Sab peered around the bar. It was mostly empty, this morning. Too early for most. But not for his friend. A familiar ponytail of curls was moping at the end of the bar, head dipped into his mug. He slid in beside Raff and caught Marco's eye, then gave him a little shake of his head. Not this early. Not for him.

Raff barely acknowledged him, giving him a grunt before sipping at the beer again.

"What happened? Did the trial go poorly?" Sab asked. It was unusual for Raff to be in a bad mood like this, much less go drinking to solve it. Something terrible must have happened. "I missed the first half of the trials—fifteen laps—but Cecile didn't see you, either, so..."

"Fucking Cecile," Raff grumbled and tipped his mug back. He gestured at Marco for a refill.

Sab furrowed his brows. Where was that coming from? "Alright, so what's happening? Did you miss the trials or something?"

Raff looked up at him for the first time. His eyes were slightly red, though from alcohol or emotion he couldn't tell. "Got disqualified," he complained.

Sab sucked in a breath. No. "But Cecile was there..." he said, trying to process the situation.

A shake of his head. Raff turned back to his mug and tried to take another sip, but it was empty. He gave it a sour look. "Cecile's special," he replied. "And Matteo 'ates me, or something."

"I'm sorry," Sab said, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eye. "I shouldn't have suggested going into the tunnel. I didn't mean to get you disqualified." He looked down and started to say something more, then bit his lip. "Should've known better. I'm old enough, for Ignis' sake."

Raff shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Matteo 'ad already decided I wasn' good enough. Too 'immature,'" he said, saying the last two words with as condescending a voice as he could muster.

"Oh. Well, in that case..."

Raff shot him a dirty look. Sab shook his head again. "No. I'm sorry. I really am. I can't imagine it didn't influence his decision, our little journey."

There was a pause. Marco refilled Raff's mug. He gave Sab a look, but Sab shook his head again, so with a shrug, he retreated.

"He lied," Raff said suddenly. "I've been thinking. There's something down there."

"What?" Sab asked.

Raff looked up at him, a strange sort of clarity in his eyes. "He said they'd locked a lich-'ing down there. Undead can't use magic."

Sab stared at him, trying to figure out his point. Then it dawned on him. "So why have the whole magic-channeling room set up...?" he said slowly.

"Right. There's something else down there. Something..." He paused and shook his head. "No, he wasn' lying. The way he said it... I don't think he knows what's down there. I don't think anyone knows." Raff gave Sab a slow smile. "It could be anything. Could even be the Lost Godstone."

"Too bad we'll never know," Sab sighed.

The door thumped behind them as someone else entered. Raff scooted closer to Sab. "Why not? I already got dis-disqualified," he whispered. "What're they gonna do?"

Sab's face turned stern. "Raff. You're not thinking straight. They could kick you out of the guard altogether. You can't ruin your whole life over this."

"But if we found the Lost Godstone," Raff said. "Think about it, Sab. Who'd care what Matteo thought? I'd be the one."

"You think it's down there?" Cecile asked.

Raff jumped. Cecile? What was she doing here? But there she was, sitting right on the other side of him. She gave him a little smile and a wave.

He blinked slowly in return. How much had she heard? He was angry, but angry at the concept of Cecile, not Cecile herself so much. It was a strange feeling, to look her in the eye and feel no anger towards her, while at the same time being absolutely incensed at her for being so much luckier than him.

"I don't like that the Shrine's keeping secrets," she complained.

Raff exchanged a look with Sab. What else did the Shrine do but keep secrets? Half their lessons had been Shrine secrets civilians couldn't know. Most of it was boring and mundane. The practicalities of the soulstream, the speed of the average return cycle (two hundred years), the mysteries of why so many sages had been reincarnating lately (which was mostly supposition anyways). The list went on and on. The Shrine was all about keeping secrets, and always had been.

"Let's take another look. We know there's ghouls now. We can prepare. Buy some repellent incense, something. Move quietly. There's something down there, I know it. We know it. If the Shrine's trying to cover it up, doesn't that guarantee it's important?" she asked, eyes shining.

