The solitary expression in Lyria softened eventually. Her courage, boosted by my encouraging touch, opened her lips and she spoke with stammering words.

“I was in a cult.....no.... I grew up in such a cult,” She corrected herself.

”As an idealogical concept, it was great to deliberate upon. A group of rejected outcasts converging together, building their own community, self-sustaining and devoid of any tyranny, all united by a common noble cause,” Lyria hissed at the last words as if sneering at a venomous serpent.

Lyria slowly collapsed to the ground. The indomitable will that dominated all, disappeared. The powerful gallant stride vanished. The strength that powered the relentless assault, missing. Instead, a battered woman sat crumpled on the ground.

“Eventually noble goals will turn to fanaticism. Fanaticism breeds zealots. Zealots who will sacrifice their children, if itmeant serving their greater cause. The glorious vision of a safe future is a facade. Propaganda to bind the witless and the desperate. It is sheer malice that lurks in the core.”

She could continue no longer. Sobs replaced words.

Lyria needed comfort in her troubled state. I sat beside her and slowly rubbed my cheek against her fragile shoulders.

“Lost my brother but I escaped. A kind duergar helped me escape. Told me to seek safety with his people in the netherworld. Instead, when I came beneath the surface, I met you and I thought I found my place.”

Theko, followed by Maapu slowly stirred, breaking our moment.

“I better forage something to treat their wounds,” said Lyria while preparing herself.

“Don’t worry about it. They have high resistance to infections,” I dismissed her concern.

True to my words, Theko gathered a handful of his spittle and rubbed it on Maapu and Taltil’s wounds, releasing the subtle tension between us.

---

The campfire burned a brilliant amber in Lyria’s eyes as she gazed deep into the fire. The small fire greedily devoured any dried twigs that Maapu tossed and demanded more. I sat shoulder to shoulder with Lyria watching the goblins perform their volunteered task.

“Rils, I know you have this uncanny ability to rub people the wrong way, but how did you manage to acquire so many enemies in a narrow time after your exile?” asked Lyria with her old vigour filling her.

“I rescued them from Aram and then attacked his hideout, but he was already expecting me. Clad in full armour and wielding your Warhammer. That is how I knew to seek you,” I answered.

“So that is number one,” said Lyria.

She is counting the number of people who would love my head on a pike. This would be a long night.

“Then I escaped some cultist but Arlene inadvertently killed the heir to some Lord Korvanor, drawing the Lord’s wrath. The heir’s supposed brother Merrick is hunting me,” I continued.

“That makes it three,” said Lyria with contorted mirth.

With her infectious cheerfulness slowly returning, she was enjoying the interrogation.

“I ran into a xenophobic radical human group called the pruning hands and a power struggle between Duke Lothmar and House Wysteria. The Duke may or may not be directly connected to the pruning hands. That makes it number four and five,” I volunteered to count as well.

I will deny her the satisfaction of counting my enemies.

“Please continue,” prodded Lyria. A mischievous twinkle sparkled in her demeanour.

“I outwitted Zelaphiel once and twice he outwitted himself but nevertheless he blames me for it,” I kept it short.

There is no need to mention what Zelaphiel was seeking or that her letter to Delyn is in my possession. The mention of her brother and her childhood took a toll on Lyria. Perseverance is the key. There will be another time.

“I failed to kill an elder brain and now the whole race of Mind Flayers are bidding their time,” I answered.

“Mind Flayers,” hissed Maapu, who I am still convinced does not know what a Mind Flayer is.

“That makes it seven,” concluded Lyria.

“There is also a malevolent extraplanar entity,” I revealed to all, “Ever since I have been exiled, I have been spirited away to this horrible nightmarish realm and taunted by an all omnipotent entity. At first, I brushed aside those thoughts as stress-induced nightmares but the Fae and Syrune believe that these were definitely the meddlings from other planes.”

Lyria blinked twice, jolting herself to attention.

“surprisingly saw your face there everything, keeping those creatures away and protecting me,”

Lyria nudged me playfully. “I expected that your dream of me would be more luscious, given your proclivities.”

I could only roll my eyes.

“Never knew you liked to play the damsel in distress, waiting for your lady knight to save you.”

Feigning an affront to her jest, I pulled aside.

“That might just be your mind interpreting things to a familiar form,” consoled Lyria knowing well how the ritual works now.

Her face flickered with a mask of impassiveness with her next question.

“Did you see your daughter in those nightmares?” Her words, especially in her reference to Delyn, were carefully selected.

