“I had goosebumps?” Seton never saw any on his arm.

“On the back of your neck, and your hair was standing on end,” Ashford explains with limited information.

Seton wonders if that's why Ashford kept asking if he was cold; he’d thought he’d been careful to cover it up. His eyes are somewhat glazed over, but he brings his attention back to Mher. “Is it bad?”

Mher grimaces and looks at the reddened skin on their pinky. It’s incomparable to the blisters and irritation cascading down from Seton’s shoulders. “It is. I don’t know how to treat it. The skin is…”

“I think water’s right,” Ashford says with difficulty.

“If there was a closer body of water I’d take you there… Maybe Wallard has a medical space setup and hidden somewhere…” Mher wonders aloud.

“I could go-”

“No.” Mher cuts Ashford off, not willing to entertain the idea. They slip into the ley line murmuring, “There should be a concentrated area of…” Their attention is pulled to the bounding feline heading their way. “Ashford, get in the shed,” Mher says, moving out of the way.

Ashford obeys but asks, “Enemies coming?”

“No, just wait in there.” Her unmatched speed is a blessing and curse.

She rounds the shed, prowling in almost a predatory way. “Where are you going?” she asks calmly.

Mher swallows and asks, “Where’s medical?”

Their soft voice is unheard, so Ashford bellows, “Where’s medical?”

She doesn’t bat an eye at Ashford’s gruesome visage, but does slightly recoil at Seton's burns. “He just needs to wait for the rain. You two can bandage up in the meantime.” Mher’s eyes glow, suspicious of her specific phrasing.

“You… have your source sachet?” they say mystified.

“...An exception was made… courtesy of Zury,” her cryptic answer supplies nothing.

“...Are you keen to the weather?” Mher asks.

“I am,” she answers easily with minute pride.

“Which is why the tactician chose today and to use fire…” Mher pieces together.

“He makes interesting choices,” is all she gives.

“What about medical?” Ashford interrupts.

“None are set up. The supplies are reserved for those who survive until retreat or victory.”

Mher pathetically desperate asks, “What should I do for the burns?”

“Wait for the rain; that’s all I know.” She glances around and to their battlefield. “I thought I saw that the other one made it…”

“We all made it,” Mher says and slips into the ley line the same as her. Within moments their heart sinks.

She looks at them with a modicum of pity and asks with some decency, “What’s their status?”

Mher bites their trembling lip. “They’re gone.”

She doesn’t actually hear their words but knows enough from context, and in their language says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” She pulls a leather pouch from a multi-pocketed bag off the saddle of her steed. She applies two black cords to it. Mher vaguely notices all the loose papers had been replaced by leather pouches, likely to protect them from the oncoming rain. “If it comes up, I’ll report your group is too injured to continue fighting.”

Mher nods, unable to answer her. Assuming the conversation has ended she heads back to battle. Mher drops to the ground looking at where they left them behind and is filled with guilt.

Ashford hesitates, so covered in blood, but ignores it to hug Mher from behind. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s too much to hear from Ashford. The start of a hiccuping cry gives way to sobbing. Seton shifts, crawling forward a few inches, and puts a hand on Mher’s leg.

“Sorry… if I hadn’t been burned…”

Mher’s not listening. They wrap an arm around Ashford and with the other hold Seton’s hand to their chest. They curl over bawling, clutching the two who remain tightly.

Ashford’s eyes water instinctually empathetic.

Drops of rain become a shower within minutes, not heavy but plentiful. They weakly pull Seton out of the shed to be exposed to it. Seton’s heartbeat eases with an unspecified relief. Some blood is cleared from Ashford revealing numerous cuts and bruises.

“You should sit in the shed so you don’t get drenched,” Ashford says caringly to Mher who’s still raw with emotion.

Mher looks at Seton still lying on the ground about to decline when he pushes himself up. His face is without pain but appears worn out; the movement of his shoulders are unhindered, but Mher feels pain just looking at them.

“I can move. I’ll be fine.” Mher disagrees with a weak laugh of maniacal disbelief. Ashford looks concerned.

They sit slumped in the shed, their wounds unattended. Ashford wipes off some blood and puts some cloth over Seton’s shoulders so they’re not directly struck by the rain. Afterwards he wraps a wet bandage around Mher’s pinky and wipes up the blood from their cuts.

“Thank you,” they murmur weakly.

“I’ll take care of things. You just rest for a bit,” Ashford says.

