text: into the morning sun.
  
  "The seed grew," you continue. "It grew into a bitter-tasting fruit tree. I began to despise comfort. I recognized it as the bane of existence, softening men into pleasure-seeking animals, living for the next thrill of senses."
  
  And so you traded gold rings for steel chains.
  
  "Not intentionally."
  
  Where did you go?
  
  "South of the Helswith. To the Mountains of the Nameless."
  
  Alone?
  
  You nod.
  
  I'll be watching you, Young Master Scholhart, now of the Nameless. Now, awake!
  
  The door slams shut. Morgan enters, locking eyes with you, determination set. Still on the bed, feet on the floor, you sit up, awake and rested, your conversation with the Lady invigorating your body.
  
  "Take care of everything?" you ask.
  
  "More than you know," Morgan answers.
  
  > The information you seek
  The five-walled keep lies in the distance. You stand not 200 feet out, surveying its defenses and guard patrols. All it took was an hour, give or take, to learn the patterns of the night watch. You and Morgan are more interested in the guards patrolling the walls. Those on the ground level are stationary, their only movement lies in a shift or finding a place to relieve themselves. Nearby barracks house more security, ready at a moment's notice. It's dark. The keep stands still and powerful, only lit by torches every 20-30 paces.
  
  "Ready to put your training to the test?" Morgan whispers.
  
  "After you, Milady," you whisper back, sarcastically bowing.
  
  "Enough of that. Follow me."
  
  Morgan steps out from your cover, an outcropping of trees, crouched, and sneaks towards the walls. You follow, keeping light on your feet. Your gaze goes down, more concerned with stepping on a stray twig or leaf, rather than the guards patrolling the keep. With Morgan in the lead, you're certain she'll stop you before straying too close to anyone.
  
  "Hold a moment," she whispers, hand finding a spot on your chest to physically drive home her point. On the wall in front of you, the glow of a torch passes by, its radius of light slowly fading back into darkness. "Hook," Morgan commands.
  
  Silently, you pull the grappling hook from your belt and begin to swing it in a circle, gathering momentum for the throw. Your left hand loosens on the rope, while your right releases on the upswing. Allowing the attached rope to travel between your loose grip, you watch the hook fly high, dropping just barely over the wall, where it lands with a soft clank. You both hold still, listening for reaction, before starting the climb. Not hearing a response from any guards, Morgan begins the climb, you closely behind.
  
  Atop the wall you're still in darkness. Staying in one place too long will eventually result in a guard discovering your location. As you pull up the rope and attach the hook back to your belt, you wait for Morgan's directions. She eyes the blueprint, quickly rolling it open to check your whereabouts. Satisfied, she rolls the parchment back up points the direction in which to travel. Off in the distance, you spot a guard coming your way. Knowing this would likely happen, the both of you swing your legs over the wall, and lower yourselves down, your fingertips the only section of your bodies visible over the edge.
  
  Heavy footsteps draw near, grumbling from the man's mouth following suit. As the footsteps reach crescendo, you hold your breath, afraid any abnormal sound would draw attention from the guard. As quickly as they approach, the footsteps begin to subside. You and Morgan pull yourselves back over the wall, clenching your fingers into fists a few times to get the blood flow back into your fingertips. A door lies ahead of you, leading into the interior.
  
  Inside, patrolling guards are less frequent. Most of the security is spent preventing intruders from getting inside. Besides, anyone breaking in this far has to travel back past the outer defenses. Torches on the walls provide minimal light, dancing shadows in the night. Following the directions from Morgan's blueprint, you arrive at the unnamed room, the place holding the answers you seek.
  
  The room is organized chaos. Shelves line the floor and walls, holding countless scrolls piled upon one another like logs to a fire. In some places, hanging shelves descend from the ceiling, providing even more space for scrolls to sit.
  
  "How in the hell are we supposed to find anything here?" you softly whisper, more to yourself.
  
