The turn of the world brought dawn sooner than she wanted. Hushed wind kissed the eternal leaves of Eversong, filtered through verdant boughs and brushed an admonishing farewell against the weathered cheek of the paladin. She was alone, framed between the blushing dawn and the retreating night, atop a solitary rise that overlooked the Elrendar.
Contemplative silence hung about her like an old, well-worn and much-loved blanket. It was a familiar silence, wrought of cold memory and weary thoughts. She wrapped herself in it, clung to it like a child in the quiet cold.
Life is more than the sum of its parts, my love.
Her fatherâs voice echoed from beyond the grave, risen in her memory. Cool, soothing bass tones tinged with familiar comfort. Prematurely grey hair. The scent of smoke. A lopsided smile, gold-capped and gap-toothed. Perpetually stubbly face with skin like old leather.
Zimraphel filled her lungs with sweet air and pushed it back out again. Her fatherâs ghost let go its temporary hold on her soul, slipping away as the river of her mind meandered in tune with the one below.
I refuse to regret the only life Iâve had.
The last words of her sister, her idol, her protector, her antagonist. The woman Zimraphel had once considered the most world-wise, the most grounded; a murderer, a mother, a wife, a traitor, a thrice-damned bitch. Izosia had been lost, like everyone else, but she always painted a different picture for her little sister. Blonde hair the color of moonlight, obscuring eyes that burned with addiction. Black leather and their fatherâs beloved blades at home on her hips. Jocular, wry, brutally broken by the weight of her many mistakes. Selfish. Coward. Gone.
Sisterly idolatry slipped away, crushed under the burden of rising bitterness. Zimraphel let those feelings go with a practiced mastery and began the trek that would take her back to the ivory and wine cobbled streets, away from this golden forest and silver river so steeped in the mists of memory.
You will always measure up to my love, Zim.
She paused beneath a tree covered in flowering morning glories, their vines twisted over each other a melee of life. She reached up to pluck one blossom, violet fading into cream. It was a momentary pause, a reflection for the ebon-haired woman who had had so little role her life until the end. Without her, she would not be alive; without her, she would not have survived the devastation that had once threatened this brilliant place.
Her mother, a paladin more devout than she would ever be, might have seen this forest in a different light: familiar, peaceful, comforting in its solid reality, not for the shadows of what it had once been. Here, in the present, in the dawn-limned beauty, was a place for mourning as well as solace. Zimraphel let the flower fall through open fingers, offering up a prayer for the souls of her family in the stillness of the glade.
A soft sense of peace began to scrub out the bitterness that came before the dawn.
Planar leaves of grass parted company and swayed in the wake of her passing. Steel-clad, numbed to the world, her feet gathered morning dew with each step. Two weeks home, she mused.
Her thoughts turned to the events of those two weeks; botched jobs, arguments with idiot mercenaries, meeting old comrades, crippling nostalgia, insomnia, and a general⊠listlessness. She was a soldier, wasnât she? Did she not serve the Light, in her own way?
Who does a soldier fight in her own home? What faith does a paladin defend if not her own?
Golden light cast a haze in the misty air. Zimraphelâs amber eyes wandered left, right, with the vigilance of her identity. She didnât see the rising spires of the city until she had all but left the crowded trunks and boughs behind. By the time the she had crossed the ornate threshold of the gates she had abandoned all melancholic thoughts. She was home. Unhurt. Alone.
âWhat are you, fresh or somethinâ?â The pot-bellied man drawled the words, his red, splotched face a study of contempt as he looked the woman in patchwork leather and platemail over again. âLook, if you need someone to hold your hand through thisââ
âI need to know Iâm not wading into a pool of shit. Or if I am,â Cereta added, taking another step forward into the tiny office.
The aged plate sabaton screeched a soft note against the floorboard, which conveniently creaked. Luck sometimes allowed for ominous things to happen, things that worked in her favor as often as they did not. This job looked to be one of them. A decent sum for a quick intimidation job. Never pleasant, never quick, but relatively simple, and no one had to die. This last fact she kept circling back to, justifying it to herself perhaps more than was healthy. No one had to die.
