Most betrayals never see the light of day. They begin and end inside our own mind, as expectations unfulfilled.

– Quote attributed to Parcius Parelius, 2nd Precept of the Desolate Empire

*Nathlan*

Nathlan nursed his mead and stretched out his legs under the thick oak table. To be back in civilisation was always a nice experience, but to return after a couple of months of travel and bloodshed was simply glorious.

This was his second week back at the trading outpost known to the locals as Gunthur's Rest and to everyone else as 'Trading Post 17'. He'd spent much of the first week in a delightful haze of food and sleep, and it had felt almost like a holiday. The happy atmosphere of a successful escape invigorated the group as they met for long lunches in the tavern and had a few friendly games.

He had managed to convince Vera to let him spectate a few of her races with Jorge, who promised to limit himself to her attribute allocation as well as practicable. That was a fun experience in a lot of ways, and he congratulated himself on only feeling the barest hint of jealously and bitterness as they blasted through the trees near the outpost at speeds he could only dream of, in a laughing conflagration of loops, twists and jumps.

They completed the course he had set in minutes, despite it taking him half the morning to mark out – the benefit of not just higher levels but also not wasting half their life investing in the wrong Skills and class. Still, he enjoyed seeing them compete, and the friendly ribbing from Vera when she won was a balm for his bitter soul.

He continued to train diligently throughout the second week. While it was important to give yourself rest after hardship, he couldn't allow more than a week to slip by without working on himself. He had been fanatical when he'd first found The Shepard, and it took Jorge a fair few months and some very pointed lectures before Nathlan let go of the belief that pain led to progress and rest was for those who lacked drive.

So, he worked, and he rested. He forced his body to new heights and then spent long hours relaxing afterwards. He read the few texts he had with him that he'd not yet devoured and spent long evenings working on refining his intent and visualisation until it was sharp and solid. He burned with impatience, but he also trusted Jorge to know when he was ready to take the next step.

He swirled the dregs around his tankard before taking another small sip as the door opened. He looked up and noted the grimy hunter in the doorway before dismissing him just as quickly, returning his focus to the treatise on the table before him.

Another attempt at exposing Nathlan the Ancient – his namesake – but just like the hundreds of other such attempts, it seemed to ring hollow. The greatest scholar in the world drew criticism like a flame drew moths on a summer's eve, and yet most seemed to be written more out of personal enmity and spite than any substantial academic disagreement. He was the father of modern scholastic practice, and quite literally wrote the books that most of his critics were raised on–

His train of thought was interrupted as he felt a presence approach the outpost from the direction of the valley, brushing past one of his wards. He immediately broke the warding link he kept on Vera and Jorge, and started to gather up his scroll, carefully wrapping the papyrus back in its waxy covering before returning it to the solid bamboo case. Just because it was a poor critique didn't mean it did not deserve respect as part of the scholarly canon.

He then walked to the bar and handed over the case to the man cleaning behind it, exchanging a nod and single coin before striding out of the tavern. His hand rested on the handle of his sword, and he strode swiftly off, ducking behind the tavern and cutting along a small track at the back of the large four-story building.

Vera met him halfway down the small path and he debriefed her as they walked together. "My outer ward broke, about a mile outside the outpost and heading this way from the valley."

"Not broken through any of your others yet?" Vera asked.

"No, they are moving slowly. I expect it is the woman with the silence domain that slipped away from us a few weeks ago," Nathlan explained. "How do you want to handle this? And where is Jorge?"

He hadn't noticed that he was rhythmically clenching the handle of his blade until he felt Vera's hand on his arm. She gave him a kind smile when he looked her way.

"Good, that makes this easier. I'll take the front. You stay back and cover yourself. Jorge will be nearby if things go sideways, but I'll do the talking."

She gave his arm a faint squeeze that was no doubt meant to be reassuring as she said, "easy lad."

Nathlan just shook his head. "Are you sure you don't want to try the accent too? That might be more authentic."

Vera scowled at that and bumped him with her shoulder before chuckling. She imitated Jorge's thick brogue as she spoke again. "Aye lad, is that better?" She laughed before continuing in her normal voice. "It's just hard to strike a balance. I don't know how he does it."

"I understand Vera, trust me," Nathlan said with a tight smile, then he winced. "Second ward just broke. They should be heading this way in a minute or so. I'll wait here and get started. Shout if you need something."

Vera continued for a few dozen meters before planting herself firmly on the worn grass and staring grimly towards the forest and valley above. Nathlan settled in to wait, crouching behind a tree with a good line of sight at his companion but otherwise well-hidden. While he had his personal ward configured to help deflect projectiles, and personally felt he was a match for any of the fighters they'd so far faced in their month of warfare in the valley, he wouldn't underestimate them. It would be all too easy for somebody with a unique or unexpected Skill to kill him if he gave them a chance.

