The road to Varrock wound across low hills and open farmland, the kind of quiet country that looked unchanged by war even when it had been shaped by it. Rayz guided his horse along the worn track as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long bands of amber light across the fields. A thin column of smoke rose in the distance, marking the chimneys of Miller’s Watch. The small settlement had not existed when he was a boy. It had grown in the years after the war, where merchants and farmers rebuilt the old trade road that led back to the capital. Places like this appeared whenever the world began stitching itself back together.

The settlement came into view slowly as the road crested a shallow rise. Miller’s Watch was little more than a cluster of timber buildings gathered around a crossroads, but there was a sturdiness to it that suggested it intended to stay. Fresh lumber framed several of the houses, their beams still pale where the sun had not yet weathered them. Wagons stood along the roadside, some loaded with grain, others stacked with crates bound for Varrock’s markets. The war had broken the old trade routes for a time, but merchants were stubborn creatures. Where roads reopened, towns followed, and Miller’s Watch had grown from little more than a watch post into a resting point for travelers heading toward the capital.

Rayz slowed his horse as he entered the edge of town, the sound of hooves drawing a few glances from the evening crowd. A pair of farmers stood beside a wagon piled with sacks of barley, arguing quietly over a tally sheet. Children chased each other between the buildings while a woman swept the dust from the steps of a small shop. One man looked up from securing a mule and studied Rayz for a moment longer than the others. Recognition flickered in the man’s expression before he gave a small nod of respect. Rayz returned the gesture without a word and guided his horse onward. He had never grown comfortable with being recognized, but the liberation of Varrock had given his face a place in more memories than he would have chosen.

He rode at an easy pace through the center of the settlement, letting the quiet rhythm of the place wash over him. Miller’s Watch was the kind of town that existed because the world refused to stay broken forever. A few years earlier the roads leading to Varrock had been choked with refugees, soldiers, and smoke from burning villages. Now wagons rolled north again, carrying grain, lumber, and iron toward the recovering city. Trade had a way of healing wounds that armies could not. Rayz had seen enough ruined places to know that when merchants returned, life usually followed.

Varrock itself had changed just as much. The walls still bore scars from the occupation, and some districts remained little more than half-rebuilt skeletons of stone and timber, but the city endured. Markets had reopened. The barracks were full again. Children ran through the streets where soldiers once marched. Rayz had helped make that possible when he and a handful of others slipped beneath the western wall through the old sewer tunnels and opened the gates to the army waiting outside. It had been a desperate gamble, one that should have killed them all. Instead, it had turned into a story people told over mugs of ale. Rayz had never felt entirely comfortable being the subject of it.

The sun had nearly vanished by the time Rayz reached the far side of the crossroads. Lanterns flickered to life along the main path, their warm glow spilling across the packed dirt street. The smell of roasting meat drifted from somewhere nearby, mingling with the sharper scent of horse sweat and fresh-cut timber. A painted wooden sign creaked gently in the evening breeze, swinging above a sturdy stone building near the road’s edge. Three pale moons were carved into the sign, their shapes catching the lantern light as they rocked back and forth.

Rayz drew his horse to a stop outside the tavern and slid down from the saddle, the familiar weight of travel settling into his shoulders as his boots met the ground. He gave the animal a quiet pat along the neck before tying the reins to a hitching post beside the door. From inside came the low murmur of voices, the clatter of mugs, and the easy laughter of travelers who had reached the end of their day’s road. Rayz pushed open the door and stepped into the warm glow of the Three Moons Tavern, hoping for nothing more complicated than a quiet drink before the final ride home to Varrock.

Warmth wrapped around Rayz the moment he stepped inside. The Three Moons Tavern was larger than it looked from the road, its low ceiling supported by thick timber beams darkened by years of smoke. Lanterns hung from iron hooks along the walls, casting a steady amber glow across crowded tables. Farmers and merchants filled most of the room, their voices blending into the comfortable roar of evening conversation. A pair of caravan guards played a quiet dice game near the hearth while a traveling peddler argued loudly about grain prices with a man who clearly had no intention of agreeing with him. It was the familiar sound of a road town at rest, where strangers gathered for a few hours before the world pulled them in different directions again.

Rayz moved through the room without drawing attention to himself and settled onto a stool at the bar. The barkeep glanced up, wiped his hands on a cloth, and poured a mug of ale without needing to ask. Rayz set a few coins on the counter and took the drink with a nod of thanks, letting the noise of the tavern wash over him as he took his first slow sip. From where he sat he could see most of the room in the reflection of the polished bottles behind the bar. A group of travelers occupied a round table near the far wall, their conversation relaxed but animated. Among them sat a dark-haired man with beard stubble and sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His clothes were simple but well kept, the kind worn by someone who spent time on the road but took care not to look like he belonged to it entirely.

The man spoke easily with the others at his table, leaning back in his chair with the relaxed confidence of someone accustomed to conversation. He laughed when one of the merchants made a particularly dramatic complaint about taxes, offering a quick remark that drew a round of amused groans from the group. There was nothing ostentatious about him. His coat was dark and practical, his boots well worn but clean, and his hair trimmed neatly enough to suggest he cared about appearances without chasing fashion. Yet there was a quiet toughness beneath the polish, the kind that came from a life spent solving problems the hard way. When the laughter faded, his gaze drifted across the room, and paused.

Rayz noticed the shift a moment later in the mirror behind the bar. The man’s attention had settled on the small glint of yellow at Rayz’s chest where the necklace hung against his travel cloak. The ornate metal hand clasping the gem caught the lantern light for just a second before Rayz instinctively adjusted his cloak to hide it. By then it was too late. The man at the table had already seen it. He studied Rayz with open curiosity for a moment longer, then said something brief to his companions before rising from his chair. With an easy, unhurried stride, he crossed the tavern floor and stopped beside the bar.

“Mind if I sit?” the man asked, his voice smooth and friendly, carrying the easy confidence of someone who rarely expected to be refused. He gestured toward the empty stool beside Rayz with a faint smile. “I promise I’m not here to start trouble. Just thought it would be a shame to pass up the chance to share a drink with the man who helped take Varrock back.”

