Rue ladled generous portions of the stew from the pot into three wooden bowls before placing them on a nearby tray. She walked slowly, careful not to trip on a root or rock, and headed towards the three sitting around their own small fire. It wasn’t her job to feed them necessarily, but their mood would only foul if they debated through the night on empty stomachs.

“So, what, we’ve got the entire clan after us?” Kukani asked.

“So it would seem.” Joyce massaged her temples. “I had a feeling that bounty was bad news. We should’ve stuck to trading the goods we had.”

That comment would have been directed at Farvald. Rue looked at the shadowed man as she approached. He was always looking for them to pick up additional work. Guarding the caravan against bandits and thieves must be too boring for him. Rue tried to serve Joyce first, but Farvald snatched a bowl off her tray without a look or word of thanks.

“We’re only three days from the capital. Can’t we just ride straight through?” Kukani asked. He looked to Farvald for support, but the man gave no indication that he was listening.

“The moment they realize that’s our intent, they’ll stay on our heels and overtake us when we tire,” Joyce answered. “They don’t have the wagons slowing them.”

“Alright, so what are the chances of patrols?” Kukani continued, attempting to offer options. “Both the Elysians and the Order should be on these roads. If we press on and run into them they’ll be able to assist us.”

“The odds do go up as we get closer,” Joyce said, “but overall I’d still say unlikely. The patrols don’t usually head east. We’re also more likely to run into another caravan, but who knows if they’d be able to help or just end up as a bonus for the Wolves.”

Kukani sighed, but gave Rue a small smile when he took the last of the bowls.

“Farvald?” Joyce looked at the farling slurping stew.

Farvald raised his brow from atop his bowl. “Yes?”

“Your thoughts on the matter at hand?” she growled through a half-closed jaw.

Farvald took his sweet time chewing and wiping his mouth. Rue could see one of the veins in Joyce’s temple pressing out against the skin, but their leader managed not to scream.

“They’ll catch us, whatever we do,” Farvald said absently. “We were fucked the moment they took out the bridge and forced us north toward Bastion. Then they fucked us again when they burned the riverboats. The felled trees on the road, the fire at the farmhouse, everything has been to slow us so the clan could catch up.”

Rue despised the man’s thirst for blood and his attitude was often worse, but it wasn’t her place to speak. She often wondered why Joyce tolerated him, though. There had to be plenty of people who could fight as well as him. Couldn’t they just hire someone else?

“Fine,” Joyce said. “I suppose it’s what I pay you for regardless. We’ll stay here for the night and then begin a hard ride to the capital early in the morning.”

Rue left them and set about organizing the various boards, knives, and spoons for another pot full of stew. She had no interest in lingering and hearing the discussion on whatever the threat was. There had always been threats. She had known caravans were dangerous and frequently attacked or robbed, but Joyce had promised her safety and freedom. A chance to explore the world—something she would never have were she still stuck in her uncle’s tiny house, forced to do nothing but mundane chores.

Rue’s parents had left her with her mother’s brother when she was a young girl as they were unable to keep the family off the street. Her uncle hardly did better, but he was at least able to keep a roof over her head, though it wasn’t for free. She did every bit of labor there was to do in a household and was beaten should the quality not be to his liking. The meager food she was given after he had his share hardly left her with the energy to complete each task, but she managed to survive that way for nearly a decade. She couldn’t remember the particular moment, but there had been a shift in her uncle’s...demeanor. She ran, not willing to discover if there was intent behind the new threats that replaced the beatings, only to end up starved on the overcrowded streets in the slums of Elysium within days.

The world showed her it could be cruel—unforgiving to even the most deserving and hardworking. When Rue lay dying in some filthy alley, she prayed as her parents had taught her as a little girl. She pleaded to the Light to live, to simply survive, but her prayers had gone unanswered. Her eyes opened to a shadow over her. It leaned in and revealed a familiar face, a grin full of haggard teeth and unkempt hair stuck to a balding head. Her uncle.

