Madark's journey from his cell to the outside world was laborious. He navigated the spiraling stairs beneath the Fulcrum with painstaking slowness, each step a testament to his enduring wounds. Shadowed by Shrine Guards during his slow trek towards freedom, their persistent glares and sneers were felt more than seen by Madark. Emerging from the main entrance, he descended the outer stairs, making his way towards the main plaza. What would have been a brisk ten-minute walk for anyone else stretched into nearly an hour for Madark. His injuries, particularly in his lower back where he had been stabbed, forced him into a halting limp, a constant reminder of the ordeal in the tower.

The city was alive with activity, an unusual sight for the early morning hours. However, rumors of another attack, coupled with the ongoing trials, had many citizens congregating. Although Madark walked with a limp and looked destitute, it was common to see figures wandering the streets, blending into the backdrop of the bustling city. As he walked, Madark's mind wandered; he tried to piece together the fragmented memories of his days in captivity, the length of his imprisonment, and the mystery of his sudden release.

Finally, the Well came into view, a gaping pit that lay at the heart of the city. But before reaching it, Madark spotted a welcoming spot - a raised platform that might once have held a bed of flowers. Now, it was home to a solitary tree. Madark eased himself onto the platform, welcoming the respite. He settled in, letting his gaze drift towards the Well.

You're waiting for me, aren't you?

Madark could feel the call of the Well, as if an orchestra was buried deep beneath the city, each musician playing a different instrument in a different key, yet all striving for harmony.

“Sausages!”

‘Can they reach me, or would I be falling too fast?’

“Delicious! Plump! Full of spices! Hot and sweet!”

‘Would I fall for eternity?’

“Two for one, five for three! Spice-stuffed sausages!”

I want to see where they are. I need to know what’s at the bottom.

“-feed your family and yourself tonight with these delicious-”

I've never been this close.

“-spice-stuffed sausages! Hot and sweet!”

‘I'm going. I need to. Damn you, Aris! Harlon! Medina. Damn you all!’ Madark rose on shaking legs. His breath was quick, his broken ribs reminding him of their presence. His eyes set upon the cold, desolate void of the Well. 'It's time. No more running, no more hiding. I will go screaming into that endless–’ a jolt of pain staggered Madark; he reached for his lower back, teeth gritted.

“Ah, brother! You look famished! Would you like to taste the Last's renowned sausages? Two for one, five for three. Spicy and sweet. Or hot? Hot and sweet?” The sausage vendor looked back at his cart and the crudely drawn sign, then he continued confidently, “Hot and sweet!”

The pain broke Madark's focus and he stared long and hard at the Sausage Vendor. He was pulling a small cart behind him. Rows of hanging meat, condiments, and bread all neatly arranged on the cart. The vendor sported a large closed-mouth smile, his eyes a sad, dark hue. He was below average height with curly brown hair and tanned, freckled skin.

“What?” Madark asked with more aggression in his tone than intended.

The sausage vendor tilted his head in confusion. “Sausages?” He waved an open palm to his cart. “Two for one, five for three-feed your family tonight!”

Madark looked puzzled. There were people now. It was midday and the plaza of the Fifth was now bustling with other vendors, prospective recruits for the Tiers, and Shrine Guard. The Guard were especially out today. Perhaps a mock show of force. But that’s all it was. A show for the lesser folk of Shrine felt safe. That some semblance of security remained after the brazen incursion from Keda.

Madark slowly sat back down, holding his lower back. He ignored the vendor, hoping he would go on about his day.

“You look dreadful, brother.”

Madark ignored the comment. He certainly had not bathed for nearly a week and forgot when the last time it was he looked at a mirror. There also was a distinct smell of urine. Madark had been too frightened to walk to the bucket during his time in the cell and tried to make do. He blocked the memory and turned his focus back to the Well. There were far too many around. Too many witnesses. Too many questions would be asked.