Sab shook his head. "Cecile, Raff got disqualified for going down there. Do you want to get disqualified?"

The shine in Cecile's eyes diminished. She looked down at her hands. "No," she mumbled. "I can't."

"Then stop this talk," he insisted. "You can't go back there. Neither of you. None of us. They don't want you to go down there. We have to obey, or they'll take everything away from us."

Raff stood. The world swirled around him suddenly, and he wobbled precariously. The feeling passed, the world settled. He drew himself to his full height. He didn't want to listen to Sab's lecturing right now. "Let's go take a look," he repeated, pushing away from the bar. Marco cleared his throat. Raff glanced in his direction, then tossed a few coins on the bar to cover the cost of his drinks. He headed for the door, only stumbling once or twice. Maybe he'd gone a little overboard on the day drinking. It wasn't too bad. He was fine. He was fine, and he was headed right back into the music room.

"Raff, you're being ridiculous," Sab said, annoyed.

"It doesn't hurt to just look," Cecile replied, following close behind Raff.

Sab shot her a glare. "I thought you didn't want to get disqualified."

"Looking isn't going to get me disqualified," she said.

With a deep sigh, Sab fell in line. "Alright, alright. But I'm going to pull a Milo if you get any stupid ideas."

"Fucking Milo," Raff muttered, amending his previous statement. If only the little ass hadn't gone and ratted, there wouldn't be a problem at all. It wasn't Cecile's fault Matteo hated him and loved her. No. It was Milo's fault for tattling and putting Raff in this situation in the first place.

He put his hand on his sword as he walked, just to reassure himself it was still there. Marco had refused to serve him until he'd sheathed it, which he'd figured as fair enough. As long as he could feel its weight and the coldness of the metal, the faint hum of magic when his fingers brushed against the soulstone, everything was fine. As long as he still had his little fire, the warmth like a bowl of hot soup in his stomach.

But it isn't enough. It will never be enough. If I can't have the Godstone... Raff dropped his hand off the sword, disgusted with it and himself. It was pathetic how paltry his magic was in comparison with the heat he'd felt from the Godstone. But there was no way to surmount that gap. What he'd thought was his chance was only an illusion.

Except maybe, just maybe, if he found the Lost Godstone. It wasn't a long walk back to the Schola, except for the way the carts and cobblestones kept jumping out to catch him unawares. Just to curse him, the gate was locked, too, the guard off somewhere—probably watching those damned trials, Raff thought darkly. He fumbled with the lock, his key somehow not fitting quite right. Did they change the lock on me, too? It'd figure, the kind of day he was having.

"Maybe it's not the best time to investigate," Cecile suggested uncertainly.

"If not now, when?" Raff responded. The lock finally clicked open. He let the gate swing shut behind him and didn't bother trying to lock it. So what if he left the gate unlocked? What was Matteo going to do with him, kick him out of the trials? Oh, wait, he already has. He snorted at his own joke and wandered inside.

A bit hesitant, Cecile followed him inside. Bringing up the rear, Sab casually re-locked the gate behind them with a click.

The main building of the Schola stood high above them, the dorms flanking it to either side. From here, he couldn't see the music building. Raff moved as quickly as he could trust the ground not to trip him, hurrying around the boy's dorms. It'd just be a quick peek. A quick in and out, take a look around the caves, see what they could find, and back out.

"Shoulda brought Edith," he mumbled to himself. Not that she'd been able to help last night, anyways. Not once they were down in the caves.

A part of him realized that this was a terrible idea, that he was out of control, that he'd probably be better off with a long walk and a long nap. But he wanted this. Wanted to be able to prove Matteo wrong, prove that the Lost Godstone was still down there, prove that he was worthy of being the next High Priest, no matter what the stupid man thought.

He rounded the edge of the boy's dorms and stopped short. Cecile slammed into him. He staggered forward, suddenly top-heavy and off-balance, and caught himself by slamming into the wall.

"What's going on?" Sab asked.

Raff pointed.

"Oh," Cecile whispered.

