Bernard ol’ chum. You seem in a right cheery mood. What fresh circle of hell are you going to put us through today? Are you going to fire arrows at us again as we run around the range? Or have you concocted some new torture you sly devil you?”

Bernard gave a deep, strong laugh, slapping his trunk of a stomach with one hand. “Nah, Dorian, yee’ve go’ me all wrong. I meant wha’ I said. ‘Tis a beautiful day, turday is. Nothing more.”

Dorian eyed the quarterstaffs suspiciously. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you get to see us dance around and drop our big sticks whenever someone (wallops/cracks) us (on/over) the fingers now would it?” His tone was just as suspicious as his look was, with a hint of an accusation.

“Now why woul’ tha’ make turday beautiful? Fur tha’ is wha’ I said turday was. I nev’r mentioned tha ‘twas goin’ tur be funny too.” Bernard laughed again as Dorian’s face fell and became ashen. With that he walked away.

“I knew that bear bugger had something coming for us, I just knew it. Beautiful day my ass,” Dorian said under his breath to Arkeir.

“He does have a point though,” Arkeir said. “‘Tis a beautiful day, turday is.”

Dorian snorted rudely, watching as Bernard went around and filled all of the clumps of grouping students in on the exercise for the day.

“The day that practicing with quarterstaffs is a beautiful one I’ll propose to Lady Madeleine naked in front of the whole city with toad in my mouth and Bernard riding on my shoulders,” Dorian mumbled darkly.

Arkeir smirked. “You forgot to describe him as being like a little girl on your shoulders,” he informed his brooding friend.

“With buggering pigtails.”

Arkeir laughed silently as he went to pick out the two best quarterstaffs that he could find.

Once all of the students that would be training at this hour, with Bernard, arrived, they broke up into pairs.

“There’ll be no drillin’ turday.” Bernard had said. “Jus’ begin fightin’ in pairs.”

And so they had. Arkeir went on the defensive as his friend unleashed his pent up anger on their quaterstaffs.

Dorian was actually quite good at wielding a quarterstaff, even if he did complain about having to practice with them.

Suddenly Dorian eyes flickered away from his target and his thrust slowed. Taken advantage of the window of opportunity left open by his friend’s hesitation, Arkeir took a long sidestep, turned and rapped Dorian’s knuckles.

He let out a yelp of surprise and pain, dropping his weapon, alternating between rubbing his hands together and stuffing them in his mouth. A torrent of curses flooded out of his mouth unchecked, and could be heard by all around.

“Wha’d you do that for?” he asked looking darkly up at Arkeir who stood lax, waiting for his friend to pick up his quarterstaff before they continued.

“We’re sparring if you haven’t noticed, blunder head. You gave me an opening that I couldn’t ignore.”

“Well you’d be distracted too if you saw what I did,” Dorian yelled hotly.

“And do pray tell, what did your eyes behold?”

Dorian nodded his head indicating that Arkeir should look over his right shoulder. He did so and what he saw caused him to relax his grip even more.

Lady Madeleine and a girl that looked to be around their age were walking around the grounds, watching their class duel with each other.

(color) (hair) lay as straight as an arrow’s shaft down to the small of her back. Intense eyes, the color of ponds after the winter snows begin to melt in spring, drank in the organized chaos that she and Lady Madeleine were looking upon. Yet, there was a depth to them that Arkeir could not ignore. Her (fair) complexion showed that she was no farmer’s daughter, but neither was she the pampered daughter of some noble. Her angled cheekbones and almond shaped eyes gave her the appearance of being carved or sculpted. Yet, for all of her perfections there were still the human mars that brought the appreciator back to reality, reminding them that she was not a piece of art to be gazed at and left to hang. Her nose had a small rise on its ridge, from where she had obviously broken it. It could be seen even from the distance they were at, but instead of diminishing her beauty, it gave her the kind of look of an angel that alters itself, trying to fit in to its surroundings. The sunlight, reflecting off of her hair, created a glowing halo like (burnished copper/steel).

“Ow!” Arkeir exclaimed, jumping backward and shaking out his hand.

“That’s what you get,” Dorian said with a smugly triumphant tone.

With a snarl, Arkeir snatched up his quarterstaff and ran after Dorian with it raised over his head menacingly. He cursed him, swearing that he’d kill him if he got his hands on him. Dorian backpedaled laughing his eyes huge as he ducked, parried, and stumbled around the practice field. He ran between other students, using them as obstacles to try and hinder Arkeir’s progress. Arkeir swung wildly narrowly missing his head several times.

“You cheap shooting bastard!”

Dorian hightailed it back towards the Palace, running right past Lady Madeleine and the new and beautiful girl, Arkeir hot on his heels.

The pair looked at each other the new girl looking disconcerted, an amused smile playing across Lady Madeleine’s face as she half heartedly tried to conceal it. They talked for a second more and then made their way over so introductions could be made with Bernard.