  "Everything's arranged in a pattern. Just need to find what catalog system they use," Morgan answers.
  
  "Look at this," you say. "This shelf is marked with a specific moon cycle." Taking a few quick glances at nearby shelves, you continue. "Each has the year and moon cycle. Do you remember the moon from when Joren...escaped?"
  
  "I do," Morgan answers, starting to scan the shelves. As Morgan searches, an idea pops into your head. Remembering the royal blue soldiers rushing past, you find the shelf for current reports. It's not hard to find as it's the least populated shelf as the moon cycle is not yet complete. Unlike the other scrolls around it, you find a long cylinder tube sitting on top of the pile, a case designed to protect its contents. You pull the tube and pop the lid open, sending the report into your awaiting hand. You unroll the scroll and place it on a nearby reading table.
  
  It brings news from the west. War.
  
  > keep reading
  It was just a run-of-the-mill patrol. Captain Rotha and The Seaspell had been on many like it. The old schooner and he had been paired together for almost five years now. She's a pretty boat. By far Rotha's favorite command. It wasn't special by any means. It wasn't the speediest. It didn't pack the most firepower, but damn, was she nimble. Captain Rotha could guide her, shifting directions, as if a dance partner in his arms.
  
  Captain Rotha stood at the helm, watching his crew working their tasks. His crew. He liked the sound of that. His eyes found a young lad, not more than 16, bringing a bucket of water and brush to the ship's railing. Rotha's mind traveled back to when he was in that position. King Tristrand's territory didn't house many families of nobility. Good thing, too. Each man had the opportunity to rise naval rank by accolade, rather than family name. In Rotha's experience, the best leaders are ones with humble beginnings, who know what it's like to put himself in the common soldier's boots.
  
  His voyage wasn't an uncommon one. Sail west to the straight, travel north along the Helswith coast, and finally west, along the northern border of the Helswith. The voyage took him on a loop, sailing around the perimeter of King Tristrand's waters. As far as scenery goes, it wasn't the prettiest journey, not counting the ocean. Blue skies, even bluer water, sparking, shimmering, reflecting sunlight like torchlight on a pile of sapphires.
  
  The land mass, though, wasn't pretty by any means. Traveling along the coast of the Helswith, mostly desert, didn't afford much to look at. Dry hills, void of color, stand between the ocean and the desert sand. Ironically enough, the Helswith beaches were mostly rock, despite the territory holding an abundance of sand. Most of the crew, Captain Rotha included, kept their eyes on the sea. The people of the Helswith can have their lifeless hills and sand; King Tristrand's men would take the comforting waves of the sea.
  
  Along the northern coast of Helswith, The Seaspell was drawing very close to the end of King Tristrand's waters. Traveling west, they reached the border of Helswith as well, a three-pronged meeting place where King Tristrand, the Helswith Desert, and the barbarian plains of the west intersect: Trident's Point.
  
  "Captain!" a voice shouted from the crow's nest, pointing towards the land. Occupied by a young man, youth brought the spryness needed to climb up to the nest at a quick pace. "There's a battle on the Point!"
  
  Captain Rotha drew his eyeglass from his pocket, dusting off the lens for a clear picture. Sure enough, the kid was right. The army of High Lord Ursa was easy to recognize. Their silver and gold armor glinted from sunlight, like the deadly flash of a throwing knife. But who were their enemies? The barbarian tribes of the west don't have numbers to engage High Lord Ursa in a clash of armies; when not infighting, they stick to small raids on stray travelers and towns. It's never a full, direct confrontation. Still, Captain Rotha knew what he saw. A great number of tribes, barbarians banding together to create an army, one that would outnumber High Lord Ursa if all joined together: a horde.
  
  "Pull her around, we make straight for the king!" Captain Rotha commanded, spinning the helm with all his might. Around him, the crew scattered to their duties, not a single hand could be idle. The horde posed no threat to King Tristrand. They had no ships, no navy to threaten the king. The islands of King Tristrand were heavily reliant on the import of goods to keep their lifestyle. If Helswith falls, thinks Captain Rotha nervously, then King Tristrand is directly affected. A shortage of goods might cause people to revolt. Some might even make deals with the horde to secure their own future.
  
