The walk back through the city had seen our opinions switch. Despite being covered in blood, as the adrenaline left and the pain swooped in to replace it, I was starting to feel rather good about everything. I'd done a good deed, after all, and while we hadn't been quick enough to save Larden's fruit stand, we had at least avenged him. And who knew? Perhaps the people of whatever district we'd been in would have a little breathing room from the petty thugs that tried to extort them for a few weeks.

Nathlan though had undergone an opposite transformation of opinion. He demanded we head back to the inn via less busy streets, in order to avoid notice, and as we darted through alleys and scuttled beneath awnings, his paranoia seemed to only sharpen. By the time we returned to the inn and cleaned ourselves off, his mild concern had grown into full-blown fretting.

"Look, I'm sure it'll be fine," I said, in as soothing a tone as I could muster as I dabbed blood from my slightly puffy upper lip with a wet corner of my spare shirt.

Nathlan paced in our room, hands twitching to retie his hair in its tail every couple of laps. He seemed to catch himself in the act halfway through, leading to a bizarre pantomime of him half razing his hands only to immediately drop them again. It looked like he was waving to an invisible audience.

I hid my smile.

"Yes, of course it will be fine! What could possibly go wrong? We only attacked a member of a criminal organisation that appears to control the part of the city we need to frequent again tomorrow. Not to mention that we are new in this city – outsiders, no less – and the normal governing bodies are distracted by apocalyptic events!"

He wheeled to pin me with a glare. "But I need not worry, because you think it will be fine."

My lips, quite beyond my conscious control, quirked into a grin. "Exactly! It'll be fine."

Jorge was calm when we told him.

He let us both explain, in our own ways, and then sat in silent contemplation for a minute or so in the open courtyard of the inn. It was awkward, and by the end of it I was ready to confess to a whole host of crimes and indiscretions I hadn't even committed just to end the weight of judgement I felt wafting from the old man. I'd tried to speak up early into that short stretch of eternity, but he'd shushed me with enough gravitas that I'd had no choice but to shut up and wait.

Nathlan stayed silent next to me, head hung low with shame. I couldn't disagree with the sentiment, but I felt one should face their judgement with a little more fire and righteous indignation than he was showing right now. I was quiet too, though, so perhaps I was being a little hypocritical.

"Right," Jorge started, clapping his hands together. "Well, it could be worse, I suppose."

"So, it'll be fine?" I asked with a sprinkle of hope.

"No. It definitely won't be fuckin' fine, lad, I'll tell you that for free."

I saw Nathlan's face twitch. Likely from the strain of holding in the world's most heartfelt 'I told you so.'

"Stay here," Jorge said to us. "I need to figure out how much of a mess we're in." He sighed, groaning quietly to himself as he got to his feet. "Is there anything, and I mean anything, that it might be good for me to know before I go out there?"

I thought for a moment, but we'd covered it all pretty extensively. At our meek expressions he sighed again. "Honestly, I can't blame you too much, either of you. Despite you breaking one of the few rules I gave you," he said with a half-hearted glare, "I'd probably not have tolerated that sort of shitty behaviour either, and we're lucky Vera wasn't there, or we'd be dealing with a much bigger catastrophe. But we've both got the power to back it up if we need to. I doubt there's a single person in Colchet capable of taking Vera down one on one, and she's canny and experienced enough to get the fuck out of here before a team can hunt her down. Until you both are at that level? You need to be more careful.

"Here I go, giving a damned lecture to a couple of idiots with more power than sense," he muttered to himself, turning his back on us to stare out at the view. The sun was at its zenith, and bathed the canyon walls with its blessing, picking out the details of the various rope and wood bridges in a cascade of fine beams. "Nothing ever changes, aye?"

Nathlan and I traded a look again, and it seemed we both agreed that the comment wasn't for us to answer.

"Alright, stay here. I'll be back soon, and with any luck I'll come bearing good news."

"Well, it's not good news," Jorge proclaimed, upon his return.

I thought I could feel steam coming out of Nathlan's ears, but he stayed admirably silent and let Jorge explain further. The man had been gone for about two hours, and we'd retreated once more to our shared room in the interim.

Jorge looked tired. Not frazzled exactly, but a pinch around his eyes and a weary set to his shoulders told me he'd been given the run-around for the last several hours.

"Listen, there's more going on here than you realise. They weren't just some low-level street thugs," Jorge said, before pausing. He thought for a moment. "Well, actually that's exactly what they were, but the man leading them? The one you beat to a bloody pulp, I remind you, was a member of a mercenary group called the 'Wielders of Azlan.'"