The door to the music room was now guarded. To either side, Shrineguards flanked the door. They were supposed to be at attention, but one was sitting against the wall, and the other was standing in the vague sort of stance that meant he could jump to attention right before someone got him in trouble.

A moment's pause. Raff pushed off the wall and started forward again. They weren't paying enough attention. He'd walk on past like he belonged. Yeah, what if he had an instrument? He didn't, but how would they know?

"Raff—" Sab started. He didn't stick around to hear the end of it.

With more confidence than he'd thought he could muster, Raff walked up to the door. He was almost through when a polearm blocked his way. "Not so fast," the guard on the left said, tossing his light-brown hair. "No one goes in the music room right now."

"Why not?" Raff asked, petulant.

"Some idiots tore it up," the guard on the right replied. She stood, hefting her axe. They made eye contact, and she raised her eyebrows, recognition sparking. "You should know, of all people."

Raff scowled. How fast had word gotten around? Wasn't there anything more interesting going on? "C'mon," he tried, pushing against the pole. "I need to get m' instrument."

"Yeah? What kind of instrument?" the left guard asked.

Raff hesitated. He didn't know. Who knew that kind of thing? Not him. "Uh... violin?" he managed at last.

The guards snickered at him.

He felt himself blush, ears hot, and hated himself for it. "Oh, alright, fine, keep me from m' violining," he said, indignant. "I see 'ow it is. You're all a bunch of stupid b—"

Suddenly Sab was there, a firm hand on his shoulder pulling him away. "Alright, that's enough," he decided. "You're coming with me."

Raff fought it, but Sab was mysteriously stronger and smarter than usual. He found himself dragged back to the dorms. Cecile followed along with a disappointed expression on her face. "Oh well," she sighed.

Oh well! Raff thought indignantly. This was his only chance, stolen away from him! No, it wasn't stolen yet! He should just take them down. He struggled harder against Sab, reaching for his sword. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

"Alright," Sab said, irritated. Suddenly Raff found the world spinning around its axis in a sickening way, one that didn't get better when he found himself hanging from Sab's shoulders, the bony parts of Sab's frame digging into the soft parts of his stomach. He squirmed, but stopped abruptly when it only served to make him more nauseous.

"Traitor," he accused Sab, though it came out as more of a sick groan and less of an insult.

"You'll thank me later," Sab assured him. "Cecile, I'm so sorry about this, but could you show yourself out?"

"Certainly." With a nod farewell, she vanished. Raff blinked after her. It was really amazing how she could walk so easily across the ceiling. Who'd put grass in the sky, anyways?

The next thing he knew, he was flopping down in his bed. Raff stared up at the bottom of the bunk above him. Slowly, he blinked. What was he doing here? What—he started up, but Sab pushed him back down.

"Go to sleep," he said

Raff twisted. "Don't wanna."

Sab backed away. Raff half-rose, thinking victory won, but the other man only retreated to his desk to grab his chair and drag it against the door. He sat down in it and plucked a book seemingly from nowhere.

Raff plopped back down in bed with a heavy sigh. "You're no fun," he complained. He wasn't even tired. It was still light out. There was no way he was going to go to sleep. Sab didn't look convinced, though. In fact, he didn't even look up from his book. With a dramatic groan, he rolled over to face the wall. Stupid Sab. He closed his eyes just to show Sab how he wasn't tired. He could lie here all day, but he'd never fall asleep, that was how not-tired he was.

The next thing he knew, it was dark. Confused, Raff started to sit up. A wave of pain lanced through his temples, and he winced and fell back to the pillow. Ouch. Who'd hit him in the face?

No one but the alcohol. He wiped his hand slowly down his face and sighed out. Maybe he hadn't made the best choices this morning. Carefully this time, he sat up and swung his legs out of bed. "Shit," he muttered. Everything hurt and his mouth felt like cotton.

"Maybe you were right," he admitted, glancing up at Sab.

Who wasn't there.

In his place, a cup of water was balanced on the seat of the chair, a note pinned under it. Raff stumbled over and plucked up the water and the note. The water he chugged, while he eyed the note with the other half of his attention.

