Authors note: Before we begin with this chapter, I would like to say that the first part of this chapter is a memory and therefore written in italics to signify its happenings occurring in the past. 

Light streaks through the verdant canopy of leaves, leaving bright patches on dew-damp dirt. Twigs catch in his clothes and thorns scratch at his uncovered skin as he runs...or as he tries to run. He's quite slow in making his way through the forest edge, sliding between old, fat trunks and grabby shrubs. Only the sturdy material of his clothing seems to be the reason why his shirt and pants are in one piece.

Another scratch on his hand is enough to send him in another crying fit. Even though he has promised himself he won't cry. Not any more. But it doesn't work. A promise is not enough to keep tears, heavy and filled with emotion, at bay.

He isn't crying because of the wound. No, his knees and elbows are crisscross patches of scars, old and new, just showing how he's never afraid to get hurt while playing outside. He's crying because of something else entirely, something that he has no idea why it is happening.

He sniffs once more before roughly rubbing at his eyes, or as roughly as a child can. He's not proud of that, and he doesn't like that his strength isn't more. Then others wouldn't pick on him. Like this, he's too small and too frail to fight back. And even when he fights back, grown-ups scoff at him with anger as if he's some kind of vermin.

The men in dark clothing aren't nice, but there's a certain kindness in their indifference. He likes them more than other grownups... or maybe they are grownups, also. He doesn't care because they don't yell at him, nor do they watch him with those ugly eyes. He just wants it all to go back when it was normal. When he was normal. When the parents didn't whisk away their children reminding him that he had turned different.

He realizes the tears are futile and angrily kicks at the small rock on the ground. He ducks when it almost ricochets into his face.

The beginning of the forest isn't far away and he still knows how to get back to the town but if he keeps on it won't be the case anymore. Stomping over the tiny dirt path, his small feet don't make much sound, and he wonders if anyone will miss him if he just disappears.

He shrugs, thinking he could turn back at the first sign of night overcasting the area. No one will bother him then. A market near the orphanage will be closed, people scattered to the other parts of the town. He wipes his nose into the sleeve of the shirt, feeling marginally better because there's no one to admonish him for that slight transgression. Why can't he just wipe his nose in his sleeve? It's not like it won't get dirty after a day out in the woods.

He wins a fight against big bushes, pushing through where limbs close the space off, drops out to a clearing. Only his reflexes save him from landing face-first on the ground covered with dead, yellowish leaves.

Laughter follows, and he scrambles to his feet in a hurry. There shouldn't be anyone out there aside from him.

Directly across, sitting at the foot of a grand oak tree and leaning comfortably to its brown bark, is a woman. She laughs once more when he detects her, though it doesn't seem she has noticed him at all. He wonders why she is laughing all alone. He hasn't laughed ever since everyone left him.

Maybe she won't be like others, his young mind cannot but hope. Yet, hope is a fickle thing.

He has never seen someone like her around the town. He would remember that long, silver hair, caressing her face, her shoulders. The sun falls on her bronze skin where knee-length breeches don't reach and her beige shirt looks worn out. She laughs once more, tipping her head back against the tree and closing her eyes. A shift of leaves in the brief gush of the wind opens space for the sun to reach almost all of her, making her practically glow among browns and greens; he can't think anything less than she is like an angel!

When a twig cracks under his boot, her eyes snap open, two hazel pools of glimmer whipping in his direction. He freezes in place, standing stock-still. A moment passes or is it minutes? He fidgets, then brings his hands together, fingers twisting one around another.

"He-ello." His voice cracks. He wishes it doesn't.

She is silent still, observing him with a steady gaze and watches and watches...a sigh, and then she tilts her head back against the rough bark.

It was almost as if she'd been holding him captive with that stare. He can breathe now properly. Weird. But strong. She must be strong. He likes it.

He takes a step forward, curious. Then another and another. Soon, he is half a dozen meters away, catching an eyeful of the entwining scars, each likely having their own story, but the one on her face is the most prominent. She must be a warrior then.

"What do you want, kid?"

He flinches, taking a step back. It shouldn't be surprising, but sudden noise startled him. Her eyes are still closed, and she doesn't move from her position. He squares his shoulders, determined. He must not allow this chance to escape him.

"Can you teach me how to throw a punch?"

She laughs a little-- a soft sound; her eyes open slowly with a blinding smile resting on her face; she tilts her head at him and...the smile falls off her face, fast, her eyes widening considerably.

For a moment they are staring at each other, then she looks down, shifting her brown eyes around, tapping with her left hand over the ground, until she finds a half-full bottle. Twisting a cap off, she brings it to her lips, angling it, and drinks.

He isn't sure what's going on. But he doesn't want her to start hating him like the others. He tries once more. "Can you?"

She lowers the bottle, looks at him... surprised? In wonder? And then laughs. This time it's different. Her laughter isn't soft anymore; it's a rough, almost violent sound tearing away from her throat.