I shook my head.

After an agonising silence, I added, “She is my daughter I would never forget her. That is why I believe, whatever this entity is, it has deep ties to you.”

“Something bothers me with the whole encounter with Aram. Could you please narrate the event exactly, Rils?” asked Lyria quickly switching the topic of our conversation.

Not knowing when the next disaster might strike, I welcomed every moment spent with her. With undivided attention, Lyria listened to my tale. Her deep peering eyes focussed on my lips, waiting for the words to spill forth, yet arose a deep hidden emotion in me. The sort that made my blood temperature rise, my heartthrob faster and my breathing strenuous.

“A few facts do not correlate well,” spoke Lyria as I finished.

“First, Aram was already dressed in armour and most importantly he was not poisoned,” she said.

“I believe he prepared himself for me,” I gave my thought.

“Aram never implied that he knew that it was Arlene’s arrow that took Jarryd,” uttered Lyria.

“Again, my belief is that Aram came back and saw the dead Jarryd and my missing presence. He presumed that I killed him,” I offered.

“But why did he return to the scene?” asked Lyria. A question for which I never bothered to ponder.

“You moved as the crow flies toward Merranvale but the local constabulary was already waiting for you. So they were already informed by Aram,” Her tone was cynical.

“I was on foot, but Aram could have ridden a horse through another trail,” I volunteered. That seemed like the most logical explanation.

“Once they apprehended you, they sent word to Lord Korvanor and waited for Merrick to arrive?”

“Yes, that is how I heard it,”

“That means, in your interpretation, the only confirmation for the heir’s apparent death was Aram, a lowly smuggler’s words.”

A gentle silence permeated the grounds. Even the sounds of the dried twigs crackling in the fire stopped. Almost as if everything around mocked me with their silence. Mocked me for being stupid, for being blind to the obvious.

“That means Jarryd’s death was already confirmed, not just by Aram but by someone far more reliable,” I shouted.

“Aram was no mastermind behind the plot. He was just another interloper,” said Lyria, “like you.”

Lyria went with her claim, “Here is another version of the event that happened. Another alternate version where you were not exiled. Aram’s role was twofold. To deliver the gypsy children to the cultist and later appear at the instructed location and capture whoever was responsible for Jarryd’s death. Most probably, that would be Arlene.”

Lyria took a twig and started tracing curves in the dust, drawing elongated circles and naming them.

“Obviously when you saw him in armour and not affected by poison, you presumed that he was prepared against you while he was readying himself for the later confrontation with Arlene. This has all been preplanned. Jarryd’s death was inevitable. A cog within a wheel and a cog in a machine kind of mechanism.”

“But relying on Arlene to kill Jarryd is a weak link in such an elaborate plot,” I spoke my thoughts without restraint, “She has a feisty temperament and is a loose cannon at best. Such a plot requires precision and Arlene behaviour is unpredictable.”

“In that case, let us approach the issue from another angle,” divulged Lyria, “Who benefits from Jarryd’s death?”

Lyria scratched a wide circle and wrote Jarryd’s name inside.

“He is an heir to a Lord. A lot of parties benefit from a noble’s death,” I shrugged.

This line of thought will lead us nowhere.

“Another thought,” Lyria extended the twig and tapped at a distant circle with Arlene’s name inside, “what is the link between Arlene and Jarryd?”

“I would rather believe that my father is a high-elf than believe in any connection between Arlene and Jarryd,” I denied vehemently even though a sliver of doubt stirred deep inside.

Arlene is a vagabond in the true sense. She ran away from her commune after torching her supposedly enamoured suitor.

That is the link.

Merowyn, the unrequited love of Arlene and the hunting companion of Jarryd’s brother. Merrick.

Merrick, the one who knows his brother’s whereabouts and Arlene’s feisty nature.

Merrick, the one with enough unquestioned authority to confirm Jarryd’s death.

Merrick, if rumours of his illegitimate claims are true, has the most to gain from Jarryd’s death.

“Merrick, he is the link,” I said in a grim voice, “and the mastermind behind all. He even fooled me with his gentlemanly candour.”

I stammered, struggling against the rage that kept my mouth tightly shut. Lyria’s callous hands gently stroked my back.

“Before you go plotting against Merrick, maybe you should consider your biggest problem,”

She held my hand and slowly weaved her fingers between mine. In a soothing voice, she broached the subject.

“How did your bond with Delyn became so fractured that she willingly exiled you?”

“No, She did not. She was forced to.”

It was time to reveal the harboured secret.