Don't do anything stupid.

Raff snorted and crumpled the note in one hand. Sometimes, it felt like Sab thought he was his dad. He should know better. Raff didn't have a father. Hadn't, for a long time.

--

The night air was cool on his skin. It helped numb the headache, though his walking around was jostling it more than the cool was numbing it. Raff sighed out and stretched, just wandering down the street. All he needed was a little hair of the dog, and he'd be fine.

The sun had already set, but people were still out, moving around. Snatches of conversation caught his ear, mostly about the trials. "Can you believe it?" "With fire? Water I knew they could do that kind of thing, but fire?" "There's already a clear winner." "The speed, too!" "They're really the best of the best, huh?"

Raff scowled and ducked his head. He should be one of the ones they were talking about. He should be out there, doing the trials with everyone else. Instead... here he was. Wandering the streets because he had nothing better to do. Bitter, he kicked a pebble towards a group of beggars. It wasn't fair. Just because Matteo hated him, he'd lost his chance. He plucked at his uniform. He'd be an ordinary Shrineguard for the rest of his life.

A few weeks ago, that was all he could've wanted. Now, it seemed like a death sentence.

"Raff! Fancy seeing you here," a voice with the lilting accent of the capitol called out. Raff turned, unable to put voice to face. He found himself staring at a man with curly hair and slightly pinched features. For a long moment, Raff stared blankly, waiting for a name to fall out of his memory.

The man smiled. "The trials?" he hinted.

Oh, right! "Osvaldo," Raff said at last, inclining his head stiffly. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now, let alone a near stranger.

Osvaldo clapped him on the shoulder, either ignoring or ignorant of his reluctance, Raff couldn't tell. "Now that's a sorry expression. Did you fail, as well?"

Raff blinked. Fail...? But of course. They were trials for a reason. People would fail them, and get removed from consideration. Even if he'd had a chance, he might not have made it. He hadn't forgotten, but in his anger at getting kicked out, he'd all but ignored that possibility: he might not have made it past the second trials anyways.

Or he might have made it. His expression turned sour again. There was no way of knowing now.

Osvaldo was still looking at him, so he nodded. He didn't want to discuss it with a stranger. And in essence, hadn't he failed? It was because Matteo had decided to hate him, but he'd failed all the same.

A smile spread over Osvaldo's face. "Why don't we go drinking together, you and I? Drown our sorrows. I'm on my way to meet some friends, but more the merrier, right?"

"Why not," Raff muttered. He'd rather drink alone, but hell, he'd been planning to drink anyways, so what was the difference? He could ignore Osvaldo, especially if the man had friends to distract himself.

The walk to the Dancing Lights was no longer than usual, but it felt longer. Osvaldo spent the whole time describing the trials in detail; apparently, the second trial had been a kind of obstacle course, where they had to wind a fireball through tiny apertures, keep it lit underwater, shape it into swirls and fantastic shapes, and other shows of skill. He hated himself for hanging onto every word, too. It would've been so easy to do that, or, I probably would've failed that anyways ran through his head with each new aspect of the trial Osvaldo described. By the time the man finished, he'd racked up enough points to pass, which only made him angrier. Damn that Matteo! Damn Milo! Damn them all.

"...and Cecile, that woman..." Osvaldo paused, shaking his head. "She made it look easy. I don't think she broke a sweat." He pushed open the door to the Dancing Lights and looked back at Raff. "I'll be surprised if she doesn't make the final four, if she doesn't win the whole competition."

Raff nodded along and had started to step inside when he saw them. Pasquale was at the bar, flanked by his mooks, Alessi and Alessa. He hesitated at the sight of them. He felt shitty, but he wasn't in the mood to fight. Even if he was, he wasn't dumb enough to take on all three without Sab or Giada nearby.

Osvaldo made it halfway to the bar before he realized Raff wasn't following. He turned back, pristine brow cocked. "Everything alright?" he asked, in a prissy sort of way that indicated he really didn't care how, if the answer was no.

"No, I just remembered I left my sword at home," Raff excused himself.