But would anyone care, Madark thought. Would anyone actually care? ‘Why should I even care?’ Who cares what they think. After he leaves, Madark thought, that is when I will jump.

“Brother?” The merchant persisted.

“I'm not hungry.” Madark adjusted his posture slowly, carefully, trying to not to rekindle the pain in pulsating from his lower back.

“No? Come now, brother, you look famished. Two for one-”

“I'm. Not. Hungry.” Madark insisted.

“Five for three!”

“Yes!” Madark interjected curtly, “I understand! Five for three! Spicy and sweet! A strange, stupid deal that only fools would-” Madark collected himself. “Please. Just leave me.”

The Sausage Vendor seemed wounded by how harsh and cold his prospective client responded. There was a moment of silence.

“They’re actually hot and sweet! For you, brother, one for-”

Madark wanted to scream. He inhaled sharply and felt a surge of pain in ribs. Madark wanted to run and jump into the Well that instant. Damn the pain. Curse this fool and the Devils in the Well! I will save my hate for them. But he did not leap to his feet. He exhaled slowly and thought of Medina. Certainly not of her emotions. Madark wished for her to be wounded by the news of his death. He wanted to hurt her. But the thought of her being informed that her brother had leapt to his death into the Well because of a persistent Sausage Vendor seemed far too pathetic even for Madark.

“I don't have any money and I'm not hungry. Please. Please, just leave.” Madark tried to sound irritated and cruel, but his voice was sad.

The Sausage Vendor sighed, “fine, brother. You've twisted my arm. For you? A silver piece will suffice-anything on my cart.”

“I don't have any mon-” Madark paused. It’s a trick. Perhaps one of the guards put him up to this. Harlon, maybe. Someone is trying to do something! Madark was unsure and panicking. Confusion and rage began to fill his heart. Madark hissed, “piss on your sausages!” He wanted his voice to do what his body could not. He wanted to hurt the merchant, injecting venom.
The Sausage Vendor took a step back in surprise.

Madark yelled, “Guard! Guard!” His voice was powerful, fueled by the pain in his body. The busy plaza turned and stared. “This vendor,” Madark said, lifting his arm to point. A jolt of pain ran up his back, “here!” Madark winced and his voice cracked in an embarrassing manner, “he is harassing me!”

Madark lowered his arm. The merchant was staring at Madark’s scared fingers. With a swift, almost reflexive motion, Madark he tucked both hands into the folds of his stained weftlore.

Two heavily armored knights of the Shrine Guard began to walk over. They waved off another patrol that was approaching to investigate. The two knights seemed jovial and smiling as one placed an arm around the sausage merchant and the other moved closer to the cart. His eyes widened, salivating over the hanging meats.

“Serif,” the Shrine Guard said laughing, “Is The Last doing so poorly you've resorted to forcing your soured meats on common, piss-smelling street wretches?”

“Soured? Brother. These are fresh! Cooked. Sweet and spicy.” Serif said in a sincere tone.

‘The merchant is too stupid to even remember his advertisement.’  Madark exhaled sharply through his nose, but he was ignored.

“Brothers, these are the finest spice-stuffed sausages our city has ever been blessed with. Hunted by the Third. Butchered by the Sixth. Spices sourced from Vel herself. Mashed and stuffed a not-so-dirty cellar! And now being served to the heroes of our city.”

“How much is one?” The browsing guard asked.

“Three coins.”

“Three? Resorting to thievery now too, eh?”

Serif laughed, “Ah! You've twisted my arm. Three pieces for a pair.”

Madark looked on in amazement as the fools traded jokes and haggled. He lowered his head. 'I look like a wretch, do I? Madark's agitation reached a boiling point.

