There were hushed whispers in the darkness, the actual words lost in a haze of apprehension. The Empire had suffered massive casualties in the recent skirmish with the rebel forces, and small regiments of rebel soldiers had captured a few strongholds on the far outreaches of the Empire’s sphere of influence. Needless to say, the Imperial officers gathered around the table wanted to hear the latest news, and they wanted to hear good news.

Unfortunately, Duran Barclay was not in the position to deliver any. A potbellied man of forty with thinning hair and nervous eyes, he had the air of one who was not entirely comfortable in his own skin. He nervously fidgeted with the ring he wore on his finger as he stared around in the room. His thick black eyebrows furrowed as he tried to make out faces in the darkness. There was Krynn, the commander of the Imperial Wizard Corps. Montelban Caruso, head of the experimental muh-can-ickle weaponry division, sat in a corner and picked at his teeth. Carmine Renuza, head of the intelligence corps, sat apart from the others, which suited all involved just fine. Rounding out the group was infantry general Andryn Silvermoon. A couple unimportant advisors filled other seats, but the most important person at the meeting, and the source of Duran’s anxiousness, was Lord Ru himself. Lord Ru. The Emperor.

Duran squinted. Lord Ru wore the darkness like a shroud. He always seemed to be positioned in such a manner that made ideal use of the absence of light, and as such few people knew what he actually looked like. Every so often someone would catch the glint off of a metal boot-tip or the silhouette of his face, but he wasn’t the sort of person that made it a point to show himself. In fact, Duran wasn’t sure if Lord Ru was even actually sitting at the head of the table. But he wasn’t here to guess whether or not the most powerful man in the world was listening to him, he was here to give a report. He cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “As you know, the rebellion has met with some unforeseen success. Our minor strongholds in the cities of Irak-dün and Helmsfar have fallen to the New Moon army, and reports indicate they are planning on capturing several smaller towns to establish a greater base of operations for their further inward movements. While we can afford slight losses, we mustn’t get complacent.”

“So we let them think they’re making advances while we ready a crushing blow?” a relatively unimportant general asked. Duran nodded.

“That is the idea.” There was a small glass bulb mounted on a brass box behind Duran. He pushed a button, and there was a click and a bzz as the map behind Duran was illuminated by the bulb’s glow. “We believe they’ll strike here,” he said as he pointed at a small black box on the map, “in Saran. Saran is a small fishing port on the western coastline. While we do make some income from the industry there, it has little other strategic value to us. In my opinion, it would be best to let them have this tiny gain so we can focus our attention on more pressing matters, like fortifying our defenses around other, more valuable regions.” There were murmurs of approval around the table.

Carmine was next to speak. “What about the other peoples of the realm? Surely the dwarves would aid the rebels given half a chance. Our hold on their kingdom is tenuous at best.”

“A good point, and one of the more pressing matters I referred to earlier. As we speak, all weapons and potential weaponry in the dwarven kingdom are being confiscated and destroyed. It’s taking a while, and the little folks aren’t too happy about it - there was a riot today. Six of them dead,” he added casually. “We’re sending out a small detachment of special forces to keep things under control. The elves, on the other hand…” here he looked at Andryn, who met Duran’s gaze with a look of calculated indifference, “The elves have kept to themselves for as long as anyone can remember. If anything, we can count on their relative neutrality.”

Neutrality. Andryn scoffed. We elves are a proud people. We have no need to be neutral in any conflict. Why don’t the elders realize this?

“What of the recent skirmish on the border?” Krynn asked.

“I have to say the results weren’t optimal - both sides lost almost all of their infantry forces. The best we got out of the conflict was that it was a mutual retreat.” He paused. “We’re trying to recoup our forces, but it’s going to take a while. Montelban, how are those new ma…mach…things coming along?”

Montelban folded his arms in front of him and leaned back. “The walking armor? The first unit is almost complete. We’re having some difficulties with it, however.” He pushed some diagrams to the center of the table. Everyone looked.

The schematics showed something that looked rather akin to a teacup situated in-between two massive legs. “The leg actuator joints are tearing through the power conversion couplings, which, as you can imagine, is causing a huge mess in the flywheel casings...” Montelban’s explanation was met with blank stares. “The, uh, legs are broken.” He coughed. “This model runs on steam, so, um…yeah.” He decided to quit while he was still ahead.

A voice came from the shadows, a voice that was calm, even, and above all terrifying. “These rebels…what do they prize?”