Rayz turned slightly on the stool, studying the man before answering. Up close, the impression held. He was well groomed in the quiet way of someone who understood the value of appearances without indulging in them. His dark hair was trimmed short, his beard kept to a rough stubble that looked deliberate rather than neglected. The coat he wore was travel-worn but carefully maintained, its seams intact and its leather cuffs freshly oiled. There was strength in the man’s shoulders and the easy balance of someone comfortable in a fight, but he carried himself with the relaxed politeness of a man who preferred conversation to violence when possible.

“If you’re buying the next round,” Rayz said after a moment, gesturing to the stool, “I won’t object.”

The man chuckled and took the seat, signaling the barkeep with a small lift of two fingers. “Fair enough.” He set a coin on the counter before turning back toward Rayz with an easy smile. “Name’s Cremacious.” His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, studying Rayz with quiet interest. “And unless my memory is failing me, I’m sitting next to Master Rayz. The man who slipped into Varrock and opened the gates for the army outside.” He lifted his mug when it arrived, raising it slightly in acknowledgment. “Hard to forget a story like that.”

Rayz lifted his mug slightly in return but did not smile. “Stories tend to grow larger the farther they travel,” he said. Recognition was not new to him anymore, but he had never learned to enjoy it. The liberation of Varrock had been chaos, desperation, and luck more than heroism, and the version people repeated in taverns rarely resembled the truth. Still, he inclined his head politely. “You seem to know me well.”

Cremacious leaned comfortably against the bar as if they had been acquaintances for years. “Hard not to, these days,” he replied. “Varrock’s been the talk of every road between here and Falador since the city was taken back. A handful of men slipping inside the walls and opening the gates from within makes for a good tale.” He took a slow drink from his mug before adding with an easy grin, “And a man wearing a Master’s necklace tends to stand out, even in a crowded tavern.”

Rayz’s hand drifted briefly toward the chain at his chest before he stopped himself. The small yellow gem rested against the fabric of his cloak, half-hidden but still visible in the lantern light if someone knew what to look for. Most people recognized the symbol well enough to guess its meaning, though few understood it beyond rumor. He let his hand fall back to the bar and took another drink instead. “You’ve got a sharp eye,” he said evenly.

Cremacious gave a small shrug, as though the compliment meant little to him. “Observation is a useful habit on the road.” He turned his mug slowly between his hands, studying the room for a moment before his attention returned to Rayz. “Truth be told, it wasn’t just the necklace. You carry yourself like someone who’s seen more of the world than most men here.” His smile returned, easy and disarming. “Besides, it’s not every night a Master wanders into a place like Miller’s Watch. I’d be a fool not to introduce myself.”

Rayz regarded him for a moment, weighing the man’s tone as much as his words. Cremacious spoke easily, but there was an attentiveness behind the charm, a sense that very little escaped his notice. Rayz had met men like that before, people who could drift through a room laughing and talking while quietly measuring everything around them. “And what is it you do on the road that makes observation so valuable?” Rayz asked.

Cremacious spread his hands lightly, as if the answer were both simple and unimportant. “A little of this, a little of that,” he said. “Caravans need escorts, merchants need negotiations settled, travelers sometimes need help when their luck runs thin.” He took another drink and glanced briefly toward the table where his companions still sat, now engaged in their own conversation. “Mostly I deal in solutions. The sort that rarely make it into polite conversation, but tend to keep trade moving and people breathing.” He looked back to Rayz with a faint grin. “Nothing as impressive as liberating a city, I’m afraid.”

Rayz gave a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though it carried little humor. “Cities rarely liberate themselves with impressive plans,” he said. “More often it’s desperation, stubborn men, and a bit of luck.” He turned the mug slowly in his hand, watching the foam settle along the rim. “Anyone telling the story differently is usually selling something.”

Cremacious smiled at that, clearly pleased by the answer. “That may be the most honest description of heroism I’ve heard in a long time.” He rested one elbow lightly on the bar, leaning just enough to show interest without crowding the conversation. “Still, luck favors men willing to take risks. Most people would have fled south when Varrock fell.” His eyes drifted briefly to the necklace again before returning to Rayz’s face. “You went the other direction.”

Rayz took another slow drink before answering and allowed the noise of the tavern to fill the silence for a moment. “Varrock is my home,” he said at last. “Running away from it never seemed like much of an option.” His tone remained simple, though memories of those days stirred quietly behind the words. He remembered the burned streets, the fearful crowds, and the strange stillness of a city living under another power’s rule. “Besides, there were plenty of people inside the walls who did not have the luxury of leaving.”

Cremacious studied him for a moment. The easy smile still rested on his face, but his eyes carried a hint of deeper thought now. “Home has a way of pulling a man back,” he said. He turned his mug slowly in his hand before gesturing lightly toward the gem at Rayz’s chest. “Though I imagine the path of a Master usually leads far from home. Most of the ones I have heard about spend their lives in libraries or advising nobles who pretend to listen.” His expression brightened with curiosity. “You do not seem the type.”

Rayz glanced down briefly at the gem resting against his chest before looking back at Cremacious. “Most Masters do live quieter lives,” he said. “Teaching, studying, advising those who seek knowledge. The world has always needed people who remember things.” He turned the mug slowly in his hands. “The sword is usually a last lesson, not the first.” Cremacious nodded, studying him with open curiosity rather than skepticism. “Yet here you are,” he said with a faint smile. “A Master who rides the roads and helps take back cities.” He took a slow drink before continuing. “That is not the usual path for a scholar.”

Rayz rested his forearms on the bar. “The school teaches many things,” he said. “History, languages, numbers, the habits of beasts and men. The sword is only one lesson among many.” He paused, then added quietly, “But sometimes the world decides which lessons matter.” Cremacious’ smile returned, small but genuine. “Ah,” he said. “So it was the world that pushed you toward the blade.” He turned his mug once in his hand before looking back at Rayz. “Were you always inclined toward the sword, or did the world convince you it was necessary?”

Rayz was quiet for a moment before answering. The tavern noise carried on around them, mugs knocking against wood, voices rising and falling in easy conversation. “I grew up in Varrock,” he said at last. “Not the part travelers see from the market roads. My father was a priest, and we lived simply. After he died, things became… harder.” He did not elaborate on the details. The memory did not require explanation. Cremacious listened without interrupting, his attention steady but never intrusive. Rayz continued after another small sip of ale. “A Master found me not long after,” he said. “He saw something worth taking to the school. They taught me what they teach all of us. Knowledge first. Discipline second.” Rayz’s gaze drifted briefly toward the tavern door before returning to Cremacious. “But when you spend your childhood learning to defend yourself, the sword stops feeling like a lesson. It starts feeling like a habit.”