"It's right there on your hip," Osvaldo said, brows crinkling.

Too late. Raff let the door fall shut between them and sighed out. Damn it. The Dancing Lights was his favorite bar. He didn't even know the last time he had drunk somewhere else. His eyes drifted towards the Schola, and he sighed. Maybe he should head back, call it a night.

Because of Pasquale? Raff pulled a face. No. He wasn't about to let Pasquale dictate how he spent his nights. He marched off into the town, in search of another bar.

Away from the Schola and the center of the town, the shops got more ramshackle. The cobblestone roads became pitted and muddy, and from the stench, the street sweepers hadn't been so thorough on this end of town. The people he passed were thin and dirty, clothes ragged and dull. He stared at his feet as he walked, making sure he didn't step in anything too gross. It wasn't the kind of scenery that made him thirsty, but he was determined. He was going to have a drink tonight if it killed him.

Light and loud conversation alerted him to the proximity of a tavern. The sign depicted some kind of animal head. He tilted his head. A boar? A long-snouted bear? Maybe... a really fat, angry horse? Whatever it was, it looked like a place that had alcohol. So resolved, he pushed through the door.

A much more raucous scene awaited him than he was used to in the Dancing Lights. Candles flickered in sconces, giving a warmer light than the bright white soulstones he was used to. The conversation had sounded loud from outside; inside, it was a low roar, about two notches below a full-blast festival. Most of the men were heavy with muscle. Some bore tattoos; most had scars and callouses from work. They wore rough, simple clothes, homespun fabric in shades of brown, except for the man in the heavy green cloak tucked away in the corner. Cutpurse, Raff thought to himself. Had to have stolen that cloak, or bought it with someone else's money.

The air was thick with sweat and candle smoke, reminiscent of the fire practice room at high noon in the middle of summer. Rather than the polished interior of the Dancing Lights, the underside of the roof was exposed, bare beams and the vaulted shape lending the room the illusion of being larger than it was. A small space, it was downright cramped between the men and the tables. A barmaid called out to one of the locals as she pushed past him with full mugs, and Raff pulled away with distaste. Her blouse—she was certainly one of those whores Sab had warned him about. This was not his kind of bar, but it had beer and ales, so it would serve for tonight. He pushed his way through the crowd towards the bar, elbowing his way past two larger men to get some space at the front.

The bartender was a burly woman with cheeks rosy enough to evoke sunburn, though it was far too early in the year for anyone to have managed to get burned. She was rubbing down a wooden mug when he approached. The rag looked absolutely filthy. Raff grimaced. If anything, the mug might be cleaning the rag.

But they had alcohol. It smelled harsh and bitter, but it was undeniably alcohol. Plenty of it, too, the way these men were sloshing it about. He waved the bartender over. She glanced up, then looked him up and down slowly. Her eyes seemed to narrow an inch, and she looked away.

Raff blinked. What was that about? No, no, he had to be imagining something. She wouldn't have ignored him like that. She must have not seen him. "Ma'am," he called, waving.

She turned away from him to talk to one of the muscular men at the bar. Thoroughly irritated, Raff leaned up against the bar and waved out, accidentally jostling the man beside him. "Ma'am!"

The man next to him turned. "Careful!" he grunted. At the sight of Raff, his eyes widened, then narrowed. "What is a Shrineguard like you doing in the Sow's Ear?"

At the word Shrineguard, a hush passed through the crowd; first the men immediately around Raff, then further, further, rippling in waves until the whole place was quiet.

Raff looked around. What was going on?

"Not enough that you're eating all our food, is it? Not enough that you've called in your friends from all over to eat more of our sweat and blood, more of the crops we grow?" The man loomed over him, bristly short hair glistening with sweat, muscles bulging with veins.

Raff backed away. He only made it a step before his back hit the bar. He'd picked the wrong bar, hadn't he? Shit.

The man's fists clenched. Around them, the rest of the bar's patrons were drawing away as well, forming a ring around them. Raff's eyes darted around, searching for a way out, but found nothing. He was trapped.