"Is this the gods' punishment?" She asks through laughter, practically hysterical, but he doesn't think it's meant for him and has no idea what she's talking about. He realizes what is in the bottle. It must be that drink grownups drink when they start acting stupid.

"It must be! It must," she continues, her free hand landing on her chest. "Gods have this punishment just for me."

"Lady, are you ok?" he asks, and she finally looks at him.

A sad chuckle later, and she sighs. "Who knows..."

He knows he must do something. A pretty lady shouldn't be sad. "I can tell you a story about a turtle if you want," he offers honestly. He's always liked the story about the turtle that won the race, even if turtles are slow.

She's looking at him weirdly again like she's surprised, and then she laughs. This time the sound reminds him of a chime of bells. It's beautiful.

***

The memory has always been one of his favorite ones. When he was still young, he fancied an idea of Yana being his long lost mother. Stupidly, he hoped. But that was a long time ago.

He has learned times and times again that not all the wishes come true. Not all yearnings can be solved. At least I'm not alone, he would tell himself late at night when the fears left him reeling, a frantic heap of limbs on the timber floor.

"You idiot! What were you thinking?"

Fingers dig into his muscles as someone shakes him by his shoulders. Strength finally trickles back and his head stops flopping around. Whoever is shaking him, is doing it on purpose he concludes.

Opening his eyes is a difficult struggle. His heavy eyelids part, but everything is dark. He blinks it out of his eyes and meets the angry visage of yellow and blue.

"Damnit, Plamen." Vid shakes him one more time with a slight snarl. He can see the whites of Vid's eyes. "Don't get knocked out just like that. We thought you were dead."

They are both kneeling on the ground, Vid holding most of his weight upright. Expression softening, Vid's head falls to his shoulder. A stuttering breath shakes him some, and he realizes it comes from Vid who is slowly releasing the hold on him, wrapping hands around his back.

Vid curses into his skin, burrowing deeper into the hug.

Plamen can only kneel there, puzzled. He can't orient through the cobwebs inside his head. He has no idea where they are.

Oh, he sees shadowy trees, their fat boughs everywhere where he looks. The ground is harsh on his legs, a few jagged rocks digging into the skin of his shins through the thick fabric of his pants.

Vid nuzzling into his neck brings him back from the inspection of their surroundings. His nose is cold on Plamen's warm skin, enough to cause a shiver. Or maybe he's shivering because he's feeling like he took a beating.

"What happened?" he croaks out, his throat dry.

Vid shuffles, raising his head to look at him with concerned eyes, but doesn't let go. "One of the officers that had come with my father activated an explosion spell." Vid's face darkens as he continues, "We dealt with him."

Oh, so it was that older guy. He never would've guessed.

"Where are we now?"

"We went west after dealing with other traitors," Vid answers. "Those two we saw fighting. It was a ruse."

Just as Plamen would prod about it, Zima crashes into their line of sight, panting heavily.

"You're okay!" she exclaims and rushes to their side, throwing herself over, hands pulling them into a hug.

Plamen can't do anything about them toppling onto the ground because he still feels like shit, weakened limbs don't help. But Vid is there to stabilize them, rearranging their bodies and holding tight.

"He doesn't need a concussion on top of all the injuries," Vid bites out.

"Oh, shove it," she replies, beaming at them, yet Plamen can see relief lingering in her eyes.

Somewhere in the darkness leaves rustle, and they stiffen at the sound, hold themselves still, halting their breaths to listen to the sounds. Moonlight's reach cannot push through the canopy of trees and the shadows seem darker. Eyes sweeping over murky depts of the forest gets him nothing, no clue where the sound originated from or what made it.

Vid pushes to his feet silently, bringing Plamen along. His knees buckle, but his friends grip him by the arms, Vid from his front while Zima takes his back. He wants to scream that they shouldn't protect his hide, that he's feeling well enough to stand by their side, but decides against it. His legs barely hold him upright with the help of others, and it would probably take one wrong step for him to meet the ground again. So, he breathes in, carefully cataloging the scents, eyes wide and concentrated on any kind of disturbance of the shadowy landscape, any kind of flicker of movement.

"It's just us," comes from his right and he recognizes Yana's brisk lilt. A twig breaks, steps follow. Yana, Zlatan, and the Commander step from the shadows, careful gait, watching the surroundings with narrowed eyes.

The Commander nods in greeting, faint in the low light, and they exhale.

"Now that we're all here..." the Commander gestures with his hand to encompass everyone, then turns to stare at the two companions who arrived with him. "...we should get a detailed report on the previous Championship endeavor. I'm guessing the compulsion preventing you from speaking about your experiences broke."