  No, the survival of Helswith is strictly tied with King Tristrand. Captain Rotha knew it, High Lord Ursa knew it, and King Tristrand knew it.
  
  > News of Joren
  "Here it is. I've got it," Morgan says. "A shipwrecked man picked up from the shore of an unnamed island."
  
  "Where did the voyage take them? Did they return to Lune?" you ask.
  
  "No... The ship, Winter's Bite, is a freighter. It was on its way to dock in Helswith. Seems the beginnings of a storm adjusted their route to swing right by the island."
  
  "So that means," you begin.
  
  "We go to the Helswith Desert," Morgan finishes. "The log, here, says the shipwrecked man had business in the territory."
  
  "And they just let him go?"
  
  "Not quite. Typically, there's some sort of payment exchanged, whether that's wealth or work. The man simply disappeared after landing."
  
  "Must be Joren's signature move, betraying those who aid him," you say.
  
  "The debt will be settled soon enough," Morgan answers. "We have the information we need. No need to tary. In the morning, we charter a ship to Helswith."
  
  The two of you leave the way you came, tracing your steps back to the keep's wall. A last minute guard change almost results in your capture. As soon as you exited the keep, you found yourself face-to-face with a rather unhappy-looking guard, obviously just woken up and definitely not expecting to find intruders. Your fist smashing his nose certainly didn't improve his mood, although at least it put him back to sleep. Securing the grappling hook, you traverse back down the side of the keep's wall. Not an hour later, you find yourself back in the Sea Breeze room.
  
  You collapse, cross-legged, and pull your waterskin from your things, taking several gulps. After being deprived of a healthy amount of water, you've learned to take advantage while you can, noticing the benefits of keeping hydrated and the direct effect it has on physical toil. Offering some to Morgan, you reach your arm out.
  
  "No thank you," she politely refuses, dropping her gear to the side of the bed.
  
  "That's the most lady-like thing I've ever heard from your mouth," you comment, not intending it to be a slight, but once the words are spoken, you quickly regret choosing those ones.
  
  "Oh, really? Are you saying because I'm a woman you expect civility and dainty sipping of tea cups?"
  
  "Civility, sure," you answer, this time choosing your words more strategically. "I expect that from everyone. But you...you're different. Strength flows through you. It guides you. It's like nothing seems impossible to you. I mean, this journey we're on? Not many would go through the lengths you do."
  
  "And what of you?" Morgan asks, turning her full attention towards your seated figure. "You're on the same path. Do you intend to feed from my strength as if a parasite to a hunter?"
  
  "No, I...It's not fear that keeps me here. Without a doubt, you would have killed me if I refused to come. I didn't accompany simply to save my life. Do you know where I come from?" you ask.
  
  "You were a slave, unless, in fact, you weren't lying to that guard."
  
  "I wasn't. My family is one of the wealthiest in the Helswith. Wealth, comfort, it has a way of deteriorating a man, making him stretch the use of that title. The gladiators in my father's employ, they could defeat any of my father's guards, but why don't they? Why don't they revolt for a better, humane way of life? Their strength lies in their physical body. They're nothing but mindless tools, doing the bidding of whatever my father seems fit. Strength of body, strength of mind: there's a very real difference to the two. One alone doesn't cut it; only the truly strong possess both. I left to see if I had that strength, the very same one you embody."
  
  "And do you?"
  
  "I'm still uncertain," you answer, honestly.
  
  Morgan walks toward you, crouching where you sit. Her eyes meet yours, bright emeralds peering through a curtain of unnaturally black hair. Movement starts at her arm, and it takes every instinct of yours not to flinch. Many times, you've been the object of her wrath, of her hands-on discipline. This time, the touch is gentle, soothing, comforting. Her open palm rests on your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart. Eyes still meeting yours, she speaks.
  