Besides, Vera didn't need the help. She stood, straight-backed and immovable as a mountain, her executioner's blade drawn and planted in the soil at her feet, it's cross-guard nearly at her chest, such was its size. The moments passed slowly.

Everything about the world tried to lull him into a false sense of security. The birds chirped merrily, enjoying the warmth of late spring. Wind rustled the leaves and tussled his hair with a playful energy, and the air was redolent with the rich scent of sap and flowers. And through it all, Nathlan waited.

He expected another red-cloak, though a part of him held out hope that it would be the God-Touched they'd promised to meet here all those weeks ago. More likely that it would be a whole Fang of Lions that had slipped through his ward unnoticed. It was best to assume the worst, after all – reality struggled to disappoint one that way.

He was half-right, as it turned out. A single figure soon came running out of the trees, a streak of red above the green sea of waving grass. He was moving fast, and Nathlan struggled to take in the details. He was wolf-lean, with visible muscle rippling beneath ruined clothes. Nathlan caught a flash of a red cloak, tattered and worn over stained and grimy trousers and a few dirty bandages. His chest was bare, excepting the aforementioned bandages that wrapped his chest and ribs. His boots looked no better off, pockmarked and shabby, and reminding Nathlan of the refugees that had started trickling into his homeland shortly before he left.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He closed the distance quickly, coming to a startled halt in front of Vera. Nathlan was shocked to see him almost a match with Vera for size, though where she was built like a tiger – all coiled strength and graceful movement – this man was more of a wolf. Tall and sleek, savage and lethal, his every movement looked jerky and erratic, as if he might burst into motion at the slightest provocation.

"Not one more step, Lion," Vera called out, the hostility in her tone clear. If it wasn't clear to the stranger anyway, the message her blade sent was impossible to miss. It hung between them, a few feet from his neck. Nathlan knew Vera could close that distance in a heartbeat.

"Why are you here?" she asked, taking a soft step forwards. The man made to move, but Vera advanced on him in a flurry. Her sword moved with her, leaping towards his neck, and the man recoiled. He tripped over his own legs in a desperate attempt to escape that broad blade's deadly kiss, though Nathlan knew that had been Vera's intent. If she had wanted him dead, his head would be rolling near her feet by now.

"Have they forgotten in the Sunsets what I do to my enemies?" She continued. "Did you think you were somehow more capable than those sent before? Or did you simply not expect them to send you to your death?"

Nathlan had known Vera for almost a year now, and he knew some of her past. He had fought by her side against the occasional bandit, dangerous wild creatures, and trained side by side for hours on end. They'd lived in close proximity for months, and even at his lowest, her compassion had never faltered.

He had never heard rage like this from her.

He knew Jorge had been working with her on faking outrage and acting through emotions in an attempt to help her control her class, but even when she fooled him – which, admittedly, was becoming a more regular occurrence recently – he had never been afraid of her. He was now.

"Which is it, boy – arrogant or naïve?" she asked, stepping forward to plant a boot on the man's chest and level her blade at his neck once more.

She faltered then, and abruptly her sword fell away. She reached down, and for a mad moment Nathlan thought she had been hurt. But instead, she pulled the stranger to his feet with a delighted laugh.

"By the gods, kid!" she exclaimed as she brushed the man's shoulders, as if to undo the previous few seconds entirely. Given the state of his clothing, it made for a rather comical sight. "Is that really you?"

Then Jorge appeared, only a dozen feet behind Vera. He melted into view, emerging from the long grass as if he had always been there, though Nathlan knew for a fact that he had not mere moments before.

"Everyone alright?" Jorge asked. "Seems to have gotten a little out of hand there for a moment."

"What the fuck was all that?" the man demanded, and it was at this point that Nathlan realised it was indeed the God-Touched they had parted ways with two months ago. "No, we're not alright! She nearly fucking killed me."

He stood from behind the tree and started walking over while Jorge pulled the man in for a hearty hug, bypassing his indignation as if it wasn't there.

"Easy lad, no need to lose your head about it. Just a misunderstanding is all," Jorge said. He put a strange emphasis on the middle of his sentence, and Nathlan puzzled over it briefly before he heard Vera snicker.

"Wha– oh go fuck yourself, Jorge," the man replied.

Nathlan joined them all just in time to see Jorge, eyes wide and mouth parted with glee, waiting for a reaction to his awful pun. The God-Touched laughed after seeing his face, and Jorge smiled in turn.

"Alright, now that the tension's been broken, I reckon it's time for a meal and a chat, aye?"

The man's agreed readily. "Throw in a bath and you've got yourself a deal, Jorge."

Nathlan stood awkwardly a few paces behind Vera, watching the strangely joyous reunion. They barely knew the man, but everyone was acting like they were long lost companions. Nathlan was glad to see the man still living – and a little surprised, it had to be said – but he didn't quite understand his two companion's reactions.