At our blank looks, he rolled his eyes. "See, this is exactly why I told you not to get in any duels, lads. You can't intervene when you know so little about a place."

Jorge sighed with the weary disappointment of a donkey being hitched to the millwheel for another shift at the grindstone. "Anyway, these Wielder's… They're local to the Copper Canyons and work on all sorts of legitimate business, but when times get tight, they're known to do a little work with the criminal class in the canyon cities, Colchet prime among them."

Jorge unlaced his boots with an appreciate groan, plonking his no doubt less-than-fresh feet on my pillow as he propped his legs on the bed. He eyed me, as if daring me to make an issue of it, and I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, at least for today.

"I managed to track 'em down, and after a few tense words, I had a little chat with one of their leaders. Luckily, the man you beat senseless wasn't a favourite – he's an old hand in the organisation so commands some respect, but he's not powerful enough to climb the ranks, and was involved in training many of the welps. His methods weren't exactly endearing, and now that some of the younger lads run things, he's far from a popular figure. Goes to show you how people can hold a grudge, aye?"

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Jorge was looking wistfully out of the window, eyes tracing the patterns in the stone left by ancient geological processes. Or petty spats between gods, for all I knew.

"That does not sound like bad news…" Nathlan prodded, getting Jorge back on track.

"Aye, you're not wrong there. The problem, as it is, comes from the ones that hold the reins. The Wielders of Azlan are employed by a much more powerful and much less savoury group within Colchet. Not something you need to concern yourselves with, being honest, but they're not happy with having their barking dogs muzzled by someone else, y'see. They employ a few mercenary groups and black-hearted bastards of various stripes, and they want an apology."

"An apology?" I asked with a scoff. "Fucking hells, what are they, twelve?"

Jorge sighed again, rolling his shoulder in its socket as he stood to his feet. The movement – which one, I wasn't entirely sure – elicited another groan. I couldn't believe he was as sore as he let on. He was definitely a 3rd tier with the way Vera deferred to him, and I could only imagine the physical enhancements that level of power came with. He must be putting it on.

"Lamb? Don't even start," Jorge said with a chuckle. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but that's just the way things are. There are no courts or higher authorities to appeal to with these sorts of groups. If they push something too far upwards, it ends in catastrophic violence. Nobody wants a gang war, and so they keep it all at a careful simmer using weird rituals of face and honour. It's bollocks, o'course, but we're in their pond so we play by their rules. Understand?"

I nodded begrudgingly. "Seems sketchy though. To just walk into their territory, I mean. How do we know they aren't planning on killing us?"

"Because they can't." Jorge's answer was absolute and brooked no dissent. "I'll be by your side, lad, and they ain't stupid enough to let things escalate, so long as you offer no further insult."

"Well then," I said, blowing out a breath. "When, where, and how?"

"First things first," Jorge replied. "Nathlan's staying here."

We both looked up in surprise, but Jorge waved us down again. "They don't care about the small fry, and Lamb is the one that fought the Wielder of Azlan, anyhow. They want to save face by bringing in the man that beat up one of their own and showing all in attendance that they're the ones in control. They don't need Nathlan for that, and I don't want any more of you there than needed, so… you'll be staying put. Alright?"

Nathlan nodded. I couldn't disagree, and was just glad to see nobody else would be caught up in this mess.

"As for your other questions, Lamb? Well, we'll be going tonight, soon as Vera's back. We've received a lovely little summons to head down deep into the heart of Colchet's criminal empire, and as luck would have it, I know the way. The how is a more difficult answer though."

He paused, chewing on his lip for a moment. The afternoon sun fell through the window and outlined his head, bouncing off the bald pate and highlighting the steel-grey braid that wound down his back.

"You just follow my lead. We'll go in and pay our respects. You give a nice little apology – not too long, not too short – thank The Sigil for their leniency, promise to be out of their hair quick as a mouse, and then we'll leave. You'll have to give back that red tassel most likely, too."

I scowled at that. Not sure why I had such an aversion to giving it back, honestly – I didn't even like it. It would do more harm than good attached to my own weapon and only get in the way. But I'd won it fair and square. I'd beaten my opponent and taken something from them in the process to mark he victory.