  "The Lady provides both. You left your home, your inheritance to search for inner strength. Your journey crossed onto the path of the vengeful spirit, the woman flocked by crows. Strength of body paired with willpower? I daresay you've found both, a gift from doing the Lady's will."
  
  Your hand clasps around Morgan's, squeezing it tighter to your chest. Eyes still locked, you respond, not clarifying whether you mean Morgan or the Lady.
  
  "May her vengeance be true."
  
  > The Western Front, Helswith Desert
  Damn tribesmen just wouldn't quit. They threw themselves at the silver and gold armor like waves crashing on the shore, each one landing then receding, only for another wave to replace it. Their soldiers, no, warriors seem not to care as they willingly threw themselves into the superior military might of High Lord Ursa. Soldiers have discipline. Soldiers have organization. The tribesmen have numbers and a willingness to fight. The latter, in Paxson's experience, cannot be taught. It can be learned, yes, but never taught. In a way, that makes it more valuable than the other.
  
  His unit, the Reapers, was assigned to the very western edge of Ursa's blockade, along with several others. Together, they formed a line of defense, the first one for the Helswith. One unit wouldn't be enough to stop a sizable force, but they'd certainly slow them down to give the main army a chance to mobilize. The famed chariots of High Lord Ursa took a bit of time to gather, more time at least than men picking up a sword and shield.
  
  Paxson was the only gladiator in the Reapers, the only slave in a unit of proud soldiers. They made sure he knew he didn't belong. Between skirmishes, the tasks that nobody wanted were given to Paxson. Each man saw to his own equipment; they definitely wouldn't allow a slave to touch their most prized possessions. Work came in the form of digging latrine holes and cleaning the makeshift barracks. Not horrible work by any means, but the Reapers made well-use of their slave. Why exert yourselves when you have free labor?
  
  Military life was no strange thing to Paxson. Before arriving at Arroden Scholhart's school, he'd spent many years in. The monotony, drilling, following orders: they all served him well rising through the gladiatorial ranks. Occasionally, while drilling formations with the Reapers, his mind travels back to before, to when he was one of them, to when he was with her.
  
  > Her
  Emerald eyes stare back at a much younger Paxson, expectantly. He knows what she wants, peering at him through a curtain of blonde hair, and yet he cannot give it to her. Taking a deep breath, he replies with his answer.
  
  "No."
  
  Her eyes fall away, visible disappointment in them.
  
  "I am honor-bound to serve the king. He's calling upon every available battalion to march on the Helswith. You know the dispute between him and High Lord Ursang," Paxson explains, stoking the small campfire in front of the two. The sun is beginning to set, the night's cold breeze slowly replacing the sunlight's warmth. Crackling, Paxson turns the spit, allowing the fire to start cooking the other side of the evening's hunt. Often, his wife joined him on such occasions. Her fascination surprised him; the way she crept alongside him, silent, never making a sound to startle the prey, even more so.
  
  "But your enlistment ends next month," she answers. "You know the law. Heading to war is as good as reenlisting. What of our plans?"
  
  Paxson sighs. "I can't wait for the day. You and I, alone, nothing but endless forest surrounding us. True freedom."
  
  "Every night could be like this one."
  
  "I know."
  
  "They'd never find us."
  
  "I know that too."
  
  "Then why go to war? Let Orem and Ursang have their petty dispute with you."
  
  "Because it's my duty, Liliana. I gave my word for six year's service. What man goes against his word just because the timing is inconvenient?
  
  Disappointment visible on her face, Liliana speaks, more as a statement than a question. "You're really doing this."
  
  "I have to."
  
  > The Reapers
  Squadleader Pralthar stands in his tent, reading the message parchment that just arrived. What was the High Lord thinking? He means to bolster his army with mere slaves? It's disgraceful, dishonoring to the real soldiers. The man, boy, really, who just passed the parchment to Pralthar shifts awkwardly, unsure if he should stay in the squadleader's presence or not.
  
