Rules For The Bled

As soon as the gates of Canthia vanished into the dawn-hued mist, Yvain pushed the horses hard, urging them down the winding road with single-minded focus. Hooves thundered against the dirt, the wind whipped through his hair, and the brothel, the city, and the automaton knight faded behind them like a fevered dream.

He didn't slow until the sun peeked over the treetops and the horses began to pant, lathered in sweat. Then, finally, he loosened his grip on the reins and let them trot. The countryside stretched around them.

Yvain exhaled.

Beside him, Adeline sat wrapped in a borrowed cloak, her newly black hair catching the morning light like threads of obsidian. Her posture was relaxed, almost casual, but her eyes missed nothing.

"Why did you come with us?" he asked, breaking the silence.

She smiled faintly, that practiced, easy smile he was starting to realize meant she was hiding something. "Would you believe me if I said I was tired of the Menagerie?"

"No."

She chuckled. "Good. That was a lie."

He waited.

"I know who my mistress serves," she said. "I can make an educated guess as to who you are."

"So you know that if Sorel catches us," he said, voice sharpening, "she'll take me and Celeste alive. You and Mars, though—she'll carve you both apart."

There was a grunt behind them. Mars, who had been sprawled half-asleep in the back of the cart, sat bolt upright. "Wait—wait, what? Who's getting carved apart?"

"I do," Adeline said calmly, her eyes still on Yvain's. "But I've made peace with that."

Then she tilted her head, studying him with interest. "But tell me, prince—why didn't you take my offer?"

Yvain hesitated. He looked away, toward the rolling fields ahead.

"I don't know," he said quietly.

Her brow arched. "Strange. All my life, I've heard that the blood of Dehmohseni flows with fire and appetite. That your line was greed made flesh. Every bard from here to Kantos sings about it."

Mars blinked, glancing between them.

"Dehmohseni?" he echoed. Then turned wide eyes to Yvain and Celeste. "Wait. You're—? That's— You can't be— That's— That's impossible."

"Never say never," Celeste said sweetly. "And I should probably tell you that now that you know, we'll have to kill you."

Mars went pale. "You're joking. You're joking, right?"

"She is," Yvain said. "Probably. As long as you keep your mouth shut."

"Of course. Naturally. Absolutely zipped," Mars babbled. "You won't hear a pip from me. I don't even remember your faces. I was drunk for half of yesterday. Still am, technically."

He gave a weak laugh. Nobody laughed with him.

"So," he tried, "who exactly is chasing us again?"

"Sorel," Celeste answered. Her voice was flat, like she was trying not to taste the name on her tongue.

Mars squinted. "Sorel. The automaton knight? The one who slayed an archdemon with a single swing? The one who... uh... cut the space between seconds?"

"The very one," Yvain muttered, rubbing his temples.

There was a pause.

"I thought she died in the Razing of Babel," Mars said, then immediately raised his hands. "No, stupid question, forget I said anything. If you survived, then of course she might've too. You can't trust storytellers and bards to tell the truth."

"No kidding," Celeste muttered.

Mars slumped back, muttering into his scarf. "Gods preserve me. I ran away from Redmarsh to avoid paying my tavern tab, and now I'm fleeing an immortal metal butcher through the countryside with the last heirs of a sorcerer dynasty. My mother always said I'd die interesting."

Adeline gave a soft snort of amusement.

Yvain allowed himself the faintest smirk, barely a curl at the edge of his mouth. It felt good to be among people his age. No droning lectures, no stiff-robed scholars from Thamur's Needle dissecting him with their eyes. Just companions, dangerous or not, and the open road.

That pleasant thought barely finished forming when trouble found them.

A ragged group of bandits emerged from the trees, stepping into the path ahead. They weren't particularly fearsome, thin men with mismatched armor, rusted blades, and eyes too hungry to hide it. Petty thieves by the look of it, emboldened by the loneliness of the road and the sight of a weary cart.

The man in the lead stepped forward, a chipped axe slung over his shoulder, his greasy hair falling in strings over a crooked face. "Hand over everything you've got," he said. "And we'll let you keep the clothes on your back."

"We don't have anything worth taking," Yvain replied.

The bandit's eyes moved to Adeline, raking over her with all the subtlety of a dog sniffing meat. A lecherous grin broke across his face, and a bulge pressed against the worn leather of his trousers. Then he turned to Celeste, and his grin widened, uglier now.

"There are... other ways to pay the toll," he leered.

"Eww," Mars blurted from the back of the cart.

The bandit leader's face darkened. "My men are tired and thirsty," he snarled. "Give us the women, and we'll let you two go. Refuse... and we'll kill you, and take them anyway."

The rest of the gang laughed, a few licking their lips, weapons shifting in their hands. It was the kind of laughter that had preceded many a massacre.

Celeste glanced over her shoulder at them with a look of profound disinterest, as if they were not enemies, but mold growing on bread. Then she turned her back to them completely, not even bothering to speak.

That alone should have been warning.

Mars sighed and leapt from the cart. His hand went to his sword in a slow, almost lazy motion.

"You've picked the wrong cart, dear friend," he said, drawing the blade in one smooth motion.

It sang. Truly, it sang, a faint whistle, like wind passing through a reed flute, followed by a chime like glass tapping silver. His stance shifted, shoulders relaxed, feet gliding over the ground like a dancer's.

The bandit leader snarled. "Kill him."

The first attacker barely raised his sword before Mars was upon him.

The bard moved like water, his blade cutting arcs in the air too fast for the eye to follow. The first head rolled before the others even realized the fight had started. The second man collapsed with a soundless gurgle, blood flowering from his throat.

It was not simply swordplay, it was performance. Every step, every flourish of steel, composed a deadly rhythm.

The remaining bandits tried to flee.

They didn't get far.

When the final one dropped, twitching in the grass, all that remained was the leader, his knees buckled, hands trembling as he dropped his axe and fell before Mars.

"Please," he whimpered. "Mercy—I didn't know—please—gods, don't kill me."

The bandit leader's head fell before the tears could start. It hit the earth with a dull thud, and only then did the tears come.

Yvain watched the corpse quietly, then looked to Mars, who was casually cleaning his blade on the hem of the dead man's tunic.

"What sword art was that?" Yvain asked, genuinely curious.

Mars glanced over, his usual smirk tugging half-heartedly at his lips. "Sutra of Unquiet Steel," he said. "Nothing of note."

Yvain raised a brow. "Nothing of note? I've only seen that form once, and it was performed by a disciple of the Knife Monks of Samarat. It's outlawed in most provinces."

"Yeah," Mars replied, sliding the sword back into its sheath. "They're picky about who's allowed to make music with a sword."

Adeline, brushed a spot of blood off her cloak, narrowed her eyes at him. "There's been a rumor," she said slowly. "A wanted man out of Redmarsh. A serial killer. Slaughtered half a noble family during a wedding feast. Disappeared right after. Bounty's high enough to make a hundred men rich."

Mars didn't flinch. He merely shrugged, face unreadable beneath the growing shade of his cowl.

"Sounds like a character," he said. "Might get his autograph if we ever meet." His voice was light, as always.

Yvain studied Mars for a beat longer. Then, quietly, filed it away.

Because it was becoming painfully clear that everyone in their little traveling band was either entirely mad, running from something, or hiding secrets dark enough to get them all killed.

Mars returned to the cart, humming under his breath, and Adeline shifted a step closer to Yvain, close enough that her perfume drifted around him like silk smoke. Her warmth was palpable, her presence deliberate.

He didn't look at her, but he felt her watching him. So he simply took the reins again and spurred the horses forward.