"Didn't even graduate properly this year, but you stuck around, you trash! Ate more of our food, chewed away at our stores. How much do you think we have left? The ground is hard for another few weeks, and we have nothing! Scraps!" The man approached him, spittle splattering down over Raff's face. He was tall enough to blot out the light as he towered over Raff, and it seemed like three times as wide. "What are we supposed to eat? The first crops won't ripen for another two months!"

Raff dropped a hand to his belt and settled at his sword. His finger slid over the soulstone. Heat warmed through his body, magic flowing up his arm.

"Fucking vermin. You're worse than rats. The rats don't charge tithes!"

With his free hand, Raff gestured, palm out, towards the man's chest. The man looked down. Nothing had changed. He smirked. "Your magic is useless," he growled. "Like the rest of you."

Every candle in the tavern flared high, flames licking at the roof. The light turned from warm and friendly to bonfire bright. The thick, human heat became oppressive, almost painful. Startled, the man flinched.

"Let me pass," Raff said, staring up at the man.

He didn't even see the punch coming. One second, he was glaring down the man. The next, his face thumped into the bar. Mugs clattered. Lukewarm ale splashed down his neck. Raff struggled to stay upright. His feet slid out from under him, weight suddenly at the wrong angle, the chaff on the floor suddenly slippery. Ow. It hurt. It hurt a lot more than Pasquale's blows ever had. His head was ringing, his vision out of line, his headache banging around in his head worse than it had yet. A hand touched his upper lip. Blood.

He felt his control on the spell slip. The candles flickered back to normal, but at the same time, he watched with a distant kind of horror as fire flickered across the underside of the roof. Shit. If he set the city on fire—

Another blow caught him on the other side of the face. Raff staggered again and almost fell. One hand finally yanked his sword out of its sheath. Another fist raised, darker as the flames racing across the ceiling outlining it in light. Feebly, Raff tried to put his sword in between the man and himself. He watched the man's fist swing towards him in slow motion. Closer. Closer. A sense of dread set in as he realized his sword was moving too slow. He wouldn't intercept the blow. It would hit. Nothing he could do.

The fist was inches from his race when hands grabbed the man from behind. He felt the wind of the blow as it passed by. Other men yanked him back. He still tried to hit Raff, but his hands were caught short by his friends. "Let me go!" he shouted, struggling against them.

"Calm down! You can't kill a Shrineguard," one of them said.

Raff watched them struggle from a thousand miles away, stunned. Slowly, his eyes turned up, reflecting the flames in the roof. The fire was racing through the rafters. Why wasn't anyone worried about that? Words filtered through the light, and his eyes flicked back to the men. Kill? A Shrineguard? ...Me? They were trying to kill him?

The man calmed for a second, then fought again. He managed to get a step forward before his friends caught him again. "Why not!" he growled.

One of the men who was holding him back looked contemplative. The man yanked an arm free.

Clarity struck, fear biting through the stifling heat. They're trying to kill me. A jolt shot through him. He scrambled up, grabbing desperately at the bar. Something. Something. Fire in the rafters. Candles. The man yanked his other arm free and raised it again. Raff held out his hand.

The man smirked. "That won't save you, boy."

Raff closed his hand.

The tavern went pitch black as every flame in the place snuffed out, even the embers in some of the men's pipes and the cooking fire in the kitchen. The man shouted something, but he couldn't make it out, because everyone else was shouting too. Raff pulled himself up on the bar and heaved a breath, taking a moment to catch his bearings. Have to... get out of here. He took another breath and shook his head. He just needed a moment to—

There was a meaty thump and the bar jolted under him as a fist hit the bar bare inches to his left. Raff jumped away from the bar, started, and felt another blow swoosh through the side of his shirt. It narrowly missed his ribs, but his heart raced anyways. Shit! No dawdling for him! He pushed away and ran for the door.

The bar was chaos. On one end, a woman screeched. The doors opened, momentarily illuminating a brawl by the door before they shut again. One man struck a match, found his tablemate stealing his drink, and promptly dropped it to punch the man in his face. Raff was buffeted this way and that by heavy bodies until he didn't know which way was up and which was down. He was slammed into a table hard and almost lost his grip on his sword. Gritting his teeth, he clutched it tighter. I'm not going to lose my soulstone in a fucking bar brawl!

