The next morning, a rare disruption occurred as Garrick sat on his porch, having just tended to his garden.

He'd been preparing to take his first sip from a delightfully steaming mug when the sound of determined footsteps climbing the mountain path drew his attention. Peering into the distance, he spotted a young man approaching the cottage. Garrick cocked his head to the side at this sight. He hadn't been expecting any visitors. Briefly, he remembered the dream from the previous night, and felt his scarred right hand start to itch.

Was this the ill-omen I was sensing?

He shook his head—the stranger was practically a boy.

And from the inexperienced way he manages his mantle—High Foundation Sphere, it seems—he isn’t strong enough to do any evil even if he wanted to.

"Well," he said to Ember, who was dozing near his feet, "who do you suppose that is, then?"

Sensing the change in their peaceful routine, Ember joined him, her ears perked inquisitively. In only a few beats, Garrick had crossed the expanse from his porch to the archway of his exterior gate to wait for the stranger at the summit of his climb.

As the young man neared, Garrick's voice, deep and resonant, broke the mountain silence.

"Good morning," he greeted, his tone warm yet tinged with curiosity. "Visitors are a rarity in these parts. What brings you to my mountain retreat, friend?"

The young man, slightly out of breath from his jaunt, introduced himself.

"I am…Dashiell…Montrose…" he huffed, wiping his brow of sweat and standing up as straight as he could. Garrick smiled, appreciating the earnestness of this young man—he was pretending to be unaffected by what Garrick knew was quite the climb.

"Hullo, Mr. Montrose," Garrick greeted. "What can I help you with?"

Dashiell took another moment, catching his breath and pinning an awkwardly-charming smile to his lips.

"I am…an envoy from…Montrose Structures—the…jewel of the Bellwater Builder's Guild," Dashiell said. "Here to discuss a…matter of interest, sir."

"An envoy, eh?" Garrick mused, rubbing his snow-colored chin stubble.

His eyes traced the form of the young man puffing and perspiring in his presence at the edge of his property.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Montrose," he finally said. "Montrose Structures, did you say? I've heard that name. You're the roadmakers, right?"

"The very same, sir," Dashiell explained, looking around himself for the first time. His eyes found the gigantic, overgrown blade in the distance, and he gulped.

"You here to tell me you're building a road through this mountain, then?" Garrick continued, his eyes twinkling. "Can't say that's a task I'm particularly envious of, but I suppose builders have got to go where they're most needed."

Dashiell shook his head, a nervous energy about him as he glanced back at Garrick.

"Actually, sir, we're leading an expedition for a new avenue—a road, as you like—here in the Province of Bastion. It's a major project by Montrose Structures—quite an undertaking—but one we are most excited to embark upon."

Garrick leaned against the gate, a faint smile playing on his lips. He wasn’t sure what this was about yet, but he appreciated this young man’s vigor.

"I would think so,” Garrick said. “Tell me more, Mr. Montrose."

Dashiell took a deep breath, seeming to gather his thoughts.

"Well, sir, the first portion of the new road has been built, extending twenty miles east and thirty-five miles west of Maretown. We've already connected some settlements, as well. Oakenshire, my hometown of Bellwater, of course, and larger cities like Lornsdale and our lovely provincial capital, Highcrown. Now, we aim to push further into uncharted territories."

That was curious, indeed. In all the years Garrick had lived in Bastion, there'd never been anything resembling a massive, province-crossing road. There were, of course, connecting routes, but most of those were small-scale, linking Highcrown or some of the larger cities to the farming villages that orbited them. This was something else entirely. It reminded him of back home—his first home.

"Sounds like quite the feat," Garrick remarked, his voice rich with genuine interest.

"Yes, sir, it is." Dashiell shifted his weight, looking slightly more at ease. "However, work has paused to honor the goddess Pelathiam's holiday. We will resume at the end of summer. Which leads me to the reason for my—"

"Ah, Pelathiam's holiday," Garrick interrupted. "Brings back memories, that does. You know, you've climbed all this way up. How about joining me for a cup of tea? You look like you could use a moment's rest."