"Ah, yes," Yana says, a bit uncertain. "That is--"

"Indeed," Zlatan agrees over her fumbling, glaring at her. "Just like it has been each time, there were three Champions; Lila, Yana, and I. Not that we willingly teamed up." He lets out a bitter laugh, shifting his eyes to the leaves-covered ground. "I was a brat who wanted to be the sole Champion. I almost even failed the test given by the Ancient One."

What? Wait. That time...

The Eye had said, "It's more that I'm here to test you." And then finished with, "You passed." Plamen sometimes wonders about it, what was it really that secured their triumph?

"Teamwork," Zlatan spats out like it's a curse. "A goddamned teamwork is an answer. How the hell did you three find an answer without losing a limb or two?"

Plamen doesn't have an answer to that except... Oh, Gods, it's so simple. They did stand together when the Eye appeared, united in defending against the unknown foe. And that was perceived as teamwork!

A loud hiss comes from his right side and Vid turns to Zlatan. "That's how... how you...?"

Those golden eyes flash molten for a moment. "That's right. The price for my stupidity was my leg," Zlatan says, bending to rap his knuckles against his leg, just under his knee. A metallic tapping noise sounded, and something else, like wood.

And Plamen's mind finally draws a horrific picture in his head. Shit, he's slow on uptake. That could've easily been him. He had totally wanted to make it to the end of the Grand Test alone, wanted to ditch his companions after he didn't need them anymore. Well, good thing the circumstances had slotted themselves into a path where he didn't have a chance to act on his will.

"Yana and Lila saved my ass and we were proclaimed champions. But we weren't ready. The world wasn't ready for the change."

"We couldn't be ready for something that couldn't happen," Yana interrupts with a steady voice. She has been silent up until now. Something must have made her poke in. "The prophecy isn't about us ao it was a moot point to have Champions that year." She shrugs. "This time it's different," she says almost sadly.

"Anyway," Zlatan starts shooting her a scowl. "First come the Unnaturals, that already happened. Just like before, the Elders stick their noses where they don't belong." He pauses with a calculating gaze before shrugging. "And when Unnaturals fall, The Vanguards arrive."

"The Vanguards?" The Commander questions.

"They never came back then," Zlatan says, ignoring the question. "Lila was already dead, there wasn't the three Champions present as it should be." His eyes look suspiciously wet, but Plamen can't be sure in what he sees because of the lack of light.

Zlatan sighs loudly, and continues, "Nužda can only send the Unnaturals when the Champions appear. And after we deal with those nasty things, she can send the Vanguards. The legend says that on his dying breath Borislav had managed to negotiate with the rest of the Pantheon to set some rules for her behavior and that's why we have a fighting chance."

Heating of his Dragon King mark makes him take a glance at it, and he witnesses it gleaming with the red light, not enough to light up the darkness, but enough to be noticeable. A look around tells him that Zima and Vid's marks glow too.

"And the Vanguard," Commander prompts impatiently, motioning with his hand.

"While the Unnaturals are Nužda's pets," Yana answers. "The Vanguards are her army of immortal beings. Let's say, soldiers or servants."

"How do you know that?" Commander asks.

"The witches from Željezna Krila have some records about them," she replies. "After the whole fiasco with our Championship, I went there to find out if they know something. They showed me a record of the Prophecy, as well."

The city of Željezna Krila, where the citizens comprise of members of various species and where some of the Dragons reside. One of the rare multicultural cities of the western coast, spreading over hillside just above the Deep Green Sea. Plamen would love to visit there one day, to see the famed red and orange roofs and white stone buildings. Longer this nightmare lasts, longer the...

A thought occurs to him, one that has been buried deep among old and dusty memories, a knowledge he acquired purely by chance.

"Isn't the siege on Castel Lela at the time you were the Champions considered one of the longest attacks and hailed as a fabled victory?" Plamen asks with a sliver of trepidation spreading through his body.

Grim expressions unfurling over the older Dragon's faces is enough of an answer, telling him both everything and nothing.

"The Unnaturals didn't come all at once," The Commander says after a long moment. "Nužda must have been aware that the prophecy wasn't fulfilled."

Well, shit.

"They came all at once this time?" Zima asks, her eyes wide as she voices what all three of them want to know.

"We expected that and prepared accordingly," Yana answers the question in a manner that should probably assuage their worries. It doesn't.

"But we have no idea what to expect from the Vanguards," Plamen offers. No one refutes his statement.

They stand like that for maybe a minute, digesting the information laid out bare, when a sound of footsteps reaches them.

"Ognjen!" a female voice calls out.

"Here," The Commander answers.

That shorter female Armsguard officer, that had been with them when the explosion happened, is the one approaching from a distance, running but now slowing down.

"Ognjen," she addresses the Commander through gasps for air, but no one corrects her too familiar use of his name. She comes to stand next to them, smoothing out the creases in her forehead, but it doesn't erase the fear in her eyes.

"Željezna Krila has fallen. The Vanguards broke through their defenses."