Duran blinked. “I’m sorry, m’lord?”

“What do they prize?” “Well, their freedom, obviously-“

“Do they value their lives?”

“One would assume so-“

“I would trust, Duran, that you know the old adage: nothing is so dangerous as a cornered rat.”

"I do not understand."

"In order to fight the rebels, we must first understand them. There is no greater foe than one who is willing to die for what they believe in. If our enemies consider their lives expendable, no amount of tactical preparation will give us an advantage. Have you ever feared that tomorrow may not come, Duran?"

"No, my lord."

"And of course not. Why should you? You've been protected and cared for within these castle walls since the day you were born. You've never had a reason to want for freedom or worry about the future. It was assured. But these rebels are different from you or I. I do not doubt that many are ready to lay their lives on the line in order to overthrow us." Ru paused, and there was a hiss of air from the darkness. "The only way we can hope to plan for the future is to understand where our enemies are coming from. If we do not understand their mentality, we cannot adapt; if we cannot adapt, we will not survive. So, I ask you again, Duran. What do these people prize most? Freedom? Land? Their families? Their lives?"

“I…I do not know, m’lord.”

“Then we cannot make plans for the future. Come here, Duran.” Duran looked down at his feet. “Why do you show fear? I only wish to speak to my advisor.” Duran was visibly shaking as he walked into the shadows. “Those who do not know their enemy cannot hope to defeat them. Why do we not know our enemy?” Duran felt an icy, inhuman hand settle on top of his, tensing upon it. “I ask you as an advisor and a friend. Why do we not know?”

“M’lord, I-“ Duran’s explanation was cut off by his scream as Ru’s hand squeezed with incredible strength. The cracking sound of bones giving way filled the room with a sickening echo. “Remember what I have told you this day,” he said as he loosed Duran’s hand. The advisor withdrew his numb, broken appendage and cradled it like a newborn child. “The worst foe is the one you don’t expect.” There was silence.

“This meeting is over. Leave now, all of you,” Lord Ru said in a commanding voice. Duran and the rest left the room and slinked out the door, closing it quietly behind them, leaving Ru alone in his thoughts.

Damn, she’s fast!

Gasopi fell backwards and lifted his arm to block Rosalyn’s strike. This left her open for a split second and allowed him a chance to make a counter attack. He thrust his arm downward so he had her in a cradled position, then spun around, shifting his body weight so Rosalyn was thrown on her back. She rolled to her feet and kicked at Gasopi’s head. He ducked and threw a right jab. Rosalyn caught his hand and went for a quick punch to the stomach, but Gasopi stepped backwards and attempted to put her in a headlock.

It’s a hug, Cirso thought as he watched from the other side of the room, a tome of magic that was roughly as big as he was spread open (and thoroughly ignored) in front of him. There was a sharp rapping on the training room door, and Cirso ambled over to answer it. Grok walked in, his cane clicking on the ground as he did so. “I see he’s training.”

“Ayup,” Cirso said.

“How is he doing?”

“Take a look for yourself.” Gasopi looked up for a moment. “Hi, Gro-“ Rosalyn took advantage of Gasopi’s brief distraction to shoot her leg backwards and catch him in the groin. He fell backwards and decided to stay there, staring up at the dingy stone ceiling. Rosalyn’s face came into view, blurry and unfocused as it was. “Are you alright?” she asked nervously. “I didn’t mean to hurt you!” Gasopi clenched his teeth as his eyes watered. “I’m…just…fine.” Grok’s face came into view next. “You shouldn’t leave yourself open like that, boy. Didn’t I teach you anything?” The little man-frog-thing helped Gasopi to his feet, at least insofar as that was possible - Gasopi was still doubled over, trying his damndest to draw breath.

“So, I hear you didn’t do so well on your first mission out,” Grok said.

“That’s an understatement,“ Gasopi wheezed.

“Kid, nobody does perfect their first time. Look at me. I was so nervous my first mission in command that I accidentally razed the wrong village. I still think that if they’re gonna have towns, they should at least have legible signposts. And then the first time I was ever in combat, I got separated from the rest of my unit and was rushed by a couple of armed horsemen. Rusted my armor, I did.”

“How did you do that?” Rosalyn asked.

“Well, I pis-“

“Oh,” Rosalyn replied, cutting him off as quickly as she could. Gasopi had by this point managed to reclaim some of his lost oxygen, and dropped onto a bench in the otherwise unfurnished gymnasium. He took off his leather sparring gloves and set them to his side, then brushed off the sleeves of the solid blue training gi he wore. “So what are you here for, Grok?”