Rayz turned the mug slowly between his hands, watching the lantern light catch along the rim. “The school teaches discipline,” he said. “A Master is meant to think before he acts, to understand a problem before reaching for a blade.” His voice carried no pride in the words, only quiet certainty. “Most of the time that is the wiser path.” He took another drink, then added after a brief pause, “Still, habits formed young are difficult to forget.” Cremacious tilted his head slightly, listening. Rayz’s gaze drifted for a moment toward a pair of caravan guards laughing loudly near the hearth, their hands moving through the familiar motions of men who spent their lives close to violence. “When I was a boy,” Rayz said, “the streets did not reward patience. If someone wanted what you had, they took it unless you stopped them.” His fingers tightened around the mug for just a moment before relaxing again. “The school gave me better ways to solve problems.” He allowed the faintest hint of a smile. “But the sword is still a language I learned early.”

Cremacious regarded him for a moment, the faint smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. “Most men who learn that language young never bother learning another,” he said. “They spend the rest of their lives proving how well they speak it.” He took a slow drink before setting the mug down again. “You, on the other hand, seem to keep it tucked away until it is needed.” Rayz gave a small shrug. “The world has enough men eager to draw steel,” he said. “Adding another rarely improves the situation.” He paused, his gaze drifting briefly to the scarred surface of the bar as though considering the thought more carefully. “Still, there are times when a fight finds you whether you welcome it or not.” His expression remained calm, but there was a quiet certainty behind the words, as if experience had taught him exactly how often that happened. Cremacious gave a soft chuckle at that. “A sensible philosophy,” he said. “Though I suspect the world has a habit of testing it.” He leaned back slightly on his stool, letting his eyes wander across the tavern before returning to Rayz. “Men who try to avoid trouble often find it arrives looking for them anyway.”

“That has been my experience,” Rayz replied. He finished the last of his ale and set the mug down on the counter. For a moment he watched the foam settle along the inside of the cup, his thoughts turning inward again. The school had taught him patience, restraint, and the value of understanding a problem before striking at it. Those lessons had shaped him into something better than the angry boy he once had been. Yet some part of that boy still lingered beneath the discipline, quiet and waiting. Cremacious followed Rayz’s gaze to the empty mug, then back to the small yellow gem at his chest. “That necklace,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting from casual curiosity to something slightly more thoughtful. “Most people recognize the symbol, but few seem to know what it truly means.” His eyes lifted to meet Rayz’s again. “Tell me something, Master. Is it true the gem remembers the life of the one who wears it?”

Rayz’s eyes dropped briefly to the gem as it caught the lantern light again. For a moment he did not answer. The question was not entirely unexpected, but it was not one most strangers asked so directly either. “It remembers some things,” he said at last. “What a Master learns. Where he goes. The life he lives.” He turned the chain lightly between his fingers before letting it fall back against his chest. “That is the story, at least.”

Cremacious leaned forward slightly, his interest sharpening. “I have heard a few versions of that story,” he said. “Travelers like to add their own flourishes to it. Some say the gem holds the memory of every book a Master reads. Others claim it records every decision he makes.” His smile returned, thoughtful rather than mocking. “The more colorful tales say the gods themselves read those memories when the Master dies.”

Rayz gave a faint breath through his nose, something close to amusement. “People enjoy making mysteries sound grander than they are.” He rested his forearms on the bar again. “The necklace is a symbol first. A reminder of what a Master carries with him.” He glanced down at the gem once more before meeting Cremacious’ gaze. “As for what the gods do or do not see, that is a question no living Master can answer with certainty.”

Cremacious accepted that answer with a small nod, though the curiosity in his eyes did not fade. “Fair enough,” he said. “Though I imagine the mystery helps keep the stories alive.” He lifted his mug again and took a measured drink before setting it back on the bar. “Still, if the tales hold even a grain of truth, it must shape the way a Master lives. Knowing every step of your life might one day be examined by the gods.”

Rayz did not answer immediately. The tavern noise filled the space between them while he studied the man beside him. Cremacious spoke easily enough, but the questions kept circling the same place. Philosophy. Purpose. Judgment. Rayz had met scholars who talked that way after too much wine. Hearing it from a stranger in a roadside tavern felt different. Intentional.

“The world rarely asks what life a man prefers,” Rayz said finally. “It gives him the next problem and waits to see what he does.”

Cremacious nodded once, as if the answer confirmed something he had suspected. “And if the stories about Masters are true,” he said, “those choices follow you even after death.” His eyes flicked briefly to the yellow gem at Rayz’s chest. “Tell me something. Do you believe that part of the tale? That if a Master lives well enough, the gods might grant him rebirth?”

Rayz felt a faint edge of irritation settle in his chest. The question was too personal for a stranger who had introduced himself only minutes ago. He took another drink instead of answering and let the silence stretch. Cremacious watched him for a moment, reading the reaction easily. The smile that returned to his face was lighter now, almost apologetic. “Fair enough,” he said. “Some questions are better left to priests and philosophers.” He turned his mug idly in his hand. “Let me ask you something simpler.”

Rayz raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Cremacious leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough that it did not carry beyond the bar. “During the occupation,” he said casually, “how exactly did you manage to get into Varrock?”

Rayz’s expression hardened a fraction.

Cremacious noticed and lifted a hand lightly. “Not idle curiosity, I promise.” His tone remained friendly, though the easy charm now carried a sharper edge of purpose. “You see, I have a small problem involving that city.” He took a slow drink before continuing. “A magistrate inside Varrock would very much prefer that I stay outside its walls.”

Rayz said nothing.

Cremacious smiled faintly. “Unfortunately for him,” he said, “I have business there.”

Rayz set his mug down slowly and studied Cremacious with a more careful eye. “Varrock is not an easy city to enter quietly,” Rayz said. His tone remained calm, though the openness from earlier had faded. Cremacious nodded as if he expected that answer. “So I have discovered.” He leaned one elbow on the bar, his voice still low enough to keep the conversation between them. “There is a magistrate there. A man who found himself in a very convenient position after the occupation ended. While everyone else was busy rebuilding walls and burying the dead, he was building something of his own.”

Rayz said nothing, waiting.