Then the God-Touched turned his eyes to Nathlan. His untamed appearance extended from his clothes to his body too, with ragged hair hanging thick and matted down to his broad shoulders and a scraggly beard peppering his lower jaw as if fighting for its life against the rigors of the wild.

He closed the space between them, but Nathlan took a hesitant step back. There was something different now. Something loomed in his shadow as he drew closer, something vicious and snarling. Something that set Nathlan's instincts to screaming a single word with a hundred voices; Run.

"Nathlan?" the stranger asked, and the noise made Nathlan flinch.

His voice was rough from disuse – stone grinding in the depts of a chasm. He towered over Nathlan, the shrubs and trees nearby falling away into the background as his focus was drawn inexorably towards the dark eyes hidden behind darker locks of dank hair. He was faintly aware of the man saying something else, the contours of his face changing, but all Nathlan could see were those dark eyes and the clashing forces deep within.

He snapped out of it when a comforting presence blanketed him. He heaved in a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Blinking a few times, he looked up to find both Vera and Jorge standing between him and the God-Touched. Vera looked surprised, and Jorge was shaking his head and laughing, clapping the stranger on the shoulder as he spoke.

"You bloody idiot, Runt, it's good to see you again. 'Forgot to turn it off' he says! How by all the gods do you forget to deactivate a Skill like that? The spirit drain must be immense."

Vera had moved forward to squeeze Nathlan's arm, and he appreciated the gesture, though it rankled that he required reassurance in the face of an aura Skill from a man who'd had a class for only a scant few months. Or less, most likely.

"I've had it active for most of the last few days, to be honest," replied the God-Touched, shrugging. "Started at The Breach to keep the smaller creatures off me, then I've been flaring it pretty routinely since." He paused for a moment before asking, "what's spirit drain?"

Vera raised a questioning eyebrow at that, while Jorge took it in stride as he always did, and started trying to explain spirit drain to an adult, as ridiculous as that sounded. Nathlan listened with only half an ear though, distracted as he was by the implications of the man's words. To have an aura Skill that powerful running for significant amounts of time? He must be into the 2nd tier to pull that off, but that was… unlikely was the wrong word. Unbelievable might be more suitable.

"Spirit, internal energy, chi, essence, ichor… there are as many formulations as there are cultures. The stuff that sits inside you, that you draw upon to activate your Skills. Active Skills drain this well of energy, and the more powerful they are, the more they drain. You still with me, Runt?"

Jorge had slipped into teaching mode as Nathlan watched but seemed surprised when the man interrupted him.

"Yeah, I'm with you, and I've got some questions of my own for you later about all that, but why are you expecting the drain to be so large? The Skill doesn't seem to affect you or Vera."

"Aye, walk and talk. I'll answer anything you want to know over some o' Jacklin's flatbread. That woman can work wonders, I tell you. Anyway, to your question; your aura sure as all hells does affect us, but we're much stronger than you. We can simply ignore the effects or even overpower your aura with our own, as I've just done for Nathlan's benefit."

As he said this, he looked over at Nathlan and gave him a friendly nod. The Runt, as he'd been called, nodded himself, but then asked the question Nathlan knew he would. It was inevitably going to come out at some point, but hearing it said out loud still managed to sting regardless. "Why does it affect him, then? He's surely stronger than me too, right?"

Jorge just shook his head. "No lad, I'll explain more later but for now just know that a lot of your assumptions about this world are likely wrong, so you're better off going in with fresh eyes."

He gave Nathlan a gentle clap on the back as the two walked past him. Vera turned to follow, her great blade sheathed and disappearing into her storage device, and he followed along behind her, deep in thought.

Jorge continued, "back to the point, your aura Skill is more powerful than I would expect from someone of your strength, and I'm amazed to hear you say you can keep it active for so long. I'm guessing it's a pathbound Skill, but I'll need to know more about it and see what you can do myself before I can say for sure. How did you get it anyhow?"

"Well, my Ma used to say, 'you are what you eat.'" The God-Touched grinned as he said it and Jorge looked perplexed for a brief moment before cackling with glee like an old man sharing an inappropriate joke at dinner.

"Aye we'll need to get some stories out of you tonight, Runt, you can count on that."

"Honestly, I would love nothing more, but I think I need some new clothes first, and possibly a razor if you've got one spare," he replied.

Nathlan could hardly recognise the man, and a handful of weeks didn't seem to be long enough for the dramatic transformation he was now witness to. Now that whatever aura he had felt from him had vanished, he could make out the outline of the man he'd met before. The lines of his face were similar, if sharper now, and while his hair had grown somewhat, it was mostly an effect of all the dirt, grime, and weeks spent without a comb or mirror, if Nathlan had to guess.

The shock was wearing off and he felt embarrassment bubbling up in his guts, that bitter feeling filling him to bursting so quickly once again. He breathed deeply for a few moments, willing down the emotion and mastering himself before moving on.

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