Arkeir continued to chase Dorian around the West Wing of the Palace, bursting through doors, forcing people to flatten themselves against the walls of the stairwells as they came tearing up them. They had a small duel in the Dinning Hall, a crowd ringing the pair. They continued to fight until Arkeir spun around Dorian and whacked him on his buttocks with a solid thwack. Everyone had laughed then and the two boys were chased out by the Head Cook, Dorsey. The short, portly woman had been called up by some of the students that were serving out lunch. When she came upon the scene, she had waddled over to them and began hitting them with a four foot long wooden spoon. She chased them out of the Dinning Hall, shouting threats at them and swatting at their retreating backsides. Having dispatched the two ruffians, Dorsey had returned to the Dinning Hall to a standing ovation, which she bowed to, her hair in disarray.

Out of breath from running, fighting, and laughing, Dorian and Arkeir made their way first to their room to pick up clean clothes and then to the (bathing room) to freshen up before heading to lunch. The pair was met by a crowd of people whom immediately took to them. Arkeir slinked out of the lime light and over to the food, Dorian putting on a show so he could make good his escape.

Dorian finished enthusiastically, waving his spoon in the air for emphasis. But Arkeir wasn’t listening. “What?” Dorian asked slightly put off by being ignored.

“She’s just walked in,” he said into his folded hands, his chin resting on his thumbs.

“Who?” Dorian asked bewildered. “I didn’t say anything about a girl.”

Arkeir, instead of laughing at his friend’s idiocy, merely said, “She. The one that was walking around the practice field earlier today before noon meal.”

Dorian turned slowly around in his seat and craned his head to look over the tables and patrons that clogged the tables and walkways. “Well I can’t bloody well see her. The skivvies of the One-God this place really does get packed like a mule’s—”

Arkeir scooted his chair back as he stood and strode briskly towards the center aisle that cut the room in half.

“Oi!…I wonder what’s gotten into him?”

He had had enough of watching her just stand there, staring at the Dinning Hall like a baby placed in a church of the One-God, wide eyed and gawking. Others had noticed the anomaly she presented too and were covertly watching her, waiting to see what she would do.

He caught unhidden conversations from some of the tables, no more than blurs to him, as he walked past. They were talking about her, joking, and in one case, betting to see if she’d take another step in or just turn and leave.

She was facing the other direction, her head turned, when Arkeir finally reached her. He grabbed her by the elbow and began half dragging, half guiding her around the tables, maneuvering her back towards his and Dorian’s table.

“Wha—” she tried to ask sounding bewildered.

Cutting her off he hissed in her ear, rather more harshly than he meant to, “Come with me.”

She complied, allowing herself to be steered like a child being taken to be punished by its mother, to a table midway between the wall opposite from where she had been standing and the middle aisle.

They sat, Arkeir looking irritated and a little ruffled. The girl none for the worse of wear.

Dorian angled an eyebrow and swiveled his head, alternately looking at the girl everyone had just witness get whisked away by one of the most feared students in the palace.

When it was apparent that neither of them was going to say anything Dorian intoned, “Well, welcome to our cozy little corner here in the Dining Hall of the Orphanage Wing of the Palace of the (Hidden City of Order). My name is—.” But he stopped, noticing that his audience wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to him. She was staring at Arkeir who was staring at anything and anywhere but at her. She turned and looked at Dorian openmouthed and obviously affronted.

Dorian re-cocked his eyebrow and asked her, “not very subtle is he?”

She turned again, waiting for Arkeir to explain himself for his behavior. This gave Dorian ample time to appraise the exquisite specimen in front of him. Or so he thought. She quickly turned on him after spotting him looking her up and down out of her peripheral vision. Her (color) eyes (stabbed) him like a wooden stake, causing him to fear that he might suddenly burst into flames. He jumped, startled, and quickly looked at Arkeir as if he had been watching him the whole time.

“The same could be said about you,” she muttered darkly.

After glaring at him for a few seconds longer, she turned back to studying the boy that had dragged her across the room. The one that seemed to be the only person that could momentarily crack the collective demeanor of Lady Madeleine.

He looked as if he was alone. The way he stared off into space. But she noticed how tense he was and wondered why.

“Well?”

Arkeir continued to ignore her, the skin around the neck opening of his tunic turning a slight shade of red.

___ began impatiently tapping her fingers in a staccato rhythm upon the wooden table. She was determined to wait out his obstinate ignoring of her.

He acts just like… The unbidden thought had leaped into her mind without any pretense. Not now, please not now! She clinched her teeth in frustration as her eyes misted, blurring the room and the boy in front of her. She quickly gathered her cheek in between her teeth and clenched trying to use the physical pain as a distraction. She breathed deeply through her nose as she tried to control the racking sobs that she knew were coming.

Both Arkeir and Dorian heard this, but only Dorian turned to see what was happening.

He jumped and turned to face her. Noticing that she was in the beginning stages of crying. He started to reach across the table, to hold her had who’s fingers were now pounding away at the table’s surface.

Without looking over at him she snatched her hand up from the table, closing her eyes and gesturing with one finger to deter him from any other attempt at getting her attention. She closed her eyes, steeling herself by taking in another deep breath.

She stared at Arkeir with a fierceness that was not brought on totally by his action of pulling her to his table and his ineptness, or unwillingness, at explaining himself. She had spoken first, which she felt was more than enough on her part and was not about to give in to this statue. .