“Power,” Cremacious continued simply. “Trade routes, contracts, permits, little things that decide who earns coin and who does not. The sort of authority that grows quietly while people are grateful someone is keeping order. That same magistrate has decided I am no longer welcome within the city.”

Rayz remained silent for a moment, letting the words settle. A magistrate gaining influence during the rebuilding was not surprising. Cities often needed someone to organize the chaos after war. Still, something in Cremacious’ tone suggested the story had another side to it. “Men in positions like that tend to make enemies,” Rayz said. “Sometimes those enemies deserve it.”

Cremacious gave a quiet laugh under his breath. “Quite true. In this case, however, the man and I have a history. Years ago he was not nearly so respectable. When the city was still struggling to feed itself, he relied on certain… flexible arrangements to keep goods moving. People like me were useful then.”

“And now?” Rayz asked.

“Now he pretends those arrangements never existed. Which would be fine if he had not also decided that anyone who remembers them is a problem. So the guards have instructions. If I enter Varrock through the gates, I am arrested before I make it halfway down the street.”

Rayz studied him for a moment, searching the man’s face for any hint of exaggeration. Cremacious did not look particularly troubled by the situation. If anything, he seemed mildly amused by it. “And you want to go back anyway,” Rayz said.

Cremacious gave a small shrug. “Naturally. I have unfinished business there. You see, when a man builds his reputation on honesty while quietly profiting from less honest work, it tends to irritate those who helped make it possible.”

Rayz leaned back slightly on the stool, his expression guarded. “So this is about revenge.”

“Not revenge,” he said. “Clarity. If the magistrate wishes to present himself as a pillar of the city’s virtue, I would simply like to remind a few people how that pillar was built. To do that, I need to get inside Varrock without walking through the gates.”

Rayz did not respond right away. The request hung in the air between them, plain enough now that the conversation had finally reached its purpose. He had suspected as much the moment Cremacious steered the discussion toward the city. Still, hearing it spoken aloud made the man’s intentions clearer than any clever phrasing could hide.

“And you thought I might help with that,” Rayz said.

“You are one of the few men alive who managed to slip into Varrock when the gates were closed and the walls were watched by an army. That sort of knowledge does not come along very often.” His smile returned, easy and disarming. “I was hoping you might remember how it was done.”

Rayz’s expression did not change, but something in his posture tightened slightly. The easy tone of the conversation had vanished. “That was during a war,” he said. “Circumstances were different.”

“Of course,” Cremacious agreed quickly. “Entirely different. But cities do not change their bones so easily. Walls are rebuilt, gates are repaired, guards grow comfortable again. Yet the older parts of a place tend to remain the same.”

Rayz watched him carefully now. “You are speaking in riddles.”

Cremacious smiled faintly. “Not riddles. Observations.” Rayz held his gaze without speaking. The meaning behind the words was clear enough now, even if Cremacious had taken his time reaching it. Around them the tavern carried on as it always had, voices rising in laughter near the hearth while a chair scraped loudly across the floor behind them. None of it seemed to touch the quiet tension settling at the bar.

“You are asking the wrong man,” Rayz said at last.

Cremacious tilted his head slightly, as if considering the answer rather than challenging it. “Perhaps,” he said. “Though I suspect you are one of the few men who might actually know the answer. The sewers beneath Varrock are not exactly common knowledge, but they are not entirely myth either. From what I understand, the tunnels beneath the citynot welcoming. Too many turns. Too many dead ends. And a few unpleasant creatures that prefer the dark.” His expression carried a hint of dry amusement. “A man wandering down there without guidance might not find his way out again.”

Rayz remained still, but the irritation that had begun earlier returned in a quieter, colder form. “That sounds like a good reason to stay out of them,” he said.

Cremacious chuckled softly. “Ordinarily, I would agree. But circumstances sometimes encourage a man to take risks.” His eyes settled on Rayz again. “Especially when the alternative is letting a corrupt magistrate continue pretending he is the savior of the city.”

Rayz studied him for a long moment. The man spoke with conviction, but conviction was easy to counterfeit in a tavern. “You expect me to believe you are doing this out of civic duty,” he said. Cremacious laughed quietly. “Not at all.” He shook his head and took another drink. “I am not nearly noble enough to pretend that. The magistrate and I have a disagreement. That much is true. But the city would benefit from someone reminding him that his reputation is built on a foundation he would rather people forget.”

Rayz leaned back slightly on the stool, his patience thinning. “And you think the solution to that problem is wandering through the sewers beneath Varrock in the middle of the night.”

Cremacious gave a small shrug. “When the front door is locked, a man usually looks for another entrance. I was hoping you might know where to look.”

Rayz held his gaze for another moment, then shook his head once. “You are asking the wrong favor,” he said. “Whatever business you have with this magistrate is not mine.”Cremacious did not seem surprised. He nodded slowly, as though the answer had always been the most likely outcome. “A reasonable response,” he said. “If a stranger approached me in a tavern asking for help sneaking into a city, I imagine I would give the same one.”

Rayz reached for his mug again, though it was already empty. The conversation had run also run its course. He set the cup back down with a quiet tap against the wood and pushed his stool back slightly from the bar. Cremacious noticed the movement and raised a hand lightly. “Before you go,” he said, his tone still calm, “I am not asking for an answer tonight.”

Rayz paused.

Cremacious smiled faintly. “Just a bit of thought.” He gestured toward the door with his mug. “You are heading back to Varrock anyway, are you not? Consider the situation on your ride. If you decide the city might benefit from a little sunlight shining into dark corners, come back tomorrow evening.” He took another drink. “I will be here.”

Rayz studied him for another moment, weighing the words. Cremacious had the irritating calm of a man who believed he already understood how the conversation would end. Rayz did not like that feeling. “You seem very confident that I will,” he said.

Cremacious gave a small, thoughtful shrug. “Not confident,” he replied. “Hopeful. Men like you do not usually ignore problems once they see them. It is part of the reputation that follows you around.”

Rayz said nothing to that. He pushed his stool back the rest of the way and stood, the faint scrape of wood against the floor nearly lost in the noise of the tavern. “Good night, Cremacious,” he said.

Cremacious lifted his mug slightly in farewell. “Safe ride back to Varrock, Master Rayz.”

