Victor Fair walked the streets of Elsendorf with the heavy, sure gait of a man in charge. Outwardly, his demeanor remained calm. It was a mask, one familiar to all who served the Amith Capil. Detached and unfeeling.

Perfect tools of destruction.

Victor shook the thought away, disturbed by its presence. He had not joined Her Majesty's army for a license to kill. The rank he carried and the power he wielded were meant to protect Samodivia's people. Politics may have mired the system, the priorities of those above the soldiers may have shifted, but Victor was confident that his brethren in the Amith Capil felt the same way he did. They would survive the shifting of this regime. They had survived the last, after all.

Having reached the main road, Victor paused to assess his options. He needed to find a cart or carriage of some sort, preferably padded for the comfort of the injured woman. Provisions were not necessary for what was to be half a day's trek up the mountain, but water wouldn't go amiss. Victor thought of the girl's thin shoulders, and scanned his surroundings with a purpose in mind. There was a grocer down the street, the store flanked by crates of tomatoes and cucumbers and cabbage. People bustled in and out. Some, mostly older women, lingered to gossip with the proprietor and each other. The soldier dismissed the establishment as too popular. No need to feed the rumors, especially those to do with the girl and her mother.

Victor ducked into an alley between two houses. He kept to the back streets, shoulders at times brushing walls as the paths he followed narrowed. The turns he took seemed random, yet not once did he encounter a dead end. Victor's mind was trained as rigorously as the soldier's body. It remembered what it had seen but once and produced relevant information readily. There were no tricks to it, no Spark to ease the way. Victor had achieved all he was on his own, through honest labor and rigorous discipline. When he took a right and emerged into open land, he knew exactly what he would see.

The MacLean Family Store seemed deserted, not as much as a single patron in sight. Victor pushed through its door for the second time that day. A familiar, croaky jingle rang above his head. The soldier scanned the small store, pale eyes trailing over shelves bearing a scant selection of produce and supplies. Erika MacLean was notorious in her absence, the shock of blonde curls nowhere to be found.

"She's in the back. Whatcha want?"

Victor blinked slowly. "Name?" he asked, a beat belated.

"Dimitri." Dimitri leaned against the register. His eyes were sharp, at odds with the lazy sprawl of his body. "That was a bad way to go about it, you know."

Victor suppressed an irritated sigh. "I would like to rent a cart," he said, seeking to change the subject to the practical. A store would have one, even if uncomfortable and suitable for inanimate cargo only. "I will purchase food, as well," he added.

A door opened, stealing their attention. Erika MacLean stormed into the store, hair wind-blown and wild around her face. The joy that pulled her lips into a smile disappeared as soon as her eyes landed on Victor. She stuffed the letter she held into a pocket in her apron.

"I believe I requested your absence," she said, voice cold.

"I would like to rent a cart. Preferably one that requires a single horse," Victor said.

"I do have one," Erika allowed, "But I'm not in the habit of renting it out."

"You will be compensated well," Victor assured her. The Amith Capil didn't want for gold. He pointed to a shelf above the register, "Five pumpkin rolls, three apples, and a waterskin. I will buy a basket, as well."

Erika collected the requested items. She wrapped the bread in thin paper and placed it atop the apples in a small wicker basket. "How long would you keep the cart, if loaned?" she asked.

Victor produced the pouch that held his coins and pretended to sift through it, watching for Erika's reaction from beneath his lashes. "That depends. How much time does a trip up and down the mountain take?"

The woman's hands froze over the counter. "I can't help you," she said.

"Why?"

Erika shook her head. "You can have the food. I'll be needing the cart—a customer's expecting a delivery. Terribly sorry."

"Do you know the family that lives outside town, near the old barn?" Victor asked.

Erika nodded, eyes wary.

"The mother is very sick. I have promised her daughter to take them to Beaufort." Victor purposefully dropped all titles. Whether the monster called himself a noble or a doctor mattered little to him.

Erika's mouth trembled, the struggle obvious in her. At last, she dropped her eyes.

"I can't help you," she repeated.

"The woman will die without proper care," Victor pressed. She might die even if help was obtained, but that wasn't for Erika to know.

