"I still think we should rest another day, maybe two," Sovina said as they packed up their recent purchase of clothes and supplies. It had been some time since they had been in a proper city for more than a day, and they both took advantage of it for the journey ahead.

Emalia wriggled her toes in her new shoes. "We do not have the luxury of time." They were a good fit and would need little breaking in. And even though they fit high on the ankle, she still had enough mobility for running, climbing, and any other activity that seemed to come about in these last months. She straightened and tied her hair back once more, for it had gotten loose earlier.

Sovina watched her, quiet, and it took Emalia a moment to realize the look meant what it did.

"We just finished," she said with a snort.

"I can't admire?"

"Oh, you can." She smiled and pulled her shoulders back, thrusting her chest out and hinging at the hip to accentuate her behind. Sovina chuckled and lounged back against the wall, crossing her arms, the short sleeves of her tunic riding up, leaving lots of firm and strong arm exposed to the world. Rays of afternoon sun through the window's wooden shutters lit her up golden. "I feel like you're doing the better job of being sexy."

"Hardly." Sovina smiled, then looked away. "I want to go forward carefully, Emalia. We've been doing dangerous things for a while now, yes, but this feels different."

"We know the Column. We know Nova."

"And that's what worries me. We know that it's dangerous—maybe more than anything else. It's filled with priests and protectors and apparently Spirits waiting to latch onto lingering Souls."

Emalia sat down on the edge of the bed. "You're worried. Why now? After all we've done."

She sent back a somewhat pointed look. "Why do you think?"

"Me?"

"I've failed time and time again to keep you safe." Her gaze was fierce in its concern. "How many close calls? How many times was I helpless and staring?"

"You are only one woman. You can't do everything."

"I know."

"Hey," Emalia said softly, standing and coming close, holding her protector's hands. "I am alive. You have kept me safe. We didn't know what was ahead of us, but we knew it would be dangerous, and it has been. But we still have a way to go before it is done."

Sovina was quiet for a long moment, then looked up into her eyes. "You truly believe there will be something there that could change his mind? Something to disprove the Spirits? Whatever he's likely found in Drazivaska?"

"If there is, it will be there." She squeezed her hands. "And that's enough to make us try."

"Okay. I concede."

"It's not an argument."

Sovina smiled. "Very well. But I have a condition."

"What is it?"

"You stay close to me." She pulled Emalia in by her hips, eliciting a giggle, then leaned in to kiss her neck, cheek, and forehead. It made her heart flutter, and cheeks ache from smiling.

"I can agree to that. Close and snug."

"And whatever happens…" she trailed off, and Emalia had to look down to read her face. It was wavering between playful joy and anxiety. As if she were fighting off her fear and winning. Emalia held her tight, trying to reassure her as best she could. "Whatever happens, we're on our own now, and we need to be smart about it. No shoving your hands into mysterious holes. That's not funny, I mean it." She smirked nonetheless. "We look out for ourselves first, okay?"

"I will try."

"You musn't compromise on your beliefs for me," she quickly added. "But just please exercise caution. Trust my intuition. I'm a protector—it's what I trained for."

"Okay, my guardian, I shall."

Sovina smiled, and Emalia's heart swelled, buffeted like a sail in a strong breeze, warmed like a stone in a sunny garden. It would be okay. It really would.

…

Laczlo looked into the small piece of warped glass and adjusted his robe. Of the few brought for this journey, the one he wore was the least ostentatious, of fine wool with a brown exterior and a muted crimson interior. And it hid the long dagger carefully sheathed along his hip quite well. Sitting down would take a bit of precision, but otherwise, he felt ready.

"Very good, Voivode," Mikha said, narrowed eyes scanning over his clothing. "Very good. Not a hint of a weapon. Bears the appearance of power come under difficult times."

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"And the jewelry?" he asked, looking down at his rings and the thin gold torques cinching his sleeves. "Not too much?"

"They might expect a voivode to sell or not maintain his finer clothes while still retaining the familial jewelry. A reputation for valuing ancestral history will serve us well, I think, in this image."

"I see. Good thinking." His hand fell to where his sword should be. After the fight on the ship, he wore it often. Now, he felt distinctly exposed without it. At least he had the ugly cut on his cheek still to look intimidating. The thought made him chuckle. It was half-swollen and discolored, only somewhat downplayed by the makeup he'd borrowed from… His hands fell to his sides, as lifeless as the dying smile upon his face. She was gone. Maybe forever.

"Voivode," Mikha said, hands upon his shoulders, staring him in the eyes, "you are almost through this difficult time. This is the last of your debts, the last great weight upon your shoulders. You and your family are nearly free. Bear this in mind, sir, I beg you. Put your thoughts to it and the future before us."

"You're right." He nodded briskly, clearing his head. "Alright. How long do we have then?"

"We should be making our way shortly. The men are prepared."

"Good. Good. And the ship?"

"Quite ready indeed. And no Vasian messengers have arrived since the druzhina pulled back from the gates."

"Wonderful. If only this luck will last."

"I'm sure it will, Voivode."