Rayz stepped toward the door without looking back. The cool evening air met him the moment he pushed outside, carrying the distant sounds of the road and the quiet rustle of wind across the nearby fields. For a moment he stood beside the hitching post, staring toward the darkening road that led south. He had the uneasy sense that the conversation inside the tavern had not ended at all. It had only begun.

Rayz untied his horse and swung into the saddle with practiced ease. The lantern light from the tavern spilled across the dirt road for a short distance before fading into the growing darkness beyond the town. Miller’s Watch had already begun to quiet for the night. A few voices still drifted from the tavern behind him, but the rest of the settlement was settling into the steady calm that came after the day’s work was finished.

He guided the horse south along the road toward Varrock, letting the animal find its pace while his thoughts lingered behind in the tavern. Cremacious’ words returned to him more than he would have liked. The man had spoken with the smooth confidence of someone who understood how to pull a conversation where he wanted it to go. The road stretched ahead beneath a wide sky scattered with stars. Rayz had ridden this path many times since the liberation of the city, yet tonight it felt different. When Varrock had been taken back, the work afterward had seemed simple in its purpose. Rebuild the walls. Restore order. Help the city stand on its feet again. It had never occurred to him then that the same chaos that allowed heroes to act might also give other men opportunities of their own.

Rayz shifted slightly in the saddle, listening to the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves against the road. A magistrate gaining influence during the rebuilding was hardly unusual. Cities needed men to organize labor, restore trade, and keep order after chaos. Yet Cremacious had not sounded like a man chasing a petty grudge. The calm certainty in his voice suggested something else, and Rayz found himself wondering whether there might be some truth buried beneath the accusation.

The road dipped through a stretch of dark farmland where the wind moved quietly through rows of grain. Ahead, the faint glow of Varrock’s lanterns rose against the horizon. The sight usually brought him a sense of familiarity. Tonight it felt heavier. Cremacious’ words lingered in his thoughts like a splinter. A magistrate who had climbed to power during the rebuilding. A man who once relied on less respectable arrangements to keep goods flowing through a hungry city. None of it sounded impossible. War left more than broken walls behind. It left opportunity.

Rayz tried to dismiss the thought. A man in such a position would always gather enemies, especially if his decisions favored some and angered others. That alone proved nothing. Yet the doubt refused to fade. Rayz had seen how quickly necessity could become greed. During the occupation men had betrayed neighbors just to survive another week. After the liberation merchants raised their prices while the city was still burying its dead. The line between survival and corruption was rarely as clear as people liked to believe.

He exhaled slowly and fixed his gaze on the distant lights of Varrock. Cremacious might simply be another bitter man seeking revenge. But the thought that the city he had helped save might already be hiding rot beneath its recovery unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

The lights of Varrock grew brighter as the road carried him closer to the city. Soon the dark outline of the outer walls rose against the night sky, their familiar shape cutting across the horizon like the edge of a great stone cliff. Rayz had seen those walls from many angles in his life. As a boy growing up within them. As a traveler returning from the road. And once while slipping beneath an enemy army. Then he remembered the sewers. Cold stone beneath his hands. The stink of old memories.

By the time Rayz reached the gates, the road had grown quiet. Lanterns burned low beside the guard posts, casting long pools of amber light across the stone entrance. Two soldiers stood watch beneath the arch, their cloaks pulled tight against the cool night air. One of them looked up as Rayz approached and studied him for a moment before recognition flickered across his face. The guard gave a small nod of greeting. Rayz returned the gesture and rode through without slowing.

Inside the walls, Varrock had settled into the stillness that came after midnight. Most shops were dark, their shutters closed and their signs hanging silent above empty streets. Only the occasional tavern still showed signs of life, warm light spilling from their windows while muffled voices drifted out into the night. Somewhere nearby a distant laugh echoed briefly before fading back into quiet. Rayz guided his horse along the familiar road, the slow rhythm of hooves against stone the loudest sound in the street. Smoke from dying hearth fires lingered in the cool air, and the city carried the peaceful weight of people sleeping behind closed doors. Varrock was alive again, healed enough that the night felt ordinary. Yet as he rode deeper into the city, Cremacious’ words returned once more. If corruption had taken root during the rebuilding, it would not show itself in the lantern light or the quiet streets. Rot rarely announced itself so plainly.

Rayz turned his horse down a narrower street that wound toward the eastern quarter of the city. The buildings here were older than those near the markets, their stone walls worn smooth by generations of weather and use. The lanterns along this road were spaced farther apart, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of light. Before long the small square that held the Church of Saradyn came into view. The church stood quiet beneath the night sky, its pale stone catching the faint glow of the nearby lanterns. Time and war had both left their mark on the structure. Parts of the outer wall had been repaired with newer stone, the color still lighter than the older masonry around it. Rayz remembered when those walls had been cracked and blackened during the occupation, the courtyard littered with debris and broken wood. Now the building stood whole again.

Rayz guided his horse to a post near the edge of the courtyard and dismounted. The church doors were closed, but warm light glowed faintly through the narrow windows along the front hall. That alone was enough to tell him the priest was still awake. The old man often worked late into the night, tending to the small duties that came with caring for a place like this. Rayz paused for a moment before approaching the doors. Cremacious’ voice still lingered in the back of his mind, stirring doubts he would have preferred to leave outside the city walls. If there was anyone in Varrock who could help him think clearly about the matter, it was the man inside this church.

Rayz pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of old stone and burning candles greeted him immediately. The main hall was dimly lit, rows of wooden benches standing empty beneath the high arched ceiling. At the far end of the room a handful of candles burned before the altar, their soft light casting long shadows across the floor. A figure moved quietly near the side of the hall, adjusting one of the lanterns along the wall. The priest looked up at the sound of the door opening. Age had bent his shoulders slightly and silver had long since replaced the darker color in his hair, but his eyes remained clear and alert.

“Well,” the old man said after a moment, a faint smile forming beneath his beard. “Either the gods have decided to visit me personally tonight, or Rayz has returned to Varrock without warning again.” He studied Rayz for a moment longer, the warmth in his expression shifting toward quiet concern. “It is late for a visit, my boy. Something troubling you?”

Rayz stopped a few steps from the altar and looked around the quiet hall before answering. The church had always been a place where the noise of the city seemed to fade away, leaving room for thoughts that were easier to ignore elsewhere. Tonight that silence felt heavier than usual.

“I met someone on the road this evening,” he said.