Raff climbed onto the table and over it towards the exit. Whatever was under his feet, he stepped on, chairs, tables, fallen mugs, bodies. A hand latched onto his ankle and didn't let go. He rapped the fingers with the flat end of his sword, and the man cursed and released him. Someone punched him blindly, knocking the wind out of him. He slammed into the wall. They followed him there and tried to trap him against it, but he ducked under their arms and fled. Hands pushed him in the small of his back. He stumbled forward. A heavy grip found the front of his collar and pulled. Raff staggered over a table, tripped, and landed in a wet puddle of—something. It was sticky and it made his hand feel gross. He resisted the urge to wipe it to crawl instead, limping on three limbs, sword held in front of him in the fourth. A few times it met resistance, but whoever found themselves at the business end of his sword always jumped out of his way before he had to use it. The door, the door. He had to reach the door.

He slammed into a wall. Felt along it. Fresh air, he could feel fresh air. In the darkness, he got the impression of someone rushing at him and rolled out of the way seconds before they impacted the wall. The wall shook under him. He pushed off and ran, facing towards the fresh air. A crack of light! He threw himself at it. The door was wedged half open. Raff sucked in his stomach and squirmed through the gap. He was halfway through when something impacted the door. Raff gasped as air was forced from his lungs. More weight pressed into the door. He heard his bones creaking, ribs and hips compressed between door and frame. Bracing both arms and legs between the door and the frame, he pushed with all his might. Let me out let me out let me—

It gave suddenly, all at once. Raff spilled out into the road. He fell hard on his hands and knees, crawled a few steps, then scrambled to a run.

Overhead, the soulstream cast a green-blue light over the town. Tall buildings and bright banners alike were paled to ghostly versions of themselves. Slate roof tiles glinted blue, feathering to green on their jagged edges. Here and there, puddles had collected in cobblestones; all over, the gleam of late-day condensation had settled over the same stones in preparation to become tomorrow's dew. Both radiated iridescent blues and greens with the bright glow of the stream, colors changing as he passed them by. The streets had thinned out, a few couples and lonely singles wandering now, and from on high, they looked the same, little more than dark blots on the street except for where the soulstream lit the metal they carried with bright light.

Through this all, Raff ran, another tiny ant-blot on the brilliant oyster-shell gleam of the wet streets under the soulstream. Passerby stared, but he ignored them. He had to get away. He ran, and ran, and ran, until the sounds of the ruckus had faded and he couldn't even see the Sow's Ear in the distance. Only then did he pause, lean against the nearest wall, and look around him.

He was in an alley off from the main road, which was good, because he didn't want those idiots from the tavern to find him. With a sigh, he pushed upright. His uniform was a mess. It was splotched with food and alcohol stains. The side had been cut or torn open, too, and the edge was badly frayed. Raff sighed again. He could fix that, but sewing had never been his favorite pastime. Maybe he could talk someone into doing it for him. Milo certainly owed him one.

His pants were mostly alright, aside from the knees, which looked like he'd been playing in mud. He touched his fingers to the stain and sniffed. Oh Gods. Or something much worse. It'd take ages to wash that stink out. But he still had his sword and his soulstone, so everything was alright. It'd just be an awful couple of hours tomorrow to clean and fix his uniform.

Back at the bar—had he touched the soulstone when he'd killed the fires? Raff's heart pounded, panic striking all over again. He must have. He'd never had that much power without a soulstone. But what if he hadn't? The people there had no love for Shrineguards. They'd rat him out in a heartbeat!

No, he was being stupid. They'd threatened to kill him. Who among them would dare report him and risk getting charged with the attempted murder of a guard? If they'd even noticed. If he hadn't had his thumb on the soulstone. He put a hand to his chest and tried to calm his racing heart. Nobody had noticed. He'd escaped, and everything was fine.