The knife hit the cutting board with a loud clack. Rue’s knuckles were white around the handle of the knife and her hand shook. She let out a haggard sigh before letting one of the other members know that she wasn’t feeling well and went to lie down. The ground was hard, even through her bedroll, but she wrapped herself tightly in the blanket and did her best not to shake.

She had hoped the memory would fade with time, but that prayer, too, fell on deaf ears. Her uncle had hauled her up against the wall, telling her how glad he was to find her before the worst had happened. She began to cry, sobbing uncontrollably and unable to fight as he pressed her against the wall. It was the next moment, when he stepped back to take her in with his eyes, that brought the feeling of disgust. She knew she shouldn’t have enjoyed it, the feeling of relief, but she had and now the memory of wishing death on her own family haunted her.

Hungry eyes had filled with shock as blood poured from the corners of her uncle’s mouth. It flowed down over his fat chin and dribbled onto the ground. His arms slid from her shoulders and he toppled, leaving a man clad in dark clothes with a fiercely curved dagger at his side. The man crouched and wiped the blade on her uncle’s shirt before sheathing it on his lower back. She had been in shock, accepting the man’s offer for a meal with little more than a nod and promptly getting sick after eating too quickly.

Rue was half carried to his companions that night and Joyce had given her the world: new clothes, her own bedroll, and the promise of safety. Rue joined the caravan under temporary circumstances, with Joyce swearing that she would only be a member long enough to get her to a village away from the memories of her family. Rue found such a village and a job apprenticing with an apothecary. She spent most of her time collecting and preparing various herbs to help the farmhands who’d sliced themselves butchering or relieving the aches of illness of the villagers.

Then, over a year later, the caravan passed through the village once more. The shadowed man that had saved her was barely able to keep himself atop a horse from the laceration on his side and the infection that festered within it. Rue’s master had sympathy and together they worked to cure him, but his condition refused to improve. It was then, one night, when she had placed her hands on his wound and prayed in desperation, that her savior might become the saved, that she found the Light.

She rejoined the caravan after Joyce convinced her that her talents were best used helping those that fought the miscreants of the world—those like her uncle. Yet over several seasons she came to learn of her savior’s true nature. Farvald was little more than a blade-for-hire that had grown comfortable with the constant work the caravan provided. He’d likely let more blood flow than any of those that he killed. Far more akin to an executioner than a savior.

A cry came from somewhere beyond the camp.

“We’re under attack!”

Rue woke, startled, and frantically scanning the camp. Everything was dark. Even the fire pits had gone cold. She heard the ring of metal striking metal and yells as members of the camp scrambled to find their gear. She abandoned her bedroll, her bare feet slipping on the wet ground as she clambered into the back of the closest wagon. The sounds of fighting approached until she could make out individual voices within the camp. There was shuffling outside, but she didn’t dare move to the end of the wagon to look. It would be best to hide. Crying for help would only draw unwanted attention.

Suddenly, a squat man wearing a leather cap appeared at the end of the wagon. Rue wasn’t sure he expected to find her, but the wicked glee that spread across his face told her he was pleased with his discovery. That grin was all too familiar and, despite how much she hated the man that he was, she found herself crying out for Farvald’s help. The squat man called to his companions before leaning into the wagon and attempting to drag her out. Rue screamed and kicked as the man’s hand latched onto her ankle.

“Quit it, bitch!” the man hissed. He grasped for her other leg as two more men approached the wagon.

Beyond the man’s head, Rue glimpsed an odd shadow lurk towards the furthest bandit. It disappeared momentarily and the enemy fell, the shadow stalking towards the next. A whirl of steel glimmered in the moonlight and a fountain of blood spewed upward as the other brigand fell. Rue stopped squirming, paralyzed as the shadow approached from behind her attacker. The squat bandit was too focused on his prize to notice his comrades fertilizing the ground. Why? she asked herself. Why couldn’t they have just left her alone? Now she would be indebted to Farvald again and the man would feel justified in his thirst for blood.