“Just checking up on my favorite student. I’m a tremendously bored old man.” He leaned on his staff a little more. In the short time since Gasopi had last seen him, Grok seemed to be a little older, a little weaker. “I’ve heard talk you might be shipped out to keep the peace underground.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” Cirso muttered.

“Kid, it’s a hotspot down there. The dwarves have been doing what they do for years now, and they don’t take too kindly to anyone fiddling with their way of life. We’ve never had a strong grip on them to begin with, and it isn’t getting any stronger. If another rebellion starts, well…” Grok sighed. “Just be careful, OK? Remember what I taught you, and don’t get yourself killed, and you should be fine.” He began to hobble off, his cane clacking on the ground as he did so. "You'll figure it out as you go along. The great ones always do." He closed the door to the gymnasium behind him as he left. There was silence as he left. Rosalyn broke it.

“So, another round?” she asked, cracking her knuckles.

It was raining, and raining hard. Fat, wet drops fell from the sky and soaked the riders as they started their trip southward. Rosalyn stared silently at the back of her pemda’s neck, lost in thought as she rode. Gasopi considered asking her what she was thinking about, but decided it wasn’t any of his business. So, with little else to think about, he thought about the mission.

He knew very little about what they were on their way to do, except that they were to act as peacekeepers in the dwarven capital city of Korwyn. He had done some research on the city before he left. It was essentially an overglorified cave, but telling that to a dwarf was likely to get you a boot to the shin. To avoid a hefty bruise, one had to feign interest in the city’s trades and accomplishments, which was made easier by the fact that there were actual trades and accomplishments to admire. The dwarves were master architects and craftsmen, and had the innate ability to make featureless stone into beautiful pillars and arches. A gigantic stone statue of Korwyn’s founder, Master Brock, stood beside the gates into the city to greet visitors, his stern facial expressions never yielding, but his eyes saying Welcome to my city, traveler. Enjoy your stay, but if you do anything wrong I’m going to get off of this pedestal and introduce you to entirely new worlds of hurt. Perhaps that was why Korwyn had such a low crime rate.

Korwyn had long been a supplier of metals and ore from underground to the Empire, and several of their best craftsmen had gotten jobs as blacksmiths and builders in the service of Lord Ru. Quite simply put, the city was vital to Golgorath’s sustenance. Demand was high for the city’s exports, and several Imperial workers had been sent to assist the dwarves in their mining and smithing operations. Most who were transferred to Korwyn and not of dwarven descent developed a slight psychosis, blamed traditionally on the long hours and lack of sunlight. Many were simply mentally unprepared for the fact that there was no day or night in the city, and it slowly began to take its toll on their psyche.

As such, security in the city was taken very seriously. A revolt in Korwyn could seriously cripple the Imperial infrastructure, so it was vital that the city and its residents were kept under Lord Ru’s thumb. That was where the encyclopedia entry had ended. Gasopi had then turned to the military logs and filled in the rest of the story.

The growing rebellion had given the dwarves a new spirit, and discussions of revolt had become more prevalent among their ranks. Imperial guards who had long been installed in that location and were an accepted part of life were now finding themselves the target of epithets and slurs. Fearing a revolt, the captain of the guard had ordered all weapons and tools that were not necessary to mining and smithing operations to be confiscated and destroyed. Gasopi read what the captain had written in the log after the confiscation orders with interest.

That was a week ago, and the dwarves had acted as predicted. Gasopi read on.

Gasopi then closed the log and sat back in his chair, silently praying that he wouldn’t be number seven.

And so now they were riding. It was eerily quiet, save for the rain pattering on the ground. Cirso was mumbling something in a strange tongue. Probably better if I don’t ask what he’s saying, Gasopi thought. They were still a few hours away from the entrance into the city. Gasopi tried to make conversation.

“Rosalyn,” he whispered loud enough to be heard. Her head turned towards him. “What? I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s alright. What were you thinking about?” he asked, hoping the answer didn’t start with an “A”.

She was quiet for a second, trying to figure out the best response. “Someone I met when I was a kid,” she finally answered hesitantly. “Someone who I owe a lot to.”

“What’s their name?” He was careful to avoid specific pronouns, so as not to complicate the issue.

She shook her head. “I don’t know his name.” With that, she was quiet for the rest of the trip.