What was that, anyways? The guy had been drunk, but... did people really hate Shrineguards that much? Sure, he knew some people griped about them, but killing them? They were going to kill me, he realized yet again, and another wave of disbelief and surprise washed over him. Why? Where was it coming from? If they killed the Shrineguards, who was going to kill the undead? Make sure soulstones got back to the Shrine? Protect people from magical beasts and other threats? Fight in the crusades and the other wars as Bosco's primary source of war-mages? Surely that was worth the cost of their feed?

There'd always been extremists. He remembered old Matron Tiana complaining about it, the idiots who thought they'd be better off without the Shrineguards. He'd just never expected to meet them face to face. Never thought they'd be in his hometown, so close to him. Raff grimaced. And yet I bet they're the first to come running when there's a new plague of undead, or when grandma's soulstone doesn't work right, or when they need a new stone for the baby. It was ridiculous, is what it was. Being against the Shrineguard was tantamount to being against the Shrine, and where would they be without the Shrine to keep them safe from the threat of turning undead? Would those extremists rather languish on the mortal soil for centuries rather than return and be purified by the soulstream for their next life?

He shook his head. It was ridiculous to try and comprehend extremists. They were, by nature, irrational beings. He'd never be able to understand them.

But he could understand one thing: his night out had been completely ruined.

"I saw. I saw everything."

The voice rattled around the alley. Raff snapped his head towards the darkness, eyes searching for the source. Rickety laughter emanated from the shadows, and then an old man appeared, spindly limbs sagging with what had once been muscle, face spotted with age, white hair tracing an unruly line around the back of his head. He staggered into the light, limping quickly towards Raff with the aid of a wooden cane. A few steps away, he stopped and laughed again. There was something wrong about his laugh; Raff couldn't say what, but it was unsettling. Almost... it reminded him of the puppet show, where the man had pretended his voice was coming from the puppet. As if it wasn't quite coming from the man himself, and yet he couldn't say where else it would be coming from.

He moved closer. Raff stepped back, wary. What did this man want?

"You sure you wanna be backing away, sonny?" the man croaked, an amused smile spreading over his toothless mouth. "I seen something that looked a lot like heresy..."

Raff froze. How—no. He hadn't seen anything like that man in there. He was still safe. "I don't know what you mean," he said, straightening to his full height in an attempt to look like a person in a position of authority.

The old man chuckled, hobbling closer. "That's alright, that's alright, sonny, you don't havta admit it." He beckoned Raff closer. "Just gimme a l'il somethin'-somethin', and I'll forget all about tonight."

Raff's expression went from fear to disdain in a heartbeat. Of course. A homeless bum would be an addict of some kind. "What do you want?" he asked, crossing his arms.

The man's cane slid soundlessly over the cobblestones. He hooked a bony finger towards Raff. "I can take it myself," he said, and the voice seemed to come from just over Raff's shoulder. He jumped and looked over his shoulder for the source, but there was nothing. A short tug came from his belt. Instantly, he spun around and clasped his hand to his sword, but it was still there. His coin purse—was fine. He felt along his belt, trying to figure out what was gone. What had the man taken?

The man held up something—Raff couldn't make out quite what. "Thank you, sonny!" he said, skittering away into the darkness faster than Raff had thought possible.

"Wait, come back here!" Raff snapped. What had the man taken? He chased the man into the alley, then stopped short. It was a dead end. A solid brick wall met him, flat and brutal in its existence. There was nowhere to hide, no large objects, barely even any trash. A hand on his soulstone, Raff summoned a ball of fire just to be sure, but there was no doubting it. The man... was gone.

--

Around the corner from the alleyway, shops' darkened displays gazed out at the street. The street was deserted, all the shops closed by this late hour. A signboard depicting baked bread and sweets creaked, stirred by a stiff breeze. Its shadow flickered across the cobblestones, the irregular shape of them giving it an odd shape.

A man stepped into the shadow of the signboard. He did it as naturally as breathing, as though he had been there all along. One hand straightened his wave of hair. In the other, he held his prize.

Slowly, a smirk spread over his lips. The last piece of their little puzzle had fallen into place. They could begin at last.