After informing Karn of everything they know, Sylas, Liliana, Hawryn, and Loren head northeast.

Loren's horses are surprisingly well trained and fast, better than those for rental at Opal's stables. The one Sylas rides is a white stallion as tall as Liliana's, with a brown mane and tail. Sylas pats the horse on the neck as he ruminates, seemingly unhappy to be behind a horse he doesn't know.

"I thought I heard Karn calling you a Blacksmith," Loren comments, slowing his horse to Sylas' pace. "I gathered that your lady is a noble. But where did you learn to ride like that? I expected I'd have to teach you on the way."

"I used to do supply runs for my boss when I worked at a smithy. He rented me a horse to make the journey faster," Sylas answers. He glances at Liliana, who must have heard Loren call her Sylas' lady, expecting her to be angry at the man. But she ignores him. Sylas' jaws tense slightly as he turns back to Loren. "Back in town, you understood something when she said she was immune to poisons. What was it?"

Before Loren can answer, Liliana slows down her horse to place herself between them. She glances at Loren, her expression hidden from Sylas. "You need to watch our left side, not distract our rear."

Loren's lips draw to a line, and he moves forward, taking back his place at their left flank.

"I know you heard my question," Sylas says. "What are you hiding?"

"The same goes for you," Liliana shuts down. She turns to him, visibly annoyed. "Get back to watching our backs. Nobody wants to be shot because you can't prioritize."

Sylas doesn't answer as she returns to her spot at the right of their formation. Her anger feels like a vice tightening his heart. He places his hand over it, feeling his heart taking half, shuddering beats. Only his father's and Edgar's critics of his work ever made him feel like that. He disappointed her and realizes that it pains him greatly.

At the front, Hawryn signals for them to dismount. They come down from their horses and tie the beasts to tree trunks in a bush-surrounded spot. The leaves have fallen, but the dense wall of brambles should keep them out of sight.

The sun still has a few hours left and shines its setting light upon the fort. It stands at the side of a cliff, accessible by a steep slope and two mountain paths on its sides. There are no signs of its inhabitants – no smoke, braziers, flags, or movements.

Sylas comes close to Hawryn as the man observes the fort with bright green eyes. Having seen Grim's similar ability, Sylas guesses that it betters Hawryn's sight. "What now? I don't see anything from here."

"We wait," Hawryn answers. He plucks a brown leaf from a cold-weather bush and sticks it in the seams of his armor. He mechanically repeats the operation, keeping his sight on the fort. "If there is no movement by sunset, we approach closer. Right now, it would be too easy to see us coming from the walls."

"I agree," Loren says, joining them from a discussion he was having with Liliana. He points in a direction with his open hand. "I'll be a hundred meters that way, watching the road to the south gate."

"And I'll be keeping watch of the north road," Liliana says. "It's a little farther; I'd say two hundred."

"What do you want me to watch?" Sylas asks Hawryn.

"The horses; if the enemy somehow knows that we are here, they'll probably try to make them flee. That's what I would do if I wanted to capture or kill three of my target's commanding officers." As he speaks, Hawryn finishes covering his shoulders and hood with local leaves, hiding his shape and colors. "Nobody screams, yells, runs, and certainly not lights a fire. We are only here to find out who our enemies are; do not engage them."

"Yes, sir," Loren says before glancing at Liliana and Sylas. He turns around and vanishes into the forest, moving with minimal sounds.

The hours pass by as Sylas leans back on the tree his horse is bound to. He occupies himself by carving more arrows out of dry, fallen branches and silex. The idea of leaving the beasts to meet with the stranger nags at him. He knows how important his role is; if the enemy gets access to them, it will jeopardize their retreat.

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"Crafting (arrows) leveled up," the system announces.

"I'm getting faster, but I'll need better materials," Sylas murmurs to himself. He gives the arrow a durability enchantment and places it in his quiver. It struggles to slide inside, blocked by the other arrows already taking too much space. "I guess I don't need more."

Sylas rubs his temple. Unable to distract himself with work, his feelings about Liliana resurface. He now understands why he was so angry when the men-at-arms invaded her privacy. He taps the back of his head against the tree he's sitting under, begging for the sinking feeling to go away.

Even if she could be interested in him, even if he was a noble her family wouldn't reject for his status, she's still lying and hiding things from him. How can he feel for her when he cannot trust her? He stays immobile, thinking back to all the events that make him doubt her.