However, she was more opposed to showing any sign of weakness in front of all these strangers.

“Explain yourself.” She had decided to turn to anger and vent some of her building fury on him before she lost control.

Many people in the vicinity turned in their chairs to see what was going on. Noticing that the a new girl was yelling at Arkeir, most turned away and asked those around them to keep them updated, throwing glances over their shoulder not wanting to miss the action unfold.

Dorian’s breath caught and he choked on the air in his constricted throat. He glanced nervously between the two, waiting to see Arkeir’s reaction. No one had yelled at him like that for as long as he could remember. And certainly not a girl, one that had only been in his presence for a mere minute.

“Uh,” Dorian started, reluctant to draw attention to himself. He leaned forward and whispered in a hushed voice, “I wouldn’t yell at him like that if I were—”

“Well you are not me,” she said stressing each word.

“Your funeral,” he said aloud and leaned back, satisfied that he had done everything within his power.

Arkeir had closed his eyes when she had first raised her voice; he now turned his head so that he was facing forward eyes shut. He mumbled incomprehensibly in the din that was the mixing conversations of the Dining Hall.

“Can you speak up?” she asked, her agitation creeping into her voice.

He flinched as he heard more chairs scraped against the floor as their occupants turned to openly watch.

“I said,” Arkier intoned, turning to meet her stare, his green eyes alight with a ferocity that belied his calm demeanor, “I couldn’t just let you stand there as awkwardly as you were. People were starting to talk about you, making bets, and the like. You don’t want that to be your reputation on your first day here.”

___ gaped at him, all anger having fled as he continued to inform her on why he had taken the action he had.

“Well…you could have just said something,” she said awkwardly.

“It would have taken more time,” he explained slowly.

___ turned to Dorian who shrugged. “It’s not his style.”

“What’s he mean by that?” she asked turning back to Arkeir.

“What he means is,” Arkeir said still staring at her, “is that I haven’t ever talked to many if even a few girls in this entire city ever since I arrived here. What he means is that nobody but adults talk to me here or outside these walls unless they have to and even then we usually work in silence. I don’t interact with anyone because there’s no point in trying if they are afraid and think things about that are both true and untrue. So for me to storm through the Dining Hall and drag you or even consider talking to you while you stood there is something that is unheard of.”

She paused her face failing at hiding her all too apparent shock. “Oh.”

Arkeir snorted. “Oh?”

“I am sorry,” she said and her shame showed as she stared down at her knees.

“Apology accepted,” he said without a trace of emotion.

Dorian let out a low whistle, leaning back and tipping his chair onto two legs. “Well this has certainly been a day of firsts.”

Arkier looked away from her, allowing a modicum of privacy.

“My name’s—”

“Arkeir, I know. Lady Madeleine told me when we were touring the grounds and came upon your class. She told me that you were quiet and usually kept to yourself. She also told me that you were very adept with anything pertaining to fighting.”

He merely shrugged at their ruler’s adequate description of him.

Bringing his chair’s front legs banging into the floor Dorian sat up straighter, his chest slightly puffed out, and asked, “And what’d our Lady say about me?”

___ looked at him with a expression of (mock-loathing), “She said ‘stay away from that one. He’s dimmer than a candle without a wick.”

“What!” he yelled drawing out the word. He stood up, knocking his chair over. “You mean to tell me that, that, that… Ugh! The nerve of that woman…” He ranted for several minutes, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. He went on comparing her to every thing that he could think of that would harbor a shroud of indecency. He even resorted to making up a few of his own by tying them together in long streams.

“I tell you what I’d do her, I’d—”

“What exactly would you do, Dorian the Buffoon of a Bard?”

Dorian froze as the husky, threatening voice spoke behind him. A large scarred hand resting heavily upon his shoulder. Afraid to move, Dorian’s eyes flicked to the hand and then back to Arkeir and ___. Arkeir had risen from his chair and was staring with contempt at the man behind his friend.

“Now, now children. There’s no need to get hasty. Let’s not make any rash decisions. I just wanted to warn your friend here about talking treachery in a place where anyone could be listening. We wouldn’t to accidentally kill someone of anything more incriminating than practicing for their next play now would we?” His words were slow and smooth, his tone dripped with authority and the knowledge that he could wield it however he wished.

None of them answered, but then he noticed whom the boy was that had stood to oppose him. The man winked at him, turning to leave.

Dorian whirled around to see who it had been, but no one was there.

“Where’d he go?” Dorian asked turning back to Arkeir.

He didn’t answer. As soon as the man had turned, people had started to get up and head off like a swarm of ants to the doors leading out of the Dining Hall and he had disappeared.

“Who was that?” ___ asked bewildered, nearly in as much shock as Dorian.

“I have an idea,” Arkeir said. But then he shook his head. “It’s too farfetched.”

Dorian slumped into his chair, his face a pasty white, eyes wide.

“It’s better than nothing,” she said.

Arkeir thought about it for a second, still staring off into crowd.

“Have you ever heard of…the Demon Trackers?”