Seton’s soaked to the bone but looks more at ease, flexing and stretching different body parts experimentally. In the distance, the fire is being quelled and the fighting is focused around the city’s gates. Seton stands up and checks over his gear saying, “I’m going to scout.”

“You can’t,” Mher says automatically and is afraid for him.

“It’s fine. I’m not going to fight, I just want to speak to my captain and gather intel.”

“You can just wait till the fighting’s over,” Mher pleads.

Seton gives them a meaningful look. “Do you really think Ashford will be able to get help if we stay with Wallard?”

“...No,” they concede. “I’ll watch over you through the ley line… To make sure you don’t pass out.”

Seton says, “Thanks,” then walks away.

“Ashford, we’re going to hide in here for a bit,” Mher says to Ashford, who was trying to parse through their words to figure out what they’re talking about. He joins them in the shed.

On Seton’s walk to the main force he tests his reflexes and reaction times. He’s unable to gauge a noticeable difference for better or worse.

Nearing the action he arms himself, a cold focus bringing him to a flow state. Bare chested in a downpour draws a couple chuckles from fellow mercenaries as he passes through. Other mercenaries sneer and jeer with, “Somebody’s getting punished”, “Nice back”, “Getting in one last bath?” Seton doesn’t acknowledge any of them, only getting directions to the captain.

He doesn’t have to dive past too many enemies before reaching the captain; he hardly gives him a look. “We’re not getting paid for this. You made a different deal,” Seton accuses him directly.

The man doesn’t pause in the bloodshed nor is he derailed by Seton’s accusations. “It doesn’t reflect well on me for you to constantly need punishing. How’d you even manage to ruin your back like that?” he disparages.

“I’ll just ask the tactician then,” Seton says, leaving.

“The fortune will be provided at a later time.”

Seton continues sidestepping through the battle not enthused by his response. He hears a commanding shout, “Dash forward! Capture the gate!” The commander, he won’t be retreating then Seton notes. It narrows down Seton’s choices.

He sprints south to the path carved by the main force. Mher will lose sight of him as he follows the directions Foxyn had pointed out to the inn. The path is rugged, seemingly purposefully overcome with brush; he suspects Alderkin involvement.

He sneaks close, candle light in the abandoned inn’s window is all the proof he needs. The numbers are limited, giving Seton easy access to the roof by tree. The attic terrace so decrepit he breaks it off like twigs. He’s assaulted by rot and dust that sticks to his wet skin; his lip curls in disgust at the grey layer on his skin.

Silently, he peers through cracks and listens through the floorboards. The tactician murmurs to himself with a smug grin going through an unorganized pile of papers. In an old plush chair a femininely dressed Alderkin with no facial hair plays with a puzzle ring. Mher had referred to the traitor as he, so momentarily Seton disregards them before realizing the Alderkin’s gender are significantly more fluid. He doubts many of the Alderkin get special privileges even if they make shows of loyalty, and this one in particular is relaxed and unperturbed by the battle. He even seems bored, impatient.

“When will it be over?” he asks.

“We’ll be in Inveilin in time for dinner,” the tactician smiles sickly sweet.

“What about lunch then?” he asks, annoyed.

The tactician’s expression cracks, “Maybe there’s something downstairs you could snack on while waiting.”

“...The soup you made the other day was tasty.”

The tactician calculates silently then agrees, “I’ll make more.” He gathers up the papers and descends the stairs; the traitor sighs, lazing in the chair.

Seton grabs the traitor’s mouth and holds a knife to his chest. He squeaks, eyes wide with fear. “Where are the source sachets?” He points to a small chest typically reserved for coins. “You’re going to stand up and unlock it,” Seton instructs, not mincing words. He shakily rises and together walk over to the box. He pulls a seed with tiny vines like ivy from his pouch then looks at Seton and makes a noise. “Scream or call for help and you're dead.” Seton slowly removes his hand and the traitor coaxes the seed and holds it before the lock. The ivy spirals and inside the lock ‘clicks’. “Open it.” The traitor obeys. “Sit in the corner and close your eyes.” He does so. Seton looks at the pile of sachets and pulls the pendant Mher had gifted him from his pouch; he inhales the peppermint. With clear senses, he roots through the pile and finds one embroidered with marigold. He places it alongside his pendant then saunters over to the traitor. “From one traitor to another, you’re not long for this world.”