Dawn was beginning to break as they approached the towering, gilded gates of Korwyn. Words from the dwarves’ native language were chiseled into the stone archway and inlaid with gold over the solid black stone. A stout Imperial guard stopped them.

“Halt!” he said, and promptly sneezed.

“Bless you,” Rosalyn said politely.

He ignored her. “Who are you and what’s your business?” It seemed as though he was raising an eyebrow, but it was difficult to tell under the three-sizes-too-big helmet he wore. It slipped down his brow as he tried to look as threatening as possible.

“Orders from General Andryn. We’ve been sent in as peacekeepers.” Gasopi reached into his side pack and pulled out a waterproof sealed envelope, then handed it to the guard. The guard, who was at least three years younger than Gasopi was, fumbled with the envelope in his hands. He eventually broke the seal and scanned over the orders. “This isn’t General Andryn’s handwriting.” His voice was suspicious. Cirso stifled a laugh.

“Have you ever seen his handwriting?” Rosalyn was wet and tired and had no desire to play Humor-The-Halfwit. The guard snorted.

“Of course I have, lady! It…uh…” He shuffled his feet and kicked at a loose pebble.

“You don’t know what it looks like, do you?” Rosalyn’s tone had changed to a more playfully teasing one.

“Of course I do!” He sneezed again. “Bless you,” Rosalyn smiled. The guard shook.

“Listen, if you don’t have the proper orders, I can’t let you in! For all I know, you’re rebel spies!” He thought for a second. “In fact, I never even heard about any peacekeepers coming in today! You probably are rebel spies!” He clutched his halberd threateningly. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t arrest you all right now!” he said, as he waved it in their general vicinity.

Cirso couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Because you’re holding the paper upside down, idiot.” His peals of laughter almost pitched him off the back of Rosalyn’s steed.

The guard looked at the paper again, turned it over, and sighed. “The captain of the guard is waiting in the armory. Just go.”

Rosalyn patted the guard on the head as they rode past him. Cirso pointed and laughed some more.

“No wonder they didn’t tell him the peacekeepers were coming.”

The captain of the guard was a lean, angular man with a strong chin and dark gray eyes. His eyebrows were a thin and wispy light brown, and his head was shaved. He wore a cloak over his broad shoulders clasped together with a broach of the Imperial seal. “My name is Captain Reiner,” he said in the tone of one who is used to holding a position of authority. Cirso liked him immediately, or at least he liked his kneecaps – Reiner was easily the tallest person in the room, standing almost seven feet tall. After pleasantries were exchanged, Reiner invited the trio to sit down as he sat in his chair and put his feet on the desk, clearly exhausted from recent events.

“It’s a good thing you’re here,” he said. “It’s been hell trying to keep a complete revolt from breaking loose.” He chose a pipe from one of the many on a rack on the wall, then filled it with tobacco, tapped it down, and lit it. “Would you like some?” he asked.

“No thanks,” Rosalyn said. Gasopi shook his head no.

“Sure,” Cirso said, accepting a pipeful and lighting it. They stared as the tiny, faceless wizard happily puffed away.

“How does he even hold it?” Rosalyn whispered to Gasopi, who answered with a shrug. “Anyhow, things aren’t going well. The intellectuals of the city have formed a coalition against disarmament.”

“You mentioned that in your log,” Gasopi said.

Reiner nodded. “You did your homework. I’m impressed. Anyway, they’ve formed this organization under the auspices of Olin Flintbeard, an elder in the community. He’s refused my every attempt to hold a conference with him to discuss matters, which you can no doubt imagine has made progress difficult. Hopefully you will be able to talk to him.” He paused and drummed his fingers on the table.

“What makes you think he’ll listen to us?” Cirso asked between puffs of his pipe. Reiner shrugged.

“Hard telling, really. Maybe the fact that peacekeepers from the upper echelons of the Empire have arrived to try and negotiate a compromise would make him more inclined to listen, but maybe he’ll be further opposed to any notion of compromise because of that. At any rate, you’re the last chance we have.” He got up from the chair and leaned against the windowsill, staring out the window at the town. “If Flintbeard decides that a compromise is in everyone’s best interest, insurrection may well be diverted. As it stands now, he’s already a folk hero for daring to stand against the Empire.” He turned to face the others again. “I’ll see if I can get you an appointment with him.”

“How?”