The priest folded his hands loosely in front of him. “That is not normally the sort of thing that drives a man into a church after midnight.”

Rayz gave a faint nod. “No. But this one asked questions I have been thinking about ever since.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “About Varrock. About the rebuilding after the war.”

The priest’s expression grew more attentive. “Go on.”

Rayz drew a slow breath. “He claims a magistrate in the city built his position on corruption during those years. Trade deals, favors, quiet arrangements that were useful when the city was desperate. Now the same man presents himself as one of the leaders who helped restore order.” He glanced toward the altar briefly before finishing. “The stranger wants to expose him.”

The priest was quiet for a moment after Rayz finished speaking. The candlelight flickered softly across the stone walls as he considered the words. “And this stranger came to you because you helped liberate the city,” he said. Rayz nodded. “He believes I might know a way for him to enter Varrock without going through the gates.”

The old man raised an eyebrow slightly at that. “And do you?”

Rayz did not answer right away. He walked slowly along the aisle between the benches, his footsteps echoing faintly in the empty hall. “There are ways into most cities if someone knows where to look,” he said at last.

The priest watched him for another moment. “And what exactly does this man intend to do once he is inside?”

“He says he wants to expose the magistrate,” Rayz replied. “Reveal the dealings that helped him gain power during the rebuilding.” He rested one hand against the back of a bench as he spoke. “According to him, the man built his influence on illegal trade and favors when the city was desperate.”

The priest nodded slowly, though his expression remained thoughtful rather than convinced. “And you believe him?”

Rayz gave a quiet shake of his head. “I do not know.” He moved a few steps farther down the aisle before stopping again. “The man was clever. Charming enough that you might believe him if you were not careful.” He glanced back toward the priest. “But that sort of charm can hide many motives.”

The priest folded his hands again and regarded him calmly. “Yet you came here instead of simply dismissing the stranger and going to sleep.”

Rayz exhaled slowly. “Because what he said was not impossible.” He looked around the dim hall, his voice quieter now. “When Varrock was rebuilding, a great deal happened quickly. Supplies were scarce. Trade was uncertain. Men made arrangements they might not have made in calmer times.”

The priest nodded once more, acknowledging the truth in that. “Hard times often create strange alliances.”

Rayz leaned lightly against the end of the bench, his gaze drifting toward the candles near the altar. “The stranger claims the magistrate used men like him to move goods when the city was starving,” he said. “Smugglers. Traders willing to ignore certain laws if it meant food reached the markets.” He paused for a moment. “Now that the city has recovered, those arrangements are inconvenient to remember.”

The priest considered that quietly. “And the man wants revenge.”

“That was my first thought,” Rayz admitted. “But he did not speak like someone blinded by anger. If anything, he seemed almost amused by the situation. He said he wanted to remind people how the magistrate’s reputation was built.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Truth can be a dangerous weapon when wielded for the wrong reasons.”

Rayz nodded. “That is what troubles me.” He folded his arms loosely across his chest. “If the magistrate truly is corrupt, exposing him might be the right thing to do. But helping a stranger sneak into the city to settle a personal score could easily make things worse.”

The priest walked slowly toward the altar, his steps unhurried. He paused beside the candles and adjusted one that had begun to burn low. “War leaves behind more than broken walls,” he said quietly. “It leaves behind men who did what they believed was necessary to survive. Some of them stop when the danger passes. Others discover they prefer the power they found along the way.”

Rayz watched the flame steady itself. “And how do you tell the difference between the two?”

The old man turned back toward him with a faint smile that held little certainty. “If there were an easy answer to that question, the world would be a simpler place.” He rested his hands lightly against the stone edge of the altar. “The man you met might be telling the truth. He might also be manipulating you into helping him settle a grievance.”

“That is exactly the problem,” Rayz said.

The priest nodded. “Then perhaps the question is not whether the stranger is trustworthy.” He studied Rayz for a moment before continuing. “Perhaps the real question is what you believe your responsibility is in the matter.”

Rayz frowned slightly at that. “My responsibility?” he repeated.

The priest nodded. “You helped save this city,” he said. “Whether you like the stories people tell or not, that is part of who you are now.” He gestured faintly toward the streets beyond the church walls. “If corruption truly took root during the rebuilding, it affects the same people you fought to protect.”

Rayz was quiet for a moment, considering the weight of that. “And if the stranger is lying?” he asked. Rayz looked down briefly at the yellow gem resting against his chest. The priest noticed the movement and his expression softened. “You were always careful with your choices,” he said. “Even as a boy.” Rayz gave a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “I remember you saying the opposite more than once.”

The old man chuckled. “You had a temper in those days. Your father worried about it often.” His smile faded into something more thoughtful. “But he also believed something else. He believed anger was not always the worst quality in a man. Sometimes it is the only thing that makes a person refuse to accept the world as it is.”

Rayz said nothing, but the words held his attention. The priest folded his hands loosely before continuing. “The world is full of respectable men who do terrible things while convincing themselves it is necessary. They build power slowly, quietly, until no one remembers how it began.” He glanced toward the dark windows of the church. “Sometimes, Rayz, the righteous man opens the door for the wolf… and finds the wolf guarding the sheep more gently than the shepherd did.”

Rayz stood quietly for a moment after the priest finished speaking. The words settled in the still air of the church, mingling with the faint scent of candle smoke and old stone. He had come looking for clarity, but the answer he received was not the kind that made a decision easier. “You have a talent for making problems sound more complicated than they were before I walked in,” Rayz said at last.

The priest smiled faintly. “If the matter were simple, you would not have come here.”

Rayz could not argue with that. He looked once more toward the altar, the candle flames swaying gently in the quiet hall. Cremacious’ voice returned to his thoughts again, calm and certain, asking him to consider what kind of man he intended to be. After a moment Rayz gave a small nod, more to himself than to the priest. “He will be waiting at the tavern tomorrow,” he said. “Apparently he is confident I will return.”

The old man’s smile deepened slightly. “And will you?”

Rayz walked toward the door, pulling his cloak around his shoulders as he moved. “I suppose I will find out tomorrow.”

Rayz pushed open the church door and stepped into the cool night air. The courtyard lay quiet beneath the dim lantern beside the entrance, its flame flickering gently in the breeze. For a moment he remained there, listening to the distant sounds of the city settling into sleep.

