“Hey. HEY”. Alaric woke up, hitting his head on the roof of the prison wagon. He looked around for the source of the commotion, turning to see an old, disheveled man across from him, staring blankly. “You gon’ eat that?” The old man pointed at the bowl of gruel at Alaric’s feet.

  “All yours.” Alaric gave a small wave signaling for the old man to do as he pleased. The old man immediately picked up the bowl, discarded the wooden spoon provided, and began scooping out of the bowl with his mud-covered fingers. Alaric frowned. His first time outside of the castle since birth and it was here surrounded by even more filth then he was used to. He gave a weak smile to the old man, who was already finished. After sucking on each of his fingers, the old man began to speak again.

  “I’d eat now, lad. They don’t serve meals like these where we’re going.” The old man brushed up some hair covering his neck, revealing a tattoo scorched into his flesh. “Down there nameless aren’t even considered people. As long as ye’ got one of these you might as well be a farm hog.” Alaric reflexively touched his own brand, the skin was still sensitive, but Alaric didn’t react to the pain. Instead, he simply leaned back to relax, watching the horses trot ahead through the iron bars of the wagon.

  The old man, still wanting to make conversation, spoke again more inquisitively. “So. What ye’ do to end up here? Banditry? You’re young.” Alaric glanced down at his abdomen, where his mana core lay, and Avarice dormant within, not having spoken since the ordeal in the Emperor’s Palace.

  “I went on a spree of killings, targeting frail old men.” Alaric replied sarcastically. The old man gave out a hardy chuckle. Alaric was surprised such a small, frail man could command such a voice.

  “We all have our secrets, I suppose.” With that the two fell silent. Alaric had counted three days since the journey began, through snippets of conversation he gathered that the group was heading to the Northern Border. The land north was frigid, and wrought with skirmishes and raids from beyond. In all his benevolence, it truly seemed Alaric was being sent to hell.

  “Hold!” A voice up ahead shouted, and the wagon stopped. “We’ll rest here. Bind the nameless and start a fire.” Alaric habitually put his hands back, where they would be rope-bound to the iron bars of the wagon. Though he could not turn to see, Alaric felt the abrasive rope being tightened, and he grimaced. Soon night fell, and the only light came from the perpetual flicker of the guard’s fire. The guard’s campspot was well chosen, a small open area amidst the dense forest

  Alaric listened as the guards told tale of other expeditions, tavern brawls, and women they seduced. They were tame stories that were hardly worth telling, and often just the result of alcohol.

  “What’s that light in the distance?” One of the guards asked. They all shared a silence for a moment before another answered. “Looks like torchlight?” After a brief second the same guard asked again. “Who’s out there? Show yourself!” Alaric, hearing the commotion, did his best to turn towards the guards. Suddenly an arrow flew through the air, imbedding itself in the chest of one guard.

  “We’re under attack” Another guard yelled, and within seconds the remaining guards scrambled to get ready. They immediately stamped out the fire and readied their weapons. From within the trees a volley of arrows appeared, felling most of the guards immediately. Seeing the scale of the attack the few remaining guards took off, leaving the tied up prisoners to fend for themselves. The old man, not having a view of the attack whispered quietly to Alaric.

  “What is it? What do you see?” Alaric struggled for words. He watched the remaining guards getting picked off with arrows. Sensing his impending doom, Alaric began to struggle, trying to free himself from his bonds. From within he heard Averice’s voice, faintly

  “Focus…Hands” Alaric closed his eyes, listening to Averice, his last resort. When nothing happened, he began to panic. “Fo…cus” Each of Averice’s words was deliberate, sensing that, Alaric tried again. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, the outside commotion disappearing as Alaric focused on his hands. Alaric felt the ropes snap, and he opened his eyes to see a minuscule amount of the miasma leaking from his hands.

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  The old man noticed Alaric was freed, but Alaric put his finger to his lips, motioning for the old man to keep silent. Alaric crept over to the wagon door and peered out towards the guard’s camp. Several large men, dressed in rags and animal skins were knelt down over the guard’s bodies. Each one was looting the dead guard's pockets and examining their weapons. Alaric snaked his hand through the bars and felt around until he grasped a padlock on the wagon door. He squeezed his eyes shut until like before miasma seeped from his hand and the padlock fell to the ground.