“I have my ways.” He stood up and looked out over the town square from his office window. “You must be tired after your trip. We’ve set up guest rooms for you on the V.I.P. floor. It’s just up the stairs. Take your rest, but I would recommend seeing the town before you get to work. It’s really quite a marvel - The dwarves are fine architects, you know. Report back to me when you return. That is all.” Gasopi and Rosalyn stood and trudged up the stairs, exhausted. Cirso hopped off of his chair and held up the pipe.

“Can I take this with me? I’m not quite finished.”

“Certainly,” Reiner nodded.

“Thanks.” Cirso followed his companions up the stairs, leaving Reiner alone. The captain of the guard rested his head against the window.

Cirso sat on the floor of his quarters, still smoking the pipe and looking over an ancient book. He was mumbling the words to himself as he read over them¹, when his concentration was broken by a couple sharp knocks on his door. He stood up, stretched (as much as he could) and waddled towards it.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Message from Captain Reiner,” a young male voice said. Cirso opened the door and the messenger, a pudgy youth with blond hair, handed him a note.

“The captain says I’m not supposed to look at it, that it’s something for the Imperial peacekeepers. Must be something important,” he said, standing fast in the doorway. “Otherwise I’d probably get a chance to see it.”

“Probably.”

“So…” The young man rocked back and forth on his heels. “So, is there anything else you need?” He peered at the envelope again. “Maybe you could use a-“

“Probably not,” Cirso said as he closed the door in the boy’s face. He hopped up on his bed and looked over the message. Nice white paper, folded over so as to obscure its message from prying eyes, and sealed with the red wax insignia of the Korwyn Imperial Guard. Cirso broke the seal and read the message’s contents to himself.

   My friends –

I have been successful in arranging a meeting with Flintbeard. You will meet with him tomorrow in his organization’s headquarters, located in a rock wall behind a tomb in the cemetery. You’ll know it when you see it. Knock three times before you enter – that is very important! Flintbeard was reluctant to speak to me any more than to set up the meeting, but hopefully you can get something more out of him. Be on your guard, and I wish you the best.

Cirso folded up the message and tucked it away. I’ll tell Rosalyn and Gasopi when they get back from their date. He chuckled and picked up his book and pipe again, mumbling to himself as he did.

To call what Rosalyn and Gasopi were doing a “date” is to say that lighting your hair on fire is just as effective as getting it cut. While it may accomplish the same effect, there are significantly fewer benefits. A date implies that the two participants either have some sort of feelings for each other, or see the potential for such a thing. As far as Rosalyn and Gasopi were concerned, however, this was a scouting mission to see what the local life was like. A scouting mission that just happened to start at the pub.

They made their way down the city’s smooth cobblestone streets, their path illuminated by the pale glow of torches mounted on poles above the sidewalk. Korwyn was a city that was in perpetual twilight, and the effect was hauntingly beautiful. In fact, if two people wished to fall in love, Korwyn was an ideal place in which to do it. Not that falling in love was the point of this mission, of course.

They walked in silence towards the pub, when the silence was broken by a crowd of protestors in front of Korwyn’s city hall. A mob of dwarves young and old were shouting and brandishing signs bearing slogans such as If Axes Are Banned Only Criminals Will Have Axes and You Can Have My Axe When You Pry It From My Cold Dead Fingers.

Rosalyn nudged Gasopi. “Maybe we should go the long way around.” Gasopi nodded. “Probably a good idea.”

They quietly snuck around the roaring crowd, having wisely left their Imperial regalia in their rooms. Anyone wearing an Imperial crest would be an easy target for the mob to direct their rage at, and “target” was an unenviable position. It was best not to hang around to find out what the crowd was yelling about.

The pub was noisy and rambunctious. A band played some sort of raucous drinking song (Was there any other kind? Rosalyn wondered) as the patrons drank, swore at each other, made misguided passes at attractive (or unattractive, they were as a group pretty far gone) members of the opposite sex, drank, threw darts, drank, tried to sing along with the music, arm-wrestled, drank, laughed, drank, and drank. Rosalyn and Gasopi slunk to the back corner of the pub and sat at a table. A dwarven waiter came over to them with a pair of mugs full of some sort of thick liquid.

“Wow, great service,” Gasopi said.