Rue saw the tips of fingers reach over top of the leather cap and the man froze. A pained look of confusion tugged at the corners of his eyes and mouth. The tip of a blade poked through his throat and disappeared quickly, the body collapsing out of sight beneath the wagon.

The shadow rose to its full height and Rue stared at a figure too tall to be Farvald. The jawline was darkened by unkempt scruff that reached up cheeks and the whites of the eyes strangely visible against the bleakness of the deep night.

Caelan.

“Stay out of sight.” His voice was a whisper, the words hoarse as though they clawed their way from his throat.

She slid herself to the back corner of the wagon and watched as he gathered a sword from one of the downed men and disappeared into the camp.

Caelan stood tall and brought his arms above his head to stretch his back and the healed scar beneath his breast. He winced slightly as the tissue flexed, but it was worth it for the relief to his spine. Kukani cast a long shadow in the rising sun as the honey-skinned man drug a body toward the next grave. The body slid into the hole with a dull thump, but Kukani rose quickly and looked toward the sound of approaching hooves from the other side of camp. Farvald had returned.

“Well?” the islander asked.

“I saw no one. They must be riding quickly,” Farvald replied.

Kukani’s shoulders rose and fell as he took in a deep breath. “And Joyce?” There was an air of caution in his voice rather than hope, Caelan noted.

“No sign of her. No bodies either, so they’ll probably keep her and that other woman alive for their own purposes.” Farvald sat atop his horse and looked out across the landscape that woke with the dawn. Kukani stood with his hands on his hips, grinding his jaw.

“Aren’t we going after them?” Caelan asked.

“It’s not like I don’t want to, but I don’t think we win a fight with the numbers we have now,” Kukani said.

This was ridiculous. Bandits had just captured their leader. Did these people have no pride? No faith in Joyce? If a Sentinel became separated every effort was made to save them. Not until they were proven dead would the Vanguard leave them behind. “We wouldn’t need to fight them all, just enough to rescue Joyce,” Caelan offered. Kukani bobbed his head as he mulled over the idea.

“You’re overthinking it,” Farvald said with a flick of his hand. “We can send the caravan ahead—get them to safety. We’ll meet with the bandits and pay a ransom.”

“And if they try to kill us?” Kukani asked.

Farvald’s lips flicked into a grin. “Then we fight. Rescue Joyce if we can, I suppose.”

Kukani’s eyes narrowed. Caelan could understand the skepticism, but at least now they were committing to action. Anything was better than running with their tails tucked between their legs. “A simple enough plan,” he remarked, “but we need to know which clan it was so we don’t have to search every damn camp in the highlands.”

“Oh, we know who they are,” Farvald replied. Caelan raised his brow, but the other farling didn’t seem willing to divulge the details.

Kukani sighed and did the honors. “It’s a safe guess they’re the White Wolves,” the islander explained. “Probably the largest clan in the area. The bounty contract we turned in to Bulwark was for a few of their men.”

Caelan had heard of them. One of three or four better-known clans on the plateau west of the mountains. He’d patrolled with Bastion’s warriors when he was younger, but those trips were few and far between and the bandits always knew they were coming. It occurred to him that this was the life of people in the Far East who didn’t live in the shadow of the Shield Cities; constantly under threat of thieves and murderers and at the mercy of whatever sell-swords came to answer their low-paying bounties. It brought a sour taste to his mouth. The villagers didn’t fight the Void, but their lands helped feed the warriors. They were farlings as much as any Sentinel or warrior.

“Alright, so we know who they are,” Caelan said, finding new energy in his stewing anger. “What about where?”

“We know that too, or at least, I do,” Farvald noted.

Caelan looked at Kukani, but the broad-shouldered man shrugged. These half-answers were tiring. “Care to explain?” he asked through a clenched jaw.

Farvald kept his eyes on the horizon. “Not much to it. I was one of them.”