âThe guy robbed the girlfriend of a local fella. The local fella is involved in... letâs say some inadvisable employment, if we look at it long term, and heâs had a lot of attention on him lately. Thatâs where you and me come in. I offer my services to contract out a little tender love for this fuckwad, and you provide the lovinâ.â
That explanation was accompanied by a less than pleasant leer. He looked the part of a rogue, albeit rounded by age, gluttony, and spending more time with his feet propped up on a desk than on the ground. He continued, using the folded corner of some mouldering parchment to pick his teeth as he spoke:
âThat and he doesnât like the girl that much, but he needs her around for some leverage. Not worth risking his own lads or freedom on it, push comes to shove.â
âGive me the details. Iâll do it.â
âExcellent. Fella by the name of Tom Lackland, goes by Tommy Lack. Hangs out around Old Town some days, more often down by the harbor or in some alleyway. Likes the Bruised Rose. You know it?â
âAye. I know it. Terms?â Cereta kept her voice clipped, terse in mercenary professionalism.
âHalf now, half after.â Standard. She grunted her agreement.
âListen, uh... if you could make sure his face is real clearly the target, thatâd be great. Seems some folks think heâs a looker and uh...â He let the thought trail off into a smile as sinister as it was apologetic, a bizarre combination she felt disgusted to understand.
âGot it.â
âOh, and uh, wear protection, huh, babe?â A riotous, gurgling laugh echoed around the closed walls of the room.
Brokenboot forced herself to laugh along, managing a few peals that sounded almost amused. Again the floorboard creaked as she stepped closer, one metal-clad hand closing in on the scraggly, greying mass of the manâs beard. She yanked hard, cutting off his laughter in a yelp of alarm as he rose from his raggedly cushioned chair and leaned across the parchment-strewn table between them to lessen the hurt.
âLast thing, babe,â she sneered, pressing her weathered face close to his and noting with a savage pride she hated the tiniest glint of panic on his features.
âScrew me on this in any way, gold, information, any of it, and I will gut you. No matter how long that would take,â she added with a crass laugh of her own.
She patted the stretched leather that covered his belly and released him. Whatever fear heâd felt faded quickly from his blotched face; he did not seem surprised or taken aback by her threat. Instead, he settled back into his chair, making a show of righting the papers on his desk as though they had been ordered before he was dragged halfway across them.
âGood to know you arenât as fresh as you act, lady,â he growled as he heaved a leather-bound tome decorated with grime from the larger of the two drawers built into the desk.
âAnd lucky for you I like to be handled a little. You watch yourself, you hear? Those big, plated feet of yours might walk into a world of hurt one day.â He began leafing through the uneven pages as he spoke, each one marked with columns, names, dates, and prices. He found that dayâs entry and scrawled in a few notes, coded but neatly written.
âOriginal threat. Do you hire out for writers, too?â she retorted, layering as much sarcasm onto her disdain as she could.
She held out a hand, and there was a moment between the two; aging rogue looked at aging warrior, a tale as old as time playing out between them. Whatever insults had been offered were, though annoying, part of the ritual, each having just cause should the other turn. She hated it. But she understood it. It was a game she could forget for a while after this, and easier to reconcile than starving on the docks for another season.
He took her hand, shook it once, and finished his writing. He rummaged in the small drawer of the desk and held out a modest stack of coins in silver and gold. He had the good grace to watch patiently as she counted them.
âAlways a pleasure, Perry,â she grunted without feeling, stomping her way to the small door of the small room.
âDonât choke and die, huh?â he rejoined idly, already refocused on the moldering tome that kept track of his spindly empire of criminal crumbs.
It took her four hours to track the man down, and by the time she did, she saw why he had inspired her hiring. By all accounts, he was a lowlife cretin, more annoyance than threat. He made his living cutting purses and bruising the poor, and swaggered as if it all meant something. She was careful to not let it feel like justification; this was a job. She was a professional. That was it.
Even worse, she tried not to enjoy it.
Heâd run, she figured, so she waited for him. It wasnât meant to be a stealthy job, this; Perry didnât hire rogues to send messages. He hired brutes, so a brute she would be. She waited outside of the Bruised Rose, an out-of-the-way shack in an alleyway near the Harbor that passed for a tavern for those too stingy or poor to pay for rum that wasnât watered down.
It was high noon, though the closed walls of the alleyway cast shadows over her armored form as she lingered, eyes never leaving the scarred door. Two men left the Rose, both tall and lanky and to her eyes, incredibly young. They headed towards the narrow entrance to the alley near where she stood.
Tom â and it was him, sheâd watched him go in, had had it confirmed by the shop across the way where he owed coin â was the first to notice her. His face darkened, eyes darting beyond her to the exit of the alley.
