True to their intel, Florence and Aster stumble upon a secluded village just a few walks northwest. 

“It’s heavily guarded. Watch your step,” Aster whispered beside him. The two of them crouched in the shadows, careful not to catch the attention of any possible patroller. 

At first glance, it looked just like any other village – with huts and racks set up by hunters and locals, and the occasional burning of fire. It’s a little bigger than the Aster’s, a neat stretch of land enough to raise cattle, if only they had grass instead of snow. 

“Look,” Aster pointed to the man a few feet across from them, stationed near the fence. He was dressed in winter clothes, a coat made from hunted prey and worn-down robes, but one particular detail that struck out to Florence was his stance…and the longbow strapped on his back. 

“...that can’t be a villager,” Florence whispered back. 

“No shit.” 

“..I was under the impression that you wanted me to say something.” 

“Something useful, at the very least!” Aster hissed through his teeth. “I don’t even have an idea who we’re looking for, what does he look like, what does he do–” 

 “You have me, don’t you?” Florence cut him off. 

The two of them crouched lower, as another man came up behind the previous guard – a bigger, stouter unit, far outclassing the Aster and Florence combined. If there was any doubt that the village was a cover for a Verusian outpost, then this man was a walking confirmation for it. No ordinary villager had a business being built like a bull, unless they had to plough through lines of soldiers in the battlefield. 

“That’s not reassuring in the slightest,” Aster grumbled, ever unwilling to hand over the last laugh. Florence let out a soft snicker anyway. 

“We’ll still need a way inside, though,” Florence urged. He put a thumb over his lip, in a shy attempt to get himself to focus. “Ideally, we’d want to get in there and confirm if he’s alive first. We can always get reinforcements later. We can look for other entrances to slip in, because obviously no one in their right might take on this guard…” 

Aster’s voice trailed off, as he slowly realised the Aster-shaped gap in the bushes. He looked around frantically, afraid that they'd been blindsided, only to find Aster already standing right a few feet away from him – disarming the guards as Florence spoke. 

In one, graceful motion, the burly man crumples on the snow, with Aster’s legs twisting around his neck. Beside him lay the other guard, face down. The idiot didn’t even break a sweat as he went for it. Instead, he’d glanced back at Florence, making sure he was seeing it. 

He beckoned him forward with a soft whistle. It made Florence feel like a dog being called back by its owner, and he fought the urge to growl just for the hell of it. 

“What the fuck were you doing?” He hissed as he made his way towards Aster. 

“You said we needed a way in,” Aster shrugged. “So I made a way in.” 

He made it sound so simple – and it was simple, given Aster’s skillset. Still, frustration gnawed at Florence, knowing that one wrong move could fuck up the mission and get them both killed. 

“And if you got caught? Do you have a plan for that, huh? Really, I’ve had it with you and not taking things seriously–” 

“Who says I’m not?” The man cut him off. He didn’t look up from where he was kneeling on the ground, too busy looting the incapacitated guards.  “If anything, I should be the one asking you that. You don’t give me information, hell, you’re not even in a rush! One could wonder if you’ve really volunteered for this at all.” 

The words were casual, but just like the man himself, held an edge to it that cut Florence where it counted. 

Florence knelt to the ground across Aster. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Aster shrugged again, as if to say, I don’t know. You tell me. 

It’s a terrifying thing – how quickly someone he barely met possessed an astounding ability to get under his skin. But Florence couldn’t retaliate – couldn’t bite back – because even he himself had no idea what he’s getting angry for. 

Wanting to get even somehow, he nabbed the longbow from the unconscious guard before Aster could even get his hands on them. 

“Do you even know how to use that?” Aster hissed out, making a grab for it. 

This time, Florence’s reflexes were on his side. He was able to move the longbow out of Aster’s each – barely in time – but effective, nonetheless. “Shut up. You don’t know me.” 

In truth, his aim was about as accurate as a blind bat. Only skilled soldiers get to train with bow and arrows in the capital, and Florence was just lucky enough to learn how to wield a sword thanks to Percival. At best, he could probably whack enemies in the head with it. But it wasn't like Aster had any way of knowing that, right? 

“Those stick arms of yours don’t stand a chance,”  Aster gritted out. “Give it to me–” 

“Fuck you, these aren’t sticks!” He raised his gangly limbs, hoping to prove a point. “Just because I’m a scribe doesn’t mean I can’t lift things, okay? I’ll have you know–” 

“Shh, I hear something–” 

“--a pen is heavier than a sword! So don’t you dare—mmph!” 

Aster put a hand over Florence’s mouth. 

“Shhh!” And then, in a much lower voice, “Someone’s coming.” 

***

“What happened here?” A guard asked. 

Florence bit his tongue. Gone was his own set of robes and coat, replaced haphazardly with one of the enemies’ winter clothes. The fabric barely clung to his skin, a solid testament to Aster’s previous stick-for-limbs remark. It also reeked of greasy meat and musk and ale. 

Florence steeled himself and pulled the hood over his face. Hopefully the darkness will work in his favour. 

“Nothing,” he grumbled. “Just some stragglers.” 

Keep the words to a minimum. 

He didn’t dare make eye contact with the guard. In the corner of his vision, he could see Aster making quick work of the bodies. The first one, stripped bare of all his clothes and unwillingly lent to Florence, rested somewhere in the bushes. It’s the burly man that Aster struggled to drag away from them, whose weight and size gave Aster a solid run for his money. 

In a sick comedy of errors, Aster seemed to notice Florence’s mocking gaze. He flashed the scribe a rude finger, then tripped face-first into snow.  

Florence bit his lip to keep himself from laughing. 

But that bit wasn’t lost in the guard – he narrowed his eyes at Florence, suspicion finally dawning on him.  

“Your voice sounds different,” the guard took a step forward, hands on his waist. 

Oh shit. 

“I–” Florence faked a cough, then two. “It’s the cold–” 

“No, you’re not.” A flash of silver. Behind the guard, Aster made a slashing motion around his neck. “Stop right there–!” 

The guard made a wild slash. 

The fabric slipped from Florence’s face. He bowed his head towards the guard apologetically. 

“I’m really sorry for this.”