"Reset." Dem laughed as Gotti lurched aside and lost the remainder of his breakfast onto the grass.
Gotti slid back into position as a neutral defender, pale-faced and apologetic; Yanz looked equally green at the edges. Dem moved through the small circle, correcting posture, offering quiet praise to anyone showing improvement. He felt surprisingly fine after the night's indulgence—unlike his companions.
Dem crouched low, weight centered. "When faced with the unknown, the neutral stance is usually the safest choice."
Huntmaster Dern raised a hand. "Isn't that what you used against the hunter in the circle?"
Dem shook his head. "Watch."
He shifted the weight of his feet just enough to raise his heels a barely perceptible amount, rolling his balance forward.
"Your heels are off the ground," Dern said.
Dem nodded. "Exactly. That's why the fight lasted one breath. My opponent mistook advantage for neutral and countered based on that misinformation. There are three basic stances—neutral, advantage, and retreat. Learn how they look and what counters they invite. Choose wrong, and the result can be permanent."
Dern mimicked the movement, lifting his heels and leaning forward. "This is an advanced technique?"
Dem grinned. "Yes, Huntmaster. One I won't be teaching the novices for some time."
When Sybasi lessons concluded, Dem picked up his spear and followed Dern toward an area designated for spear sparring. He paused at the edge: a crowd had gathered.
All the clan chiefs and the shaman stood clustered near the center, eyes fixed on the newcomers as they approached. Chief Revan offered a warm, calculating smile.
"I have spoken with the other chiefs," Revan said as they drew near. "They are impressed with your generosity, Dem."
Dem dipped into a slight bow and produced the black wooden case from his storage ring. He set it on the low table and opened it for all to see. The brass rings glinted in the lamplight.
"You told them the rings bind to the wearer and become invisible?" Dem asked.
"I did," Revan confirmed.
Taigon Frostridge's brow tightened with the weight of what that meant for the clans. "This is a significant boon for our people. The chiefs agree payment must be substantial. State your terms."
Dem glanced at Huntmaster Dern—his expression unreadable—and then at the circle of faces. "I ask for five able-bodied fighters from each clan."
Taigon Frostridge's face remained impassive. "For what purpose?"
Dem squared his shoulders. "I will form a sentry force. They'll weed out bandit camps, dismantle mercenary rings, and respond to anyone who thinks tribals are easy prey outside the Gathering. Five from each clan should be sufficient."
After the clan chiefs departed, Huntmaster Dern resumed teaching Dem the spear. The lessons came faster now—Dern pushing harder, Dem adapting effortlessly. Spears cracked and rang through the air, their movements blurring into one fluid rhythm of attack and counter.
Finally, the Huntmaster lowered his weapon. "That's enough for today." He placed a heavy, calloused hand on Dem's shoulder, his weathered face soft with pride. "I'm pleased with your progress. Someone's waiting for you."
Dem glanced over, spotting his visitor. "Thank you for the lesson, Huntmaster."
"Same time tomorrow," Dern called after him.
Dem nodded, slinging his spear over his shoulder as he walked toward Yena. "We're riding?"
Yena held the reins of two brown horses, both saddled and ready. Her bow hung from one saddle horn. "Is that okay?"
"Perfect." Dem swung easily into the saddle, slipping his spear into the leather boot attached to the saddle frame. "Got a destination in mind?"
Yena shrugged, steering south. "How about that way? Telo was sick this morning."
Dem chuckled. "So were Gotti and Yanz." He made a mental note that, apparently, his tolerance for alcohol was better than most.
They rode south for nearly an hour at a leisurely pace, the Gathering still visible behind them. The grass was lush from recent rain, the air rich with earth and sunlight.
Dem suddenly slowed, raising a hand for silence. He eased his spear from its boot and set its base against his foot. "You can come out," he said evenly.
Yena's head snapped up. She saw nothing but open trail ahead, yet instinctively drew an arrow and notched it.
"I said, come out."
Laughter answered him—low and muffled at first—before three men stepped from behind a boulder. The shimmer of magic dissipated as their concealment faded.
"Shit," Dem muttered. "Hunters." His eyes swept the group. Caravan guards—armored, well-armed—but no mages. "We're going back to camp."
Yena nodded and turned her horse, but flames roared up in front of her mount, a wall of fire forcing the animal to rear. She kicked free of her stirrups and landed lightly, already drawing her bow. The fire wall flickered, collapsed, leaving only the sound of the frightened horse galloping off into the distance.