âYou stay put, you stay alive. Simple as that, Tom,â she said, voice lilting with combined threat and cheer. The bearded axe slung over her shoulder was sheathed, a thin strip of leather guarding its razor edge. She left it where it hung, but she could see Tom sizing her up. They were of a height; she had perhaps an inch on him with the plate and helmet on, and he wore only the simple roughspun of a common townsperson. A dagger in the thin leather belt around his thin waist, perhaps one or two more on his person.
He might as well fight a brick wall and she had him cornered. She was just about to turn her attention to the other man when he abruptly turned on his heel and scuttled back into the Rose, leaving Tom alone to face her.
âLook, I donât want any trouble, Missus,â he began, voice already snarling. âIâll kill you if Iââ
âTom. Do you know my name?â
âNo. Should I?â His eyes widened and he looked her over again. A tan, weathered face, lined with humor and experience framed by a simple steel helm. Platemail cuirass and greaves set over a leather hauberk and mail chausses, meant to offer protection to the chest and legs without compromising too much on mobility. Massive sabatons, once gilt but now much-repaired and scarred by experience. She wore it like it was nothing, some thirty pounds of armor, without counting the bearded axe that looked older than he was on her back. She was nothing of note, no one famed or infamous, he was sure of it. Too plain, too ordinary to be a paladin; too weary and repaired to be a knight. She was no one.
âNo. But I know you, Tom, and I wager you know youâre not worth the recognition. So what does that mean?â Her tone was polite, even cheerfully patient. She wanted him to understand, to learn from this. Cereta saw recognition dawn on his face: he realized the danger in her anonymity, the utility in her role here in this deserted alley.
âW-who sent you? Was it Malcolm? Ruth? Look, you can tell them both I have the money, itâs not a problââ
âYou robbed the wrong girl yesterday, Tom. You fucked up.â
âI-I didnât mean to, I didnât know who sheââ He began to back away, back towards the Rose, eyes darting around as he tried to find a way past her. She stood where she was; the axe was a quick draw and had the easy reach of the entire alley. He wasnât going anywhere.
âTom. Tommy,â she said softly, the smile on her face drawing all the weathered lines into focus. âWhatâd I say? If you stay put, you live.â
âPlease, I didnât do nothing! I swear I didnât! I just wanted to get the coin toââ
Tommy fell silent as a plated fist collided with his face. Heâd been shouting, hadnât heard the steady beat of the mercenaryâs sabatons on stone, hadnât realized sheâd do it here, now. Blood gushed from his nostrils, impeded by the crushed mess of bone that now served for a nose. Broken and much-repaired boots, her namesake, found toeholds in the soft flesh of his ribs as he fell. It was an ample beating, a fair one, meted out with cold experience by a carefully indifferent soldier. Three kicks to the ribs and one more to his head.
âLearn your lesson, Thomas Lackland,â Cereta said softly, just loud enough for his ringing ears to parse.
She reached down to grip a handful of hair and pull his face around to look into hers. His nose was shattered, perhaps a cheekbone as well; plate had broken skin in at least three places. He would be scarred, and even with a good healer, bruised for a month. The soldier let out a soft sigh, not quite sympathetic.
âListen, kid. Donât play a game you cannot win. Lay low. Find a trade, or else steady, honest work. They wonât hire it out next time, Tom.â
âYou run with him? Youâre Defias?â he croaked, mouth sticky with his own blood. Cereta heard her own heartbeat then, a pounding rush of... fear? Horror? Here she was extemporizing life lessons to an idiot who would assume the worst in her, and worse yet, share those assumptions with the wide world if he could but put a name to her face.
She stood, releasing him sharply. He slumped to the ground and curled around himself. Cereta looked around. There was no one there to witness, and only the friend and the shopkeep whoâd seen her face. The beating wasnât life-threatening â most likely, anyway.
âLike I said, Tom. It was hired out. Iâm not affiliated.â The former soldier hesitated, weighing the probability of his believing her.
âMake sure you donât die,â she said, fishing a single silver out of the beaten, old pouch on her belt. She dropped it on top of Tomâs whimpering form and strode towards the exit of the alley. All she heard was the scraping cadence of her boots on the cobbles and the constant reminder in her head, Felixâs voice echoing from four days before:
Donât get involved with that lot. I donât want you ending up dead.
