A knot of spears blocked the archway.The guards' knuckles were white on the hafts, points quivering an inch from Kael's throat. Their hatred poured off them in waves a sensation that tugged at the Dread Sentinel's nerves like music tugs at living ears. Instinct pushed his left hand toward a weapon.
Right. The sword snapped.
Perhaps losing that blade was a blessing; had he drawn steel in temper, there would be no turning back.
Tension climbed until Thorne slipped in front wearing the most disarming grin a man can fake before breakfast.
"Easy, friends, easy! Mornings are too early for jousting. Surely you lads would rather clock off, fill those stomachs, maybe give the missus a foot-rub?"
One guard scowled. "And you are?"
"Thorne, iron-plate mercenary. Behold the badge."A copper tag glinted, and a guild crest and the name THORNE were etched across.
"You forging these?"
"Forge a guild plate? I'd sooner hang myself—cheaper than the bounty they'd slap on my head."
"Hrm. Fine… and?"
Thorne glanced at Kael, launched into a breezy sales pitch."This here's Sir Kael. Looks grim, sure—kills like breathing—but hearts of gold, artists' souls, you know how it is."
Kael stared, unreadable. Sweat beaded on Thorne's brow, yet he pressed on.
"Unlike other Sentinels, he uses words first, blades second. That crowd behind us? All alive because of him."
He windmilled an arm toward the refugees.The senior guard grunted. "I see what you're driving at: you're in league with him."
"League? Pah! Nickname's Lone Wolf—travel alone, sleep alone!"
Unconvinced, the spearmen closed in. Rope glinted.
Retreat? Kael considered. Pulling back would mark him guilty; yet pushing forward spelled carnage.
A clear voice cut through the air."Allow me to clarify."
Lira stepped up, holy robes catching dawnlight. The guards flinched at her aura.
"You've labored since first bell, brothers," she said gently.
"We regret the delay, Sister. You may pass at once," the captain murmured, even bowing.
"I'm here for the Sentinel." She hesitated over her brother, then forged ahead. "Sir Kael has been misjudged."
Shock flickered across every face, Kael's included.
Calmly, she recounted the coach ambush, Kael's rescue, and the escort through the forest. She even confessed their bargain; motives less than pure, deeds undeniably generous.
The guards listened, frowns loosening.
"Our orders are strict," the captain said at last. "Heretics cause no end of grief—and this armor reeks of night. Will you stand guarantor?"
Responsibility for any havoc. Lira inhaled, squared her shoulders.
"I will. My name is Lira. If Sir Kael errs, I bear the fault."
Reluctant nods. The gate parted.
Inside the walls, Thorne exhaled loudly. "Didn't think our apprentice cleric had such a spine. Loyalty bigger than your frame, eh?"
She shot him a glare. "I'll regret this soon enough. And don't imply I break my word."
Turning to Kael, she added, "Debt repaid. Don't imagine we're even."
"Couldn't cover it all with one favor," he said evenly.
"A 'thank you' wouldn't kill you."
"Have you thanked me?"
Memories of that first rescue burned her cheeks. With stiff dignity, she muttered, "Fine—thank you. Now behave. I vouched for you."
"Count on it."
Unconvinced, she marched off. Thorne chuckled until Kael's hand settled on his shoulder.
"Right, Lone Wolf?"
"Heh… tactical lie, friend. Hurts."
Lira paused. "I'm heading to the main cathedral. Need anything, send word—an oath is an oath."
"Graduate first," Kael said. "Lose the 'apprentice' tag."
"Hmph! Won't be long!"
She vanished into the bustle.
Thorne eased away. "Looks like you'd rather skip ale, so I'll—"
"Direction," Kael interrupted, grip tightening. "No more wandering."
"Er… where to?"
"The Temple of Night."
Thorne's jaw dropped. Still, he guided Kael across districts until the shadows themselves grew thick. Then, with a quick salute, he bolted.
The shrine crouched in a sunken court where daylight rarely pooled. Two cracked pillars framed stairs spiraling underground—an inviting sight to few.
Kael descended.
A great square vault waited below, gloom heavy as velvet. It was morning outside; here, perpetual dusk.
In one corner, a skeleton swung a longsword."One million twenty-one, one million twenty-two…" The bones counted reps, blade slicing empty air.
Fitting décor, Kael mused.
A soft tread approached. A woman in jet-black vestments bowed. Bandage-like silk wrapped her eyes; ash-grey hair brushed pointed ears.
An elf—Kael stifled an inward sigh.
"Welcome, brother of the Shadow. I am Aerial, High Priestess."
Higher rank than expected. Her voice was honey; her mind, he guessed, pure ledger.
"I'm Kael. Intend to stay in Iron a while."
"Delightful. The Goddess favors new disciples. Seek me should you falter." Polite, calculating.
"I need a prayer cell."
"Last door at the leftward end. Straight path, no drifting."
He followed the corridor. Murmurs seeped from occupied rooms. Wrong door first—inside, a witch spun mid-incantation, shrieked. Kael closed it, expressionless, then slipped into the opposite cell.
Spartan: stone floor, wooden altar, three unlit candles in a silver stand. He knelt.
"I've arrived."
Smoke billowed, although the wicks stayed cold. A warm voice filled the chamber:
Welcome, my child.