Flashes of red light coming through the forest, from the west, catch Sylas' attention. They are rhythmic but inconsistent, repeating the same pattern with pauses in between. After a few cycles, they stop.

Sylas guesses that something reflected the setting sun towards him. But with how little wind there is, the cadence feels unnatural. His doubts are confirmed as the pattern repeats. This must be the man who wants to talk with him, signaling his position.

Sylas stares in the direction. It is his chance to learn what is truly happening. It would tell him if he can trust Liliana, even if she hides things from him, or if he needs to cut ties with her. He stands up and sneaks off in the direction of the light signals.

Sylas moves carefully between the trees, staying low as he advances towards where the flashes came from. It feels like a long walk. The surroundings grow darker by the minute. Every few steps, he glances back, expecting Hawryn or Liliana to follow him.

A faint sound draws his attention – a soft, deliberate metallic click. He turns his head and spots a man leaning against a boulder about fifty meters ahead. Cloaked and hooded in brown and grey, he blends perfectly into the dying, darkening forest.

"You came alone," the man states. His voice carries despite the distance, calm and almost relieved. His arms are crossed before him, and Sylas can see the two fingers cut off his right hand. "That will make things easier."

Sylas straightens, his hand resting on Righteous Edge's hilt. "What did you want to tell me?"

The man approaches, keeping his hands at his sides. He bears a longsword at his hip, protruding from a vertical cut in his cloak. "I've been trying to get to you for a while, but they wouldn't let you alone."

"They?" Sylas asks.

"The little witch, your corporals, even a few of your men. Didn't you realize how protective they are?" the man details.

"I guess they are," Sylas says, thinking back to the last few days.

"Nothing personal, kid," the man says. He unclips a hand crossbow from his hip and shoots a bolt at Sylas' heart.

Without thinking, Sylas dodges the bolt by twisting his body out of its path. He never trained for it, but the move was instinctive. His heart jolts into a frenetic rhythm as he draws his sword. He tries to appear calm; a fight here and now could attract their other enemy. "You pretended you wanted to talk, talk. Why are you trying to kill me?"

"Like I said, nothing personal," the man reiterates. He unsheathes his long sword with his finger-missing hand. The blade strikes Sylas as he recognizes it; it came from Edgar's forge. It was an order for a noble family whose name he doesn't remember.

"I expected Amberfel's nobles to be more honorable," Sylas says, trying to throw off the man. He knows running would expose him to ranged attacks he won't be able to deflect. All he can do is appear confident enough for the man to doubt his chances. No sane individual would risk alerting a fort full of enemies by engaging in a long duel.

"I'm sorry you've been dragged into their games. But you cannot be allowed to grow," the man says. He drags in Ether from their surroundings and lunges with a thrust at Sylas' chest.

Sylas deflects the blow to the side, forcing the man to retreat outside of a counterattack's range. The clatter of metal echoes in the snowy, dead forest. Sylas' heart thunders, his mind tunnels, and his muscles tense. He retreats a single step, creating distance with the man.

The man comes again, faster this time. Sylas manages to parry the swing – a horizontal cut aimed at his throat.

Sylas tightens his grip and pivots, letting his heavy blade's momentum carry his block into a counter. His blade skims the man's cloak, slicing fabric.

The enemy retaliates with a low slash meant to take Sylas' leg. Steel screeches as Sylas catches it, sparks flashing between the blades.

The next exchange comes quicker; three strikes. Sylas blocks two, but the third cuts his vambrace, drawing blood from his burn wound. The man steps into Sylas' reach, trying to capitalize on Sylas' pain.

"Strengthening," Sylas triggers. He feeds it all the Ether held by his body and slams his blade against his opponent's. The impact shatters the man's guard and drives Righteous Edge into his chest plate. The blade digs into the man, drawing blood, but Sylas stops it and recoils, sickened at the idea of taking the man's life.

Both step back, panting in the cold air.

Sylas draws in Ether from his surroundings, keeping Strengthening active.

A shadow lands in between them. Hawryn ran through the forest without making a noise. He abandoned his spear for a pair of long daggers, leveling one at the man and hiding the other. He gives a quick glance at Sylas before focusing on the enemy.

"I'm sorry it has come to this," the man says. He points his blade at Hawryn, keeping him at a distance, and unclips a second hand-crossbow from his back. He doesn't shoot at them but upward. The bolt flares with bright light, rising high into the sky.

"Fuck," Hawryn murmurs. He falls back to Sylas and motions him towards the horses, ignoring the man who is also fleeing.

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