  Pralthar pays the boy no mind, hand subconsciously feeling his neatly-trimmed beard. High Lord Ursa wouldn't dare issue such a command without absolutely needing the men. It was not his place to dispute directives; Pralthar's place was to follow them. The same could be said for the arriving slaves. Imagining the future, thinking through possible outcomes was nothing new for the squadleader. It's something that needs to be done before each battle. Slaves, while possessing the ability to follow an order, were prone to seek escape. Not the type of soldier you want fighting beside you, covering your flank. He'd need to adjust the squad's tactics.
  
  "Dismissed, boy," he commands to the lad in front of him. Following the messenger from the open tent flap, he gathers the men, 30 in number. The men, dressed in their loose training attire, 3/4s trousers and leather vests, begin to surround Pralthar. Typical protocol was to stand at attention in front of the squadleader, like a politician giving a speech. Pralthar quickly adjusted customs when arriving, allowing the men to gather around him, creating a circle with him at the center. It spoke to the trust he had in the men, as he willingly exposes his back when speaking to the men. Trust goes both ways in Pralthar's experience.
  
  "We'll be adding to our ranks," the squadleader starts. "Orders directly from the High Lord."
  
  "Who?" a voice immediately answers. K'rell's voice. The hulking man is always the first to act, or speak. His eyes remain focused on the squadleader, expecting an answer. He crosses his arms, which result in puffing out his muscled chest.
  
  "High Lord Ursa has demanded every man able to fight in the aid of the Helswith take up arms against the dishonorable barbarian horde...which includes those in indentured servitude."
  
  "Slaves!" K'rell spits, quite literally on the ground, causing a few nearby men to shuffle their feet from the spray.
  
  "They will serve as a worthwhile distraction, perhaps providing opportunity to ambush the barbarians," another man speaks, Caius, not strong in body, but with a mind just as sharp as his blade.
  
  "I agree. Our normal battle strategy will need adjustments. The new 'recruits' will be dispersed evenly across squads, the High Lord's plan to keep them from acting out. If you gather too many together, they might plot to revolt against us," Pralthar explains.
  
  "If you ask me, we should throw them together in one band and send them to raid the western plains. That'll draw the horde's attention well enough," Caius mutters under his breath. Although he wasn't meant to hear, the words resonate with Pralthar. That would aid the war effort and cause disarray in the horde. He mentally reminds himself to revisit the topic later.
  
  "Our duty is unchanged. We protect High Lord Ursa and the Helswith at all costs. No matter the circumstance," Pralthar shouts. "No enemy, command, or slave changes that. We'll beat back these tribesmen masquerading as soldiers, then return back to the capital city in triumph, parading through the streets in victory, drinking ourselves numb in accolade and wine. For Ursa!"
  
  "Ur-sa, Ur-sa, Ur-sa!" the squad shouts back.
  
  > The Horde
  Another group of barbarians throws themselves at the Reapers' V formation. At the "tip of the spear," Paxson blocks a stray arrow with his buckler. His gear is nothing special; it's the fallen remains of an unknown soldier. Still, it's better than anything he's fought with since arriving to Arroden's school. A simple spear, crafted for quality over showmanship, is held in his right hand, a small bucker in his other. At his left hip sits a short sword in case an opponent gets within close quarters. The Reapers are formatted in an upside down V shape, with Paxson at the point, the rest of the soldiers behind him in a line on either side of him. The front is the most dangerous position, even more so with an unknown ally at your back.
  
  Small skirmishes such as this one became a common occurrence. Squadleader Pralthar stands at the center of the V, issuing commands and dropping approaching barbarians with his greatbow. His open helm allows for a full view of the battlefield, the back of the helm sporting animal hair which travels down his mid-back. His greatbow, something that many would have difficulty drawing full-length, is handled with ease as he nocks another arrow.
  