  Alaric opened the door, each motion he made was slow and careful. He continued slinking around the wagon until he made his way to the corpse of a fleeing guard. The deceased guard's weapon lay in clear view of the bandits so Alaric felt around the guard’s belongings until he drew a long dagger from the guard’s belt. He then positioned himself next to the body, pretending to be dead as well, all while grasping the dagger tightly. Nearby, a single bandit had discovered the wagon. Alaric watched in helpless dismay as the bandit executed each prisoner inside with brutal efficiency, before waving his friends over.

  The executioner was a large man wearing the skin of a bear and wielding a two-headed axe. He laughed as he cleaned off his bloodied weapon and made conversation with a fellow bandit. He spoke in a language Alaric didn’t recognize, making a choking gesture to another bandit before letting out a hardy laugh.

  After some time, the executioner noticed the looted guard that Alaric lay next to. He yelled something in the same strange language before trudging over.

  As soon as the executioner knelt down to investigate, Alaric lunged towards him, sticking the dagger blade into the man’s neck. The large man made a silent, gurgling plea, and fell slumped over on top of Alaric. In the distance, the attackers clamored towards the disturbance. As the bandits approached, Alaric was panicking, trapped under the large man’s body. He struggled repeatedly to heave the body off but it was no use.

  As Alaric gave up hope, the sound of tramping hooves reverberated through the ground. From the trees, tens of horsemen appeared, trampling through the bandits that had assaulted the wagon. Alaric breathed a sigh of relief as he realized he was saved. With one final burst of effort, he pushed the man’s body off of him and stood up. Immediately the horsemen see him and draw their blades. Alaric froze, dropped the knife, and raised his hands. From within the horsemen’s ranks emerged a white steed clad in silver armor, clearly more ornate than the rest.

  The figure riding the horse bore equally ornate armor, covering the rider’s whole body. The white steed halted in front of Alaric, the rider staring him down, and removing a thick plumed helmet. Alaric’s eyes widened as beneath the helmet was not the rugged man he expected, but a beautiful woman with long silver hair. From his brief lessons with Donnell, Alaric had learned some noble mannerisms. He gave a respectful bow, attempting to de-escalate the situation.

  “My Lady.” Alaric said, averting his eyes. The woman glanced at Alaric’s brand and replied aggressively.

  “Quiet, nameless.” The woman then turned to the horseman next to her and spoke bluntly. “Captain, see to it these corpses are looted and burned.” The captain, a burly bald man with a thick mustache, pounded his chest twice and took off, barking off orders as he went. The woman spoke again. “The rest of you, back to camp, then get some rest before dawn.” The horsemen all began to move. One soldier grabbed Alaric’s arm, but the silver-haired woman brushed him off. “No, I’ll have him ride with me.” She turned to face Alaric, her glare, searching. “You’re lucky this is the band of rats we’ve been tracking.” Alaric didn’t dare speak. “I find it odd, however, that the sole survivor of a barbarian raid should be some emaciated nameless.” Alaric looked down, it was better if he kept his mouth shut.”In any case, it’s good you survived. New recruits are scarce, especially crafty ones like yourself.” The woman motioned over to another horseman. “Hubert, have the nameless man ride with you. Take him to camp.”

  The woman covered her nose and added “And see him bathed. He smells of shit.”

  “Yes, Warden Blackwater.” The man, Hubert did the same chest-pounding salute, then hoisted Alaric behind him.

  “This is your first time riding a horse, I’m sure. Just ‘old onto the armor…And don’t fall off, else it’ll be on my ass.” Alaric nodded, grasping the horse’s armor. The horse carrying Alaric maneuvered around the attacker’s remains before matching pace with the other horseman heading back to camp. Nothing could be heard over the sound of rustling armor and galloping hooves, so the trip to camp was mostly silent. They traveled through the night, the dense forest giving way to a vast tundra, dotted with pine trees and more blanketed snow, before finally arriving at camp, which was already bustling with activity.