"Why would I trust anything you say?" Erika snapped.

"You trust Beaufort," Victor said, tone mild.

"No. It's my final answer." Erika turned away.

"Very well." Victor paid for the food, picked up the basket, and left the store. Erika MacLean had made her choice.

The soldier made his way back to Dale's Inn. Tim Dale wasn't at the register, which meant he was in the bar. Victor found the man nursing a large mug in a corner of his own establishment. He was surrounded by fellow drunks with no better place to be in the middle of the day. The soldier's voice cut through whatever overblown story the man had been in the process of inventing. "Dale."

Dale squinted up at him. "It's you," the man slurred. "Just been talkin' about you."

"I need a cart." Victor knew Dale owned at least one, having seen it as he was settling his horse in the inn's stables. "Something padded is preferable." Given Dale's demeanor of self-importance, the soldier didn't doubt the man owned something better suited to human passengers than wooden planks.

Dale turned his attention back to his beer. "You need somethin', eh? Well, forget about it. You think you can just come in here, in my home, barkin' orders?"

Victor twisted a hand in Dale's collar and lifted the man from his seat. The mouthful of beer Dale had been in the process of swallowing spilled down his front.

"Cart," Victor said, slow and calm. His eyes gleamed in the dark of the bar, an inch from Dale's. "Now." He let the man go.

Dale fell back with a dull thump, bones rattling under fat and skin. He opened his mouth to shout. Bloodshot eyes caught on the handle of Victor's sword, and bulged.

"Clara," Dale called out. His voice shook.

The woman Dale employed to mind the bar hurried over. She curtsied Victor clumsily before turning her attention to her boss. The bar's patrons eyed the proceedings curiously, but were too cowed by the recent display to as much as whisper.

The cart was in a locked stall. Clara produced a key for the padlock and bowed a hasty retreat, departing with a fearful glance Victor's way. Victor dragged the cart out, forcing his attention on the lacquered wood instead of the unpleasant churning of his stomach. The cart's interior was well-padded, a roof shy from being a proper carriage.

The soldier's horse was one of two housed in the stables. It was easily twice the size of Dale's gray mare, the dark brown of its coat and the width of its shoulders making it seem more akin a bull than a horse. The equine was a special breed, raised for its endurance and strength. A military horse meant to carry a soldier and his weapons.

Victor patted the horse's flank. "Seth," he said. The animal curved its neck, pressing the side of its head briefly against Victor's shoulder.

The soldier made quick work of securing the cart to Seth. He took the main roads out - an unavoidable headache, as the cart would hardly fit the paths Victor had walked earlier. Seth ensured that they made good time nonetheless. The steady, familiar clop of the horse's hooves was calming.

The girl waited by the barn. She waved when she saw the cart approaching. Victor followed her inside the house. The sickly woman had been washed and dressed, a thick jacket buttoned securely around her shivering body. A bag sat on the floor by the bed. The girl shouldered it while Victor lifted her mother in his arms.

"Take the blankets," the soldier said. "We will lay them in the cart."

The girl gathered whatever had been on the bed. She disappeared briefly, returning with another armful of fabric, likely her own bedding. The whole pile rose above her head when she picked it up. Victor walked slowly, mindful of his burden and the staggered thread of his companion. The girl helped him settle her mother into the cart, nestling the blankets around her to minimize any jostling. The woman whimpered throughout. She fell silent eventually, slipping into a state of dead slumber. By the time they were done, the girl was brushing away tears.

"Here," Victor thrust a bundle into the girl's hands.

It was the pumpkin bread he had purchased from Erika MacLean. The girl stared at it as if she had never seen its kind before.

"Eat as much as you wish," Victor instructed gruffly.

The girl smiled, face softening. "Thank you, Sir," she said.

"You are welcome. My name is Victor Fair," he added, only now realizing he had never offered his name.

"Sofia Korral." The girl extended a hand. Victor shook it carefully. "I am very glad to have met you, Mr. Fair," Sofia said. Her eyes curved in another honest smile.

"Likewise," Victor replied. He was startled to find the word true.