  "Hold steady! They're testing our position for a weakness. Give them nothing," Pralthar shouts, loosing an arrow flying not ten feet above Paxson's head. Normally the gladiator would be uncomfortable with someone firing so close, but he's come to trust in the squadleader's aim.
  Three barbarians gather around Paxson, meaning to punch through the Reapers' formation head-on. Paxson readies himself, crouching low, ready to explode into movement. The two men at his side do the same, raising their tower shields high and bringing their spears to attack position.
  
  The barbarians attack.
  
  Paxson meets their offense, stepping forward from the formation, to the angry outburst of the hulking man at his left. Instantly, the man slides up, taking point, while the line behind him follow to close the gap. Paxson, exposed, separate from the V formation, engages the barbarians. His buckler knocks a wild axe swing aside, creating an opening for his spear. Before he can take advantage, Paxson's instincts urge him to dodge to the right. In a roll, a short throwing spear flies harmlessly through the air where Paxson once stood, bouncing from a Reaper's tower shield behind Paxson.
  
  As the thrower struggles to draw his weapon, Paxson lunges forward, thrusting the point of his spear through the man's chest. His spear, firmly stuck in the man's chest is abandoned. Paxson draws his short sword to meet the remaining two. The Reapers, at Squadleader Pralthar's command, switch their tactic, organizing into a marching, offensive formation. Paxson redirects another incoming axe, and slashes his sword at the man's throat, causing a gurgle and instantly dropping the man. Before his body hits the ground, Paxson raises his buckler high and thrusts his short sword underneath, simultaneously, at the remaining barbarian's assault. Another gurgle. Another body to the dirt.
  
  The Reapers, now caught up to Paxson, stop a moment behind him.
  
  "You know the drill, slave," the hulking man from earlier, K'rell speaks. Paxson nods, jogging to put some distance between him and the soldiers.
  
  "Forward march!" Pralthar yells. The Reapers take the offensive.
  
  > The Helswith Desert
  Strange to be back. After many years, you're finally returning to your homeland. The Helswith Desert. Part of you wonders the state of your father's house, while another part seeks to block it from your mind. No sense in living in the past, even if your curiosity is piqued.
  
  The boat ride took several days. Morgan spent most of her time at the ship's bow, overlooking the water, free from interacting with the sailors. You spent your time above deck as well, subconsciously finding new places to pass the time: a result of your latest boat journey and the shackles that accompanied. The captain, a man that rode the border between jolly and social ineptitude, gave you both space, something that you and Morgan both needed.
  
  The warm air of the Helswith greets you upon landing. After dropping payment off with the captain, you step onto the dock, one built from stone, and journey towards the central hub of the city. According to your findings in Lune, this is where the Tristrandian captain ported, the place where his mysterious guest disappeared.
  
  As far as cities go, it feels empty. Sure, the streets aren't vacant. Shops line both sides. Servants and slaves alike carry goods for their masters, some holding the reigns of pack animals. Still, the population seems low, like the crowd of a traveling circus after a few performances in the same town.
  
  "Something about this place is off," Morgan comments, striding next to you holding her pack with one hand, slung over her shoulder.
  
  "Yeah, where are all the people?" you wonder aloud.
  
  "What're you new? They're all at the western front." The voice answering your question comes from a man sitting on the ground, leaning against a post, one that is meant for tying animals to. A beggar.
  
  "Ursa has mobilized that many?" you ask.
  
  "That's High Lord Ursa. You better get used to stating his title, otherwise his guards might have some fun with you. Then again, they're all at the border! Ha-ha!" the beggar says with a widening grin.
  
  "We know of the tribesman horde in the west," Morgan steps in. "We know they have banded together, somehow. The fact those savages can even stand next to one another without slaughtering each other is a miracle."
  
  "Ahh, apparently you think you know of the horde. Then why did you ask where all the people were?" the beggar retorts, scratching at a beard far past the regular grooming stage.
  