Laczlo huffed an empty laugh. "No, it most certainly will not. But we shall make do as we've always done." With that, he adjusted his dagger one last time and swept from his chamber, hands clasping each other firmly behind his back.

It was time to face the Olverins.

…

One day had passed since his fight with the would-be thief who'd tried to knife him, Oskar was mostly sure of that. But he could hardly say how long into the next it was. It was dark out, but he hadn't the strength, will, or care to get up and check. He was lying back on a bench shoved up near the wall, cup hanging precariously from one hand, the other strung over his face to keep everything nice and dark. He was somewhere on the edge of unconsciousness, the world swaying and shifting in a blur that made him sick to open his eyes. Most of the others were still here. Maybe all of them. Only Stanilo was missing, he was sure. The man didn't have the stomach for that much drinking. He'd wandered off somewhere, probably.

Getting himself some knifeless women, probably, Oskar thought with a snicker to himself.

"Chief."

And there he is, mocking me and my choice in them. Can't ever choose them, can I? He chuckled again, then groaned at the thumping behind his eyes and raised his cup to take another swig. For pleasure or company. All the women eventually leave. The image of Feia in that fucking chamber, in the dark and sputtering torchlight, glaring at him. His feeling of overwhelming rage at her words. Her reminders. How could he just leave her? How could he?

"Chief."

That word again. It was sounding a lot more real this time around.

Oskar cracked an eye from under his forearm draped over his face. A big head was in front of him. Strong jaw, wide nose, cheekbones like rocks or something. What did that even mean? "Oy, Stanilo," he slurred out. "You're back from the women."

"What?" He shook his head and pulled the cup of wine away, replacing it with another. "Drink. We're getting to the end of the rope here. It's time to get the men sobered up."

"Huh? Why?"

"Drink."

"Agh. Fine." He did. It tasted like piss. "What's this?"

"Watered down beer."

"Horseshit. It's just water."

"There are herbs in there to help with sharpening you up."

"Eh? Why?" Oskar sat up, accidentally splashing some of the cup on his shirt. "We fighting?"

"No. The innkeep's getting tired of us. As are the locals. The men are getting rough. There's been a few fights, some complaints from the tavern wenches too. Guards will be getting involved if this doesn't stop." The big man sighed and pushed the cup up to make him drink more. Oskar complied reluctantly. "It's been days of this; we need to move on."

He heard all of this and shrugged, falling back again. "So what? We're paying plenty. Fuckers are draining us dry. Women too, you know. One tried to drain me of my blood, in fact."

"Oskar."

"Eh?"

"It's been days."

"Uh. Perhaps so."

"We need to leave. Even Emalia and Sovina are going. They plan to head south to Nova to try and find some information to convince Daecinus to stop."

"Agh." He put an arm over his face again. "Don't say the prick's name. I don't want to hear it."

"We should help them."

"Help them? In what, getting caught by our favorite voivode? Gods, that's ridiculous."

Stanilo tugged on his arm and pulled him upright again. Not much Oskar could do to resist the big man's efforts, even if he tried, which he didn't. "There's a price on their heads, I think. Be more than priests looking to get their hands on 'em. We should escort them there and back to Daecinus and Feia."

He snorted. "Why?"

"It's the right thing to do."

"Oh, ah, of course. The right thing." He went to lay back again, but Stanilo didn't let go. He twisted to get away to no avail. "Hey, let go!"

"Oskar, listen to me."

"Let fucking go!"

"Sir Koyzlov! Druzhina of Vilsi! Blade of the East!" Stanilo shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "Do you hear me now? Do you?"

Oskar sat dead still; he'd had his hands wrapped around Stanilo's wrists, but he was hardly struggling now. "What did you just call me?"

"Feia is gone, sir. She was a sister to us, and it hurt like the Dead's teeth to see her go, but she's gone. And whatever she and Daecinus are planning to do, well, that's on us. I don't think he is a monster, but I don't want to see this go any further. We need to make this right."

"Don't you tell me what we need to do. We don't owe anyone anything. Fuck Vasia."

"Aye, Fuck Vasia," came a second voice. He turned over to see Nifont there, leaned up against the wall beside them, arms crossed and a mean glare in his eyes. "But what if the priestess has got a point, Oskar? What if there's more to it than Daecius believes? They'll be alone against Vasia, even if they've got the Dead. Him and Feia."

"Damn 'em then. Let 'em kill each other." He went to snatch up his wine. Stanilo pulled the cup away and poured it on the floor. "The fuck! I was drinking that!"

"We owe Daecinus, maybe. But we certainly owe Feia," Stanilo said in a deep growl that made Oskar's hazy anger melt away into the cold prickle of fear and violence. "We owe them to try. And we owe Emalia and Sovina to keep them safe."

He waited a long moment before acting, just sitting there, one hand on Stanilo's wrist, the other braced on the table where the drink used to be. Made himself pause, breathe. "I'll sober up. Then we'll talk about this."

"Thank you, sir."

"But speak to me that way again, and I'll show you why I'm the one leading this band."

Stanilo met his eyes steadily and nodded. "I understand."

"Good." He patted his warrior's shoulder and pushed him back, searched out the foul-tasting concoction and gulped it down, wincing all the way.

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