The priest’s words lingered somewhere in the back of his mind, though he made no effort to examine them. Rayz crossed the courtyard, untied his horse, and rested a hand briefly along the animal’s neck before pulling himself into the saddle. Varrock slept beneath the night sky as he rode through its streets. Most windows were dark now, the city’s noise reduced to the occasional creak of a sign or the fading echo of laughter from a distant tavern. Rayz rode without hurry, letting the familiar roads carry him through the quiet. When he finally reached his lodging, he dismounted, secured the horse, and went inside without another glance at the empty street. The night passed as most nights did, and the city greeted the morning as it always had.

By the time the sun began to sink again the following evening, Rayz found himself once more riding north along the road that led away from Varrock. The lights of Miller’s Watch appeared ahead as the sky darkened, and the Three Moons Tavern was in view. Warm light spilled from the windows of the tavern as Rayz approached, the glow bright against the darkening road. The town of Miller’s Watch was livelier than it had been the night before. Wagons stood along the roadside and the sound of voices drifted from inside the tavern along with the clatter of mugs and the low hum of evening conversation.

Rayz dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching post outside the door. For a moment he stood there, listening to the noise within. It sounded no different from any other night on the road. Travelers sharing stories, merchants complaining about prices, guards spending their coin before the next day’s journey. Nothing about the place suggested the sort of conversation that had begun there the evening before. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The tavern was nearly as crowded as it had been the previous night. Lantern light flickered across the wooden beams while the smell of roasted meat and ale filled the air. Rayz’s eyes moved across the room slowly, taking in the familiar mixture of travelers and locals gathered around the tables.

Cremacious was already there.

He sat at the same table near the far wall, his companions scattered around him in easy conversation. When Rayz stepped through the door, the man looked up as if he had been expecting the moment all evening. A faint smile appeared beneath his beard stubble, and he lifted his mug slightly in greeting. Rayz crossed the tavern slowly, weaving through the crowded tables until he reached the bar. The barkeep recognized him from the night before and poured a mug without asking. Rayz set a coin on the counter and took the drink, letting the noise of the room settle around him before turning toward the table near the wall.

Cremacious had resumed speaking with the men beside him, though his eyes drifted back to Rayz more than once. The conversation at the table seemed relaxed, but there was a quiet awareness behind it now. They all knew why Rayz had returned. After a moment Cremacious rose from his chair and approached the bar with the same easy confidence he had shown the night before. He stopped beside Rayz and rested one arm lightly against the counter.

“I had a feeling you might come back,” he said, his tone friendly but unsurprised.

Rayz took a slow drink before answering. “You seemed confident of it.”

Cremacious gave a small shrug. “I prefer to think of it as optimism.” He signaled the barkeep for another drink before turning his attention back to Rayz.

Rayz glanced at him briefly. “You assume a great deal.”

“It is a habit,” Cremacious replied easily. His mug arrived and he lifted it in quiet acknowledgment before taking a slow drink. “So,” he added after a moment, “did your thinking lead anywhere interesting?”

Rayz remained silent for a few seconds, studying the man beside him. The tavern noise continued around them, but the space at the bar seemed strangely separate from it. Cremacious had the same calm patience he had shown the night before, as though the outcome of the conversation had never been in doubt.

“I know a way into the city,” Rayz said at last.

Cremacious did not react immediately. He took another measured drink from his mug and set it back on the counter before speaking. “I suspected you might,” he said calmly.

“It is not something I share lightly.”

“I would be disappointed if it were,” Cremacious replied.

Rayz studied him for a moment longer before continuing. “There is an old drainage tunnel along the western wall,” he said. “It leads into the sewer system beneath the city. Most people do not know it exists.”

Cremacious listened without interrupting, his attention steady.

“The tunnels beneath Varrock are not simple,” Rayz continued. “They branch in several directions. Some lead to old maintenance shafts, others to drainage exits near the outer districts.” He paused briefly before adding, “And some lead to nowhere useful at all. Without knowing the path, a man could wander down there for hours,” Rayz continued. “The tunnels twist more than most people expect, and some of the older passages collapse or flood when the rains are heavy.”

Cremacious nodded slowly. “That sounds like the sort of place a person might prefer not to explore blindly.”

Rayz ignored the faint humor in the remark. “There is also a chamber deeper in the system where spiders nest,” he said. “Not the small kind you find in barns. These grow large enough to make a sword useful.” He took another drink before adding, “You will want to avoid that tunnel.”

Cremacious raised an eyebrow slightly but did not look particularly alarmed. “Useful advice.”

Rayz reached for a scrap of cloth on the bar and drew a few lines across the damp surface with his finger as he spoke. “From the entrance you follow the main drain south until the first fork. The left tunnel leads toward the spiders. Do not take it.” He traced another line. “The right path slopes downward for a time before opening into a wider chamber. From there you will find another fork.”

He paused briefly, letting the lines fade as the moisture spread across the cloth.

“Take the passage that bends east,” Rayz said. “Follow it until you reach a ladder shaft. That exit brings you up into the city.”

Cremacious watched the fading lines on the cloth as though committing each detail to memory. When Rayz finished speaking, he lifted his mug and took another slow drink before setting it back down.

“That sounds manageable,” he said.

Rayz gave him a steady look. “It is not meant to be comfortable. The tunnels were built to carry waste out of the city, not visitors in.”

Cremacious smiled faintly at that. “Most useful routes in the world were not built with comfort in mind.” Rayz wiped the cloth clean with the side of his hand, erasing the last of the marks. “Once you reach the ladder shaft, you will find yourself inside the walls. From there you will need to make your own way.” Cremacious inclined his head slightly. “Fair enough.” He studied Rayz for another moment, then gave a small nod. “I appreciate the help.”

Rayz finished his drink and set the empty mug back on the counter. “You have the directions,” he said. “What you do with them is your own business.” Cremacious nodded once. “That was always the understanding.” His tone remained polite, though the sharp attention in his eyes had not faded. “You have given me exactly what I asked for.” Rayz rose from the stool. For a moment it seemed the conversation might end there, the two men parting with nothing more than quiet acknowledgment of the exchange.