  "Enough of this. I have no time for games," Morgan answers, starting to walk down the street. As you turn to follow, a strong grip wraps around your wrist twisting your forearm open. In a blink, your sleeve is rolled up to expose the tattoo, the one placed by the Lady herself.
  
  "Interesting ink you have there, traveler," the beggar says, articulating his speech much clearer than before. "Some would call it a blessing, others a curse."
  
  "And what do you call it?" you ask, allowing the man to keep his grip. If he turns violent, you are ready, but you won't be the first to escalate things. What's the honor in striking a beggar, especially landing the first blow?
  
  "Depends on who bears it," he answers. "A blessing to some, a curse to others. It's relative, depending on who you ask."
  
  "You speak in circular riddles. We've come back to the very beginning. I don't know what you're after, but you'll not make a jest of me," you say, twisting your arm from his hold.
  
  "I'm not surprised one bound by shackles is uncomfortable with a firm grip on the arm. I grow tired of your presence. Leave me be," the beggar replies, waving his hand at you as if batting a fly, a nuisance away.
  
  Strange way to end a conversation, even more so when you remember he was the one initiating it. Your past is no secret to those with the ability to interpret, not just with a seer's sight either. Scars at your wrist point to either slavery or incarceration. The tattoo, while mysteriously appearing, draws eyes as most markings do, self-imposed or otherwise. See. The words spoken by the Lady resonate in your mind. You must be made to see. Still, you have little experience in the matter. "Seeing" goes both ways. You aren't sure what happens if your new-found power is noticed...and used against you.
  
  > reach out
  The world flashes a bright light. A streak of blue reaches down from the sky, crackling with electric energy, the heavens otherwise dark, filled with black storm clouds. Wind sweeps by, pulling bits of dust from the ground, swirling them into miniature tornadoes. You're on a hill, a familiar one, only it's hardly recognizable. It's the place of your training.
  
  Around you, the landscape lies dead. Where a green treeline once surrounded, black, jagged trunks stand, void of leaves. Their bark is blackened, burned. Silent they stand, surrounding you, no sign of life. The largest one stands directly in front of you. Its scarred remains bear a resemblance to the willow tree.
  
  You begin to approach the willow tree. Then you discover a man squatting beneath it. He's crouched low on the balls of his feet, resting his arms on his knees. His body has a slight sway to it, like leaves in the wind. As you draw closer, the dark hair on the man slowly fades from color, transitioning to a snowy white. You realize his hair wasn't actually black; it was dyed and filled with soot.
  
  The man turns at your presence, motioning for you to sit next to him. You take a seat beneath the scarred tree. Still staring forward, the man speaks.
  
  "Death. The death of our home, the death of the order, the death of me. All caused by you."
  
  Killian.
  
  "Caused by Joren," you correct.
  
  "Who rescued his life? From that moment, his actions were your responsibility. The burden of death lies with you."
  
  "His actions are his own, separate from mine. Blame me all you want, but there's no mistaking that fact. Does a parent take responsibility for the sins of their children? I may have stopped the blade, but he was always at your mercy. You could have finished the job. And I'm not shifting the blame. It all lies on Joren."
  
  Your words don't seem to sit well with the man, with the image of Killian. His head slowly turns your direction, moving focus away from the dead willow. As his eyes meet yours, you realize the man, while he may look like Killian, is not the man. His eyes, primal, appear not to blink, continuing to stare into yours.
  
  "You're not him," you state.
  
  A grin appears at the false Killian's mouth, spreading wide, revealing a set of decaying teeth within his mouth. "No. And his work will never be fulfilled through you. You should have trusted your instinct not to come here." He lunges forward with a snarl, hitting your body to the ground, landing on top with your arms pinned at your sides. You try to struggle, to kick him off, but he's too strong. You might as well be bound to the ground. His eyes, a pair of primal senses, find your neck. His teeth closely follow.