It was something of a ritual for me now. I'd had the horn from that first kill, but I'd lost it in the endless valley. I'd had the wolf-jaw gauntlets, though I'd lost those, too. I had the arm ring from the corpse of that Crimson Lion securing the main braid in my hair, and the signet ring on my right little finger – too small to fit on the ring or index. That was also from the corpse. Come to think of it, most of my trophies were from that corpse, and I hadn't even fought her.

Maybe that was why I so badly wanted to keep this little tassel. I'd lost all the other evidence of my victories and wanted one that still meant something. Luckily, I could be a practical fellow when I wanted to be and so resolved to return the damned thing. Reluctantly.

No use taking things if they would cause more grief than they'd solve. That was why I'd only take them from the people I'd killed, from now on. At least they couldn't come back to haunt me.

"Seems simple enough. Who are The Sigil, though?" I asked.

"Don't even–"

He cut himself off. "Look, lad. It doesn't matter. Just keep your head down, look appropriately humble, and don't rise to their bait. I'll step in if we need to make a statement, but otherwise, you're just there to be humiliated in front of some powerful people and then leave. Got it?"

"Got it."

*Francis D'Sware*

There had been no more 'incidents' since he'd killed the three idiots that broke into his office.

His rampage through their organisation had seen to that, and The Sigil, while not exactly pleased, were understanding once he gave his reasons. The would-be thieves had belonged to a low-level group of Tazine dealers without any serious backing, and besides, The Sigil didn't want to gain a reputation that would disincentivise the powerful from gracing their establishments and making use of their connections and services. The bribe hadn't hurt, either.

So it was with surprise that Francis received the visitor – a messenger from The Sigil – into his office that afternoon. A brief exchange of pleasantries later, and soon he was the proud new owner of one beautifully written summons.

He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth after reading it. An invitation – read, expectation – for him to appear at a gathering of the movers and shakers of Colchet's criminal underworld tonight. Not for any purpose, mind you, but his presence would be expected, nevertheless.

He had considered ignoring it, and did so successfully for a few hours as he got on with his work. He'd been horrendously busy checking through the new arrivals and reading endless reports from contacts in the city. Not to mention his regular duties on behalf of the Lions, unconnected to his favour to Varice. Really, he hardly had the time to go to some trumped up gala full of weasels and low-class pimps. He'd attended enough balls and feasts back in the Sunsets, but at least they were filled with those of noble birth and good blood. None of this criminal nonsense.

But then Antoine, a ranking member of the Wielders had come to visit. His office was a popular place today, it seemed. A brief and depressingly boring conversation later – didn't they have anyone of real character in this gods-forsaken city? – and Francis had promised to attend the event.

The Crimson Lions were not officially stationed in Colchet, but they were taking advantage of the other mercenary company's resources. In exchange for what, Francis wasn't quite clear, since the Wielders of Azlan were very much a small regional power, so far as he knew, and what the Lions could provide for them in return he had not even an inkling.

But the Wielders – and what a stupid name that was, anyway – were doing the Lions, and by extension Francis, a favour. They'd apparently faced a major embarrassment somewhere in the higher levels of the city, and so needed to put on a strong show of force at this upcoming gathering. Since they were a pathetically weak organisation for a group that supposedly worked across several large city-states, they only had two members at the peak of the 2nd tier, and none any higher, so Francis would be a strong asset to them.

He agreed to socialise for a few hours, pretend he was representing the Wielders, and leave once he had shown his face. In exchange, the Wielders would assign another few low-level street rats to watch the entrances and exits to the city for the next few weeks. It was a good deal in his eyes. A few hours of socialising, however unpleasant the company, was surely better than weeks of drudgery.

Gods, he hated this assignment. What a waste of his talents. He'd been dreaming of the past more often of late, as seemed to happen whenever life grew too boring and routine. The blood and screams had woken him for the last three nights, drenched in sweat and heart pounding.

Not dreams though, not really. They were memories.

He remembered the fire. The stench of crisping skin and burning hair, and the screaming flailing madness of men cooking in their own armour. And above it all the wild cries of the one who commanded the flames.

He shivered, blinking away that scene that seemed indelibly seared directly into his mind's eye. No matter how many battles he'd fought and won in the years since, he'd never quite forget that feeling of powerlessness and terror.

Francis was a capable warrior now, strong enough to claim to a senior post at the academy in Talysn on his return to the Sunsets. He'd soon breach the 3rd tier, and his power was such that even in a city of Colchet's size, he commanded respect. He might always remember the humiliation of Sternsbridge, but at least nobody else in this gods-damned city would.

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