Dashiell blinked, confusion etching his features.

"...Tea, sir?"

Garrick's smile broadened.

"Yep! It's a habit I picked up when I was younger. A good brew can do wonders, especially after a long climb like yours."

Dashiell hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"I... I would appreciate that, sir. Thank you." He glanced around, his eyes briefly landing on the massive, vine-entangled sword again, a hint of awe flickering in his expression.

“Come on, then,” Garrick said, and led the way to the porch. Ember trotted alongside the pair, her tail wagging at the prospect of a new visitor. Dashiell removed his gaze for the colossal weapon and now eyed the creature, unease apparent in his demeanor as they reached the chairs resting outside the cabin.

"Is…she quite tame?"

"I'm sorry, what's that now?" Garrick asked, looking puzzled at the young man.

"The, erm, fox," he continued. "Is she polite?"

"Oh!" Garrick bellowed. "Right, right. Yes—Ember's the furthest thing from feral. Ain't that right, Ember?"

In response, the young fox lowered her head, bared her teeth, and released a low growl. Dashiell gulped.

"She's only fooling around, Mr. Montrose," Garrick assured. "I promise to protect you from her fearsome wrath."

This statement did little to assuage the young Montrose from his evident nervousness. Still, apparently a brave lad, he purposefully sat in the only other chair in sight. Garrick noted that this young man had a bit more mystery to him than he expected, as he seemed much more perceptive than most. Ember was a vulpid, afterall, and not many folk could accurately tell that she was female with but a single glance.

Garrick poured the tea with a steady hand, the steam curling into the cool mountain air. He handed a cup to Dashiell, who accepted it with a thankful nod, still eyeing Ember warily.

"Now then," Garrick said, settling into his chair with a comfortable ease, "you were about to tell me the real reason you've come all this way up here."

Dashiell, clutching the cup, took a deep breath.

"Yes, sir. The reason I've come…is to ask for your assistance with the road-building project."

Garrick raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Assistance? I’m afraid I'm too old to be much use laying cobble or hauling stone, Mr. Montrose."

Dashiell shook his head quickly.

"No, no, no! Sorry—what I mean to say is…well, you, sir, could be…incredibly useful in protecting the people involved in the project."

"That's what hired guards are for," Garrick replied, sipping his tea. "Mercenaries and such. Not old men with tomatoes to take care of. Zipping about on an adventure like that would be…weeks? Months? No, that won't do, Mr. Montrose. Those plants would die without me. Can't have that on my conscience."

Dashiell leaned forward, a sense of urgency in his voice. "We've hired guards, sir, but with our plans…"

Garrick raised an eyebrow as the young man trailed off. "Oh? What plans are these, Mr. Montrose?"

Dashiell straightened up, his expression growing solemn. "My father—that is—Devendish Montrose—aims to build the first connecting road through the Deep Wilds…"

He paused as if waiting for a stunned noise or the like from Garrick. When there were none, he ventured, "...the wilderness that occupies the northern border of Bastion?"

"Oh, I know of it, buddy," Garrick said with a chuckle, then he considered the words before he let out a low whistle. "That's…well, pardon me for saying so, but it’s a foolish notion—building a road through there. The ants alone in the Deep Wilds would tear the flesh off a man's bones faster than you could take a breath—and they are the smallest of the monsters that dwell within that place. Going to have to watch your backs, your fronts, your…everything. With all the eyes you got."

"And that is where you come in," Dashiell said..

"Is it now?" Garrick mused, shaking his head. This boy had pluck, he’d give him that—even if he did seem more nervous than a harnessless griffin rider.

Dashiell's mouth, which had been open, closed. Then he opened it again.

"...well, you're, erm, well… you're…"

"'Fraid not," Garrick said, when the young man couldn’t seem to find his tongue. "Whatever name you were going to use isn't me."

His gaze drifted to the sword in the distance, covered in overgrowth, to the upturned helmet cradling his tomatoes, to the windmill, where he knew a breastplate made up the pieces of the turning mechanism. Then his eyes found the shed, the pathway to the stream, the beds of flowers and crops, and he turned back to Dashiell, smiling.