The night was not cold. That was a blessing, since the plate kept out the cold about as well as it kept out the heat. Still, Cereta was glad of the quilted gambeson beneath the heavy riveted armor, more cushion that insulation. While the night was warm, it was long, and by choice she stood on a partially exposed balcony.
Guard duty was not new or intriguing to her; long hours of her life had been spent in that attitude, the heavy axe-head of her halberd resting against one spiked shoulder. She doubted its use would be necessary, but one never knew. Better to be ready than dead.
The events of the day meandered the space of her thoughts, not quite reaching the level of distraction necessary for her to pull her attention away from them. The fur-trimmed woman, primal in attire but so... vital. Kind. Flattering. She tore her thoughts from that infectious grin and the memory of watching her frustration, the joy of altering the strangerâs casual demands. Confusion warred with a blossoming joy inside her, the entire experience relived with a kind of nascent fear.
What would she have done differently, had Felix not waited at some familiar haunt in the city?
Thoughts like this never used to bother her. Something had changed on this latest return to the white-hewn stone of Stormwind, some... hangup that existed in her soul when she thought of him. It irked her as much as it terrified her, this urge to preserve and to please. She had not felt it for nearly twenty years, and even now, alone outside of a warehouse guarding a door no one was interested in for less gold than the effort was worth, she avoided naming that feeling.
Left unnamed, it had no power over her, she told herself firmly. A second thought was shoved back, unacknowledged, to the inner recesses of her mind.
Avoiding the truth does not make it untrue.
Cereta resigned herself to a long night of waiting for nothing to happen, content by force and by habit to pass the hours in silent contemplation of meaningless moments and ideas, nothing tied to her growing fear.
Silence, incomplete. A land once fertile and green.
The forest corrupted, a shadow of perished joy.
Another shadow lurked.
Seeped into psyche,
Gnawed at the marrow of souls.
Her ears heard phantom echoes alongside the hushed scraping of plate against packed earth: writhing screams of terror and the simmering fear of the void unleashed. Each step brought sensation with sounds, both real and remembered. Raw pain found her as the rends in her arm and leg reopened, but she dared not linger with the others in the ichor-stained glade. She did not want to break in the midst of joyous reunions and hard-won relief. The break was coming. Better, then, to be alone when it came. Or at least in the open under the stars if she could find them.
She had weathered storms, hadnât she? Suffered agony, given home to plentitudes of hurt that she still carried as scars. Pain was as frightening to her as the certainty of death; expected and accepted.
Yet sheâd never seen the equal of what sheâd witnessed that night. That was beyond her days as a simple soldier.
As the warrior walked, she banished momentarily thoughts of oozing dark and festering pain with reflection on who she had been. A soldier. A marine. Twice homeless, once broken, but never in the tangle of darkness that sheâd found herself in that night. Many of her colleagues had taken it in stride, it seemed, and though she kept a brave enough facade, she was far from right as rain.
She wondered, telling her more confident self it was an honest question, if she was worthy of the challenge. One of the fold? Or the newest and weakest link? Her thoughts danced merrily to this tune of self-doubt, keeping rhythm with the throbbing pain.
Dark shapes floated on the periphery of the forest; here a house, there a storehouse. The town materialized from the gloom, lit only by the nightâs sentinels. It seemed a lifetime before she crested the small hill where the gryphon master kept the beasts. Plate met woodgrain in a hollow knock against the makeshift desk that guarded the roosts.
âOut late.â It was a statement, hurled like an accusation from a bleary gryphon handler who appeared eyes-first from his clandestine nap âneath the desk.
âSure am,â she retorted, mustering the requisite cheer to sound as close to normal as she could. âI promise I come only in search of a swift ride to the city. Youâll get no trouble from me.â
âYou donât look like trouble,â he grunted. âYou look like shit.â
The cadence of pain and worry skipped a beat. She felt a wry smile stir in the lines that hemmed her mouth.
âA thousand thanks for the compliment,â she said, fighting a snort of laughter as his shoulders rose and fell in a weary, indifferent shrug.
Coins changed hands and the belabored man, grey and long-suffering in his night post, rose to shuffle one of the gryphons from a roost. By the time sheâd hoisted herself into the leather saddle, the man was back in his own roost, muttering about bloodied travelers in the night.
Laughter tinged with hysteria followed in her wake as the gryphon leapt skyward. It was a poor, temporary salve to her exhausted nerves, but still welcome, as welcome as the numbing cold and rushing air that drowned out her thoughts until the hazy twinkle of the city appeared in the distance.