Cremacious lifted his mug again in a small gesture of thanks. “For what it is worth,” he said, “I will try not to make you regret the decision.” Rayz did not answer. He turned toward the tavern door and stepped back into the cool night air outside Miller’s Watch. Behind him, Cremacious watched him leave with the same faint, knowing smile. Rayz paused beside the hitching post and rested a hand along his horse’s neck. The night air carried the distant murmur of voices from the tavern behind him, though the road beyond Miller’s Watch had already begun to quiet again. For a moment he stood there, looking out across the dark fields without any clear thought in mind. Rayz sighed before turning away and mounting his horse. A moment later he rode off into the darkness beyond the town. Behind him, Cremacious watched until the road swallowed the figure entirely. The smile that remained on his face was quieter now. Satisfied.

Rayz rode south from Miller’s Watch beneath a sky thick with stars. The road was empty at this hour, the only sound the steady rhythm of hooves striking the packed earth. He did not hurry. The distance to Varrock was short enough that the ride would pass quickly regardless. The tavern and its warm lantern light faded behind him, leaving only darkness and the long stretch of road ahead. Fields rolled out on either side, quiet and unmoving beneath the night sky. Somewhere in the distance an owl called once and then fell silent again.

Rayz kept his eyes on the road, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere. The directions he had given Cremacious repeated themselves in his mind with quiet precision. The drainage tunnel beneath the western wall. The first fork in the sewer. The spider chamber to avoid. The ladder shaft that climbed back up into the city. All of it was true. What Rayz had not mentioned was the way the tunnels changed beyond that ladder. The shaft he described opened into an abandoned maintenance cellar beneath an old storage house near the outer district. Years ago it had been a convenient place to slip inside the walls unseen. But after the war the guard patrols in that quarter had increased. Anyone emerging there now would find themselves only a few streets from the watch barracks.

Rayz knew exactly what would happen if Cremacious followed the directions as given. The man would reach the ladder, climb into the city, and step out into one of the most heavily patrolled parts of Varrock after midnight. The streets there were narrow and quiet. A stranger moving through them would attract attention almost immediately. Rayz had not lied to him, but he had not given him the path a careful infiltrator would truly want. If Cremacious truly meant to sneak into Varrock, the path Rayz had described would complicate the attempt badly enough to possibly expose his intentions. Guards would question him before he reached the markets. And if the man’s story about the magistrate was false, Rayz would have kept a dangerous stranger from moving freely inside the city.

Rayz did not look back.

The next few days passed quietly. Varrock continued its usual rhythm. Merchants opened their stalls in the markets each morning, wagons rolled through the gates with grain and timber from the surrounding countryside, and the city guards walked their familiar routes along the streets. Nothing in the daily life of the city suggested that anything unusual had happened beneath its walls. Rayz heard no word of Cremacious.

At first he half expected some disturbance. An arrest. A rumor of violence in the night. Perhaps a body discovered in an alley or guards searching the streets for a fugitive. But the city remained calm, and the quiet began to feel almost deliberate. Then the rumors started. They appeared in the markets first, passed quietly between merchants and travelers in low voices. At first they sounded like the sort of gossip that always drifted through a city this size. A magistrate had stepped down from his position. A resignation delivered suddenly and without explanation.

Within a day the story began to change. Documents had been discovered. Records of trade agreements, quiet payments, and shipments that had bypassed official tariffs during the years after the war. Arrangements made when the city had been desperate for supplies and willing to overlook certain details. By the end of the week, no one in Varrock doubted the truth of it. The magistrate had built his power on corruption. Yet something about the outcome unsettled Rayz more than the scandal itself. Because the illegal trade routes that had fueled the accusations did not disappear.

At first they were small things. Wagons arriving at the markets that carried goods from routes he knew had once been part of the magistrate’s quiet arrangements. Crates marked with merchant seals that had no record in the city ledgers. Deliveries that appeared in the stalls without ever passing through the official trade yards. Most people in the city never saw such details. To them it looked like ordinary commerce. But Rayz had spent enough time traveling the roads to recognize how goods normally moved between cities. These did not follow the normal paths.

He saw it again two nights later near the river district. A pair of wagons rolled through the narrow streets long after the gates had closed, escorted by men who wore no guild colors and carried no trade permits. The guards at the nearby post watched them pass without comment. Rayz stood in the shadows of a doorway and felt the quiet certainty settle in his chest. The network had not vanished. It had simply changed hands. If anything, it seemed more organized now than before. The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth. Whatever corruption Cremacious had exposed had not been removed from the city. It had only been reshaped into something quieter and more careful.

Rayz did not have to look far to see the difference. The trade routes continued to move through the city, but the tone around them had changed. The men escorting the wagons no longer carried the rough arrogance of hired thugs. Disputes in the markets ended quietly instead of with broken teeth. Merchants who once complained about threats and sudden “fees” now spoke of the arrangements in lower voices, but with far less fear. The trade was still illegal, that much was obvious, but it was also… restrained.

Rayz studied the movement of the wagons carefully. These routes were not improvised in the chaos of a single night. They required contacts inside the city. Guards willing to look the other way. Merchants who understood where goods would appear and how they would be paid for. An operation like this did not begin with one man climbing out of a sewer. Rayz felt the realization settle slowly in his mind. Cremacious had never relied on that route in the first place.

The conversation in the Three Moons Tavern had never been about finding a way into Varrock. It had been about him. Cremacious had been measuring something. A man that capable would never depend on directions from a stranger he met over ale. Not unless the directions themselves were irrelevant. The request had been bait. Rayz understood it now with uncomfortable clarity. Cremacious had wanted to see what kind of man the hero of Varrock truly was. Whether he would refuse outright, or whether he would tolerate a certain amount of corruption if it promised to remove something worse. Rayz had not opened the door completely, but he had not closed it either.

The thought lingered with him long enough that, a few evenings later, he found himself returning to the quiet square beside the church. The priest listened without interrupting as Rayz explained what had happened in the time since their last conversation. “At least the city is calmer,” Rayz said after a while. “Whatever Cremacious built, it does not seem to prey on the people the way the magistrate’s network did.”

The priest nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. He turned slightly, resting one hand against the stone of the altar. “Remember what I said about the wolf?” Rayz did not answer. His hand drifted to the yellow gem resting against his chest. Masters believed the gem recorded the story of their lives. Every lesson learned. Every decision made. Every moment that shaped the path they walked. Rayz watched the quiet glow of the gem for a long moment. Then he let the necklace fall back against his chest, and wondered what this choice had written into its memory.

The Measure Of A Master

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