"...not anymore," he finished.

"Apologies," Dashiell said, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Something about the old man's response seemed to have spooked the boy. "I was told you'd…possibly be interested, sir. It appears I have been led astray."

"Oh?" Garrick wondered. "And whereby did you happen upon this recommendation?"

The young man gulped again before continuing.

"Someone calling themselves 'Old Shvar,' is what I was told—I did not interact with the individual personally, but my father assures me that—"

"Not interested," Garrick stated flatly.

Dashiell seemed taken aback, his mouth opening and closing again as if searching for the right words.

Old Shvar…seriously? That scheming old trickster had to know that name wouldn’t fool me. Garrick grumbled internally. No…no, that was likely the point. He wanted me to hear it. One of his games, I’d wager. And to try to influence this boy and his father’s company? I’m sure that was one hell of a work-over.

"But sir,” Dashiell continued, “before you say ‘no,’ my father has committed a goodly consignment to acquire your services. I’m authorized to offer you thirty gold trices."

Thirty gold trices? Garrick thought, nearly stunned. That was a princely sum, indeed. Having that kind of money to throw around likely meant the Viceroy—or someone almost as high in the pecking order—was funding this endeavor. Still, Garrick liked his life now and didn’t have much use for trices nowadays—gold or otherwise. He had a royal ransom from his younger years just sitting at Arenvault collecting interest—and that was going to go to his granddaughter’s education and anything else she needed once she came of age.

“Well, as generous of an offer as that is, I’ve got more than I need right here, Mr. Montrose. You’d be better off dividing that thirty trices into a monthly stipend for high-end mercenaries.”

“Oh…” Dashiell said. “It isn’t thirty trices total, sir. It’s thirty gold trices per week.”

Garrick nearly spit out his tea.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered, eyes wide on the young man. “Thirty a week? How is that possible?”

“It’s what my father thought might be a suitable amount to retain your services, sir,” the young man said.

“That’s enough to retain the Viceroy herself for a month!” Garrick said. “I can’t think of a reason in the realm why you’d want to drag a dusty old bone like me along on this. What exactly is your company expecting you’ll fight? A legion of dust dragons carrying Gonlan steel blades?”

“I am…unsure,” Dashiell explained thoughtfully. “But, sir, you’re…well, you are one of the mightiest Beacons to ever grace the province, and so we wanted to pay you in kind.”

Garrick set his tea down, his gaze meeting Dashiell's.

"Mr. Montrose, I appreciate your interest, I really do. But, there's a time for fighting and a time for peace. I've had my fill of the former. Now, I'm all about the latter. Your father's ambition is commendable, but it's not for me."

Dashiell looked down at his tea, disappointment etched on his young face.

"I understand, sir. I just thought…"

Garrick filled that void, his voice softening.

"You thought to seek out an old legend, thinking he might still hunger for adventure. I understand that—you'd probably be right in many cases. But some legends are content to remain just that—legends. Now, enjoy your tea, Mr. Montrose. Not every day you get to sit and sip with a mean old relic like me."

Dashiell managed a small smile, lifting the cup to his lips.

"Thank you, sir. This is... quite good."

Garrick chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "It's one of the little pleasures of a quiet life, Mr. Montrose. One of the very many."

The young man didn’t follow up with any statements, choosing to drink his tea in silence. Garrick contented himself with staring out at the mountains surrounding his home, and though he still had that sense of comfort…there was something gnawing at him. The dream from the previous night blossomed into his mind again.

Why do I get the sense that I should be considering this offer? He wondered. What is the astara trying to tell me?

It still spoke to him, sometimes—the magic of the world—though, it was considerably more muted since he’d been forcibly cut off from its source all those years ago. His hand went to the scar on his chest for a moment as he contemplated in the silence. He could still sense mantles and do some minor workings, but that was all. However, occasionally, he got small hints, or sensations. This almost felt like one of those times.

I’m far too old to be considering this sort of thing…he reflected. Aren’t I?