Dem slid from his own saddle, slapping the horse's flank to send it clear. He landed softly, decision already made.
The air thickened. Light dimmed. His eyes began to glow like twin candles. Shadows crawled along his skin, forming into armor as twin daggers of darkness solidified in his hands. Then he moved.
The first man barely saw him coming. Dem's blade cut his throat in a single, clean arc—blood spraying across the stones as Dem pivoted right, severing the wrist of another before the man's fingers could even touch his sword hilt.
The scream that followed ended in a wet choke as Dem's second blade punched up beneath his jaw, driving deep until it hit bone.
The third man froze, eyes wide with terror, backing away until his boots slipped on loose gravel. "Stop!"
"Watch out!" Yena's voice cut through the haze.
Dem spun aside as a ball of fire crashed into the ground where he'd stood, scattering dirt and smoke.
A mage—female, by the shape of her silhouette—held her staff out, heat rippling around her, her face hidden behind distortion. She started to tilt the staff, fire building—then her body jerked sideways as an arrow sank into her ribs.
Dem closed the distance in a blur, both daggers plunging into her chest. For a breath, their faces hovered inches apart—her eyes bright blue, his a burning brown. Then her gaze dimmed, and she slid to the ground.
Yena's bow sang again. Dem turned just in time to see her arrow bury itself in the back of the last man's knee. The guard screamed, collapsing—Dem's blade found the base of his skull a heartbeat later.
Silence. Only the faint crackle of cooling embers and the rustle of wind through grass.
Seconds. That was all it had taken.
Dem checked each body, ensuring none still drew breath, then looked up at the sound of retching.
"You okay, Yena?"
Yena nodded shakily, eyes wet but steady as she wiped her mouth and approached. "I… I think so."
Dem squeezed Yena's trembling hands and drew her into his arms. "You did really well."
"I did?" Her voice shook, eyes fixed on his instead of the blood splattered across the rocks. She startled when Dem's shadow armor shimmered and faded into nothing, leaving only the quiet of wind and river.
"Yes," Dem said softly. "It's easy to freeze the first time you're fighting for your life. You acted fast—you wounded the mage and slowed the guard. That saved me time."
Yena leaned in, her breath shaky. Her lips brushed his before she blinked, flushing scarlet. "Sorry… my breath."
Dem stood frozen, caught between surprise and confusion. "It's fine…" He spotted his horse grazing nearby and used the moment to regain composure. Taking Yena's hand, he pressed the reins into it. "Get the Huntmaster. I'll clean up here."
Yena nodded quickly, still blushing as she swung into the saddle and kicked into a gallop. Dust rose in her wake.
Dem exhaled, rubbing his neck. "What just happened?"
He turned to the bodies. The mage—young, striking, her face still twisted with arrogance even in death—lay among two weathered guards. Kneeling, Dem stripped the weapons and equipment, storing them in his ring. He unfolded a blood-stained parchment from the mage's robes—a map drawn in precise ink.
"I don't recognize any of this," he murmured. "Maybe the shaman will."
Following the faint trail beyond the rocks, he found their camp: three white tents, two bedrolls, the remains of a campfire still warm. Nothing else of value.
The distant rhythm of hooves reached his ears. Dem rose and trotted back to the ambush site.
Huntmaster Dern arrived first, spear across his back, flanked by two clan chiefs and Telo. All four dismounted in silence.
Dern crouched low, studying the ground. "You killed all four?"
"With help," Dem said. "Yena shot the mage through the ribs before she could burn me alive. Then she crippled the last guard so I could finish him."
"My dasai did that?" Telo asked, clearly impressed. "Guess I trained her better than I thought."
Dem snorted faintly. "Their camp was hidden behind a barrier. I felt something off, stopped, and they flushed out. The mage attacked when we tried to return to camp."
Taigon Frostridge and Revan exchanged grim looks. For outsiders to strike this close to the Gathering was madness.
"What were they thinking?" Telo asked the question on everyone's mind. "Thousands of tribals nearby, and they attack two kids?"
"Doesn't make sense," Dern agreed, scanning the horizon. "Did they have horses?"
"Four," Dem confirmed. "Tied near the camp. All branded from Thaigmaal stables."
Revan's face darkened. "Wrap up the bodies. The shaman will see to them. Take everything from their camp—every scrap."
Dem nodded, already moving. "Understood."