“You wish. These ‘re compliments of that big fella over there, with the tattoo across the back of his head.” The waiter pointed at him. “I think he wants to talk to you. Come along, I haven’t got all day.” The waiter balanced the tray of drinks on his head as he led Gasopi and Rosalyn through the throng of barflies. Gasopi stared in wonder at the little man’s extraordinary balance – no matter how hard he was jostled or bumped, not a drop was spilled. The waiter set the mugs in front of Rosalyn and Gasopi as they sat down in the booth, across from the generous stranger. They nodded thanks. The waiter held out his thumb and fingers, rubbing them together. “No thank you, we’re all set,” Rosalyn said sweetly. The waiter muttered something and shuffled away.

The stranger was massive, with a jet-black beard. His face was strong and rounded, his head supported by a muscular neck. He wore a gray shawl over a light mail shirt, an amber brooch holding it closed over his broad shoulders. The back of his bald head was tattooed with a strange design that went down his neck and presumably farther. There was a small red cross on the right shoulder of his tunic. His eyebrows were black and bushy above his dark blue eyes, and there was a small scar across his right cheek. His expression was humorless.

“You’re brave to come this far into their territory,” the man said quietly.

“Who are you?” Gasopi asked.

“Excuse me, my lad, I bought the drinks, if anything, I should be asking your name.” He paused, his great muscles tensing. “But that would be silly, as I already know your names. You’re Gasopi Malentro, the quarter-elf.”

“Half-quarter elf,” Gasopi corrected him.

“My apologies. And your lovely companion is Rosalyn Capona.” Rosalyn turned slightly red. “I suppose now you would like to know my name.”

“Well, I am having fun listening to you rattle off the Imperial roll call.”

“Your first mistake, Malentro. Don’t mention that you’re part of the Empire too loudly. It’ll get you killed down here. You can’t be too careful about who you talk to, present company included.” He shook his head. “I haven’t lived this long under the mountains without learning a few things. My name is Karm Relgaad, and I’m a medic first-class in service of the Imperial army.” He made sure he announced this fact so only his companions could hear it. “I was sent down here to help out with the riots.”

“You’re a medic?” Rosalyn said. “You look more like a swordsman.”

Karm sat back in his seat. “Let me tell you something, Miss Capona. I have discovered through the years that to take a life requires nothing more than a sharp object and half of a brain. To save that same life, however, requires something more. A lot more.” He sighed. “Of course, when you’re in the middle of combat, the sanctity of a medic’s position goes to the wayside. So I have to carry this.” Karm reached into his cloak and pulled out a rather unimpressive knife.

“How is that going to help?”

Wordlessly, Karm tapped a button on the knife’s handle and five other blades popped out from it. Gasopi let out a whistle. “Yes, I designed it myself. A couple of the blades I use for surgery, but there’s a few I made just because they’d really hurt.” Karm sighed. “It’s rather strange to save a life with the same weapon you used to take another.”

“What do you want with us?”

“A word, my friends, nothing more than a word. Just a chance to speak to a friendly face, even if it’s one I’ve never met before. I trust you’re only in town for a little while. I’m here indefinitely. I figured it would be a good opportunity.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you too,” Rosalyn said. Gasopi nodded.

Karm took a drink from his mug. “You might want to go back to where you came from. I hear tomorrow’s going to be quite a busy day for you. If you would like, we could talk later.”

“Thanks,” Gasopi said as he and Rosalyn stood up to leave. Karm put up his hand and they stopped.

“One more thing before we part ways, my friends. Be careful who you trust. Those who seem to be most worthy of our trust are oftentimes the ones that can surprise us the most. Do you understand?”

Gasopi and Rosalyn nodded a silent yes.

“Good luck.” After Rosalyn and Gasopi left, he stared down into his mug and muttered to himself, “Provided you live long enough to enjoy it.”

“Carriage to the armory, courtesy of Captain Reiner,” the young cadet said as he saluted the two Imperials. Gasopi nodded and started to walk towards the cadet, but Rosalyn turned around quickly.

“Wait, I dropped my hairpin.” She began patting her pockets and scanning the ground for the pin.

“Is it really that important? It’s getting late,” Gasopi said, dimly cognizant of the fact he couldn't really tell due to the lack of sunlight. Rosalyn stared at him.

“It was a gift from my mother. I’ve had it since I was a little girl…one of the only things I have to remember her by. So yeah, it’s kind of important,” she said with venom in her voice. Gasopi backed off a little. Rosalyn saw a glint on the ground near the pub’s entrance, smiled, and bent over to pick up her hairpin. Setting it carefully in her pocket, she turned back to walk towards the carriage just as it exploded in a brilliant orange fireball, hurling her and Gasopi to the ground.