“Gentlemen!” Madark barked.
This caught the Guards’ attention. Madark saw the look on their faces and regretted the tone he used. They looked as if he was a dog that suddenly learned to speak instead of bark.
Madark inhaled, mustering up the smallest amount of courage. “I asked to be left alone. This merchant is har-”

A stiff boot thudded hard into Madark's chest. He rolled onto his back, yelping like a kicked dog. His yelp drew laughter from onlookers. Struggling to push himself up, Madark made a feeble attempt to maintain some dignity. However, his hands were trapped in the pockets of his weftlore, the tightly stitched pockets refusing to release its hold. The second guard moved in closer, threatening another kick if Madark attempted to stand. But Madark began to feel the itch—the scratches from the devils below. Pushing up on his elbows, he slowly moved onto his knees.

The merchant's face contorted into a deep, sorrowful frown.. 

“Watch your tone, you little—” the guard stuttered, scrambling for a suitable insult.

Suddenly, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Ugh! Do you smell that?” 

“Piss-covered wretch!” he finally spat out with disdain. 

A wave of embarrassment washed over Madark, coloring his cheeks a deep shade of red. “

You’re enjoying the public space, and now you’re beginning to disturb the public’s peace—” the guard continued, his voice laced with irritation. 

“Maybe he’d prefer to be somewhere significantly more private, eh?” his partner chimed in, a cruel sneer twisting his lips. 

“I ain’t touching him. Disgusting,” the first guard retorted, stepping back as if the very air around Madark were contaminated.

Madark's forced himself to look up. He wanted to appear defiant, but failed, avoiding eye contact with the either guard, his eyes  drifted back to the merchant, lingering with an intensity that belied his previous jovial expression. In the merchant's eyes, Madark found an all too familiar expression, one that clawed deep into the heart of his pride. It was the look of pity, subtle yet unmistakable. It struck a chord within Madark, a reminder of a past he wished to forget, of a vulnerability he fought hard to conceal. For a fleeting second, his facade cracked, revealing the raw, unguarded emotion beneath. But as quickly as it appeared, the merchant masked it again, the soft, sad eyes returning and a wide smile.

“Brothers, brothers! My apologies,” the merchant interjected, his voice tinged with urgency. He reached out, gently pulling on the guard's shoulder to divert his steely gaze away from Madark. His hand then swept towards a platter of skewered sausages, glistening invitingly in the light. “Please, take one, compliments of The Last. My brother here,” he nodded subtly towards Madark, “is just having a bad day.”

The Shrine Guardsmen shared a brief, knowing glance, each holding a hot and spicy skewered piece of meat. The first guard turned back to Madark, his voice gruff but restrained,
“Aye, watch yourself.” As they walked away, the other guard spat dismissively in Madark's direction while the other chuckled, offering a grateful nod to Serif. They melded back into the bustling crowd, their presence fading like a bad memory.
Serif watched them intently, his smile strained but polite, ensuring they had truly departed. Only then did he relax. Madark, meanwhile, inched closer to the ledge where he had been seated before the altercation. He eased into a more comfortable position with cautious movements, each shift eliciting a sharp wince of pain.
Silence fell sharply between them. Serif busied himself with his cart, his back turned to Madark, as Madark cast wary glances upwards, scanning for any prying eyes or lingering onlookers.
Serif then turned back to face Madark. He bit into a spice-stuffed sausage, savoring several mouthfuls. Madark's stomach clenched. He was indeed hungry. He had not eaten since being released. The bread and watered down soup served during his incarceration failed to provide any meaningful nourishment.
“Are you,” Serif paused, “are you alright brother?”
“Please stop calling me brother. And please leave me be.”
“What’s your name?”
Madark ignored the question.
“Anyways. If you're trying to die, I suppose starving to death is one way-” Serif paused, “-jumping another, probably. I assume death is at the bottom”
Madark turned slightly towards Serif. He felt sick as Serif spoke with his mouth open, chunks of chewed meat tossing and turning inside. Madark opened his mouth to speak, but Serif, as if anticipating his words, spoke first.
“I'll let you in on a little secret, brother. Between us. I went down there once. Indeed it is deep. Very deep. I suspect there isn't enough rope in all the Admiral's old fleet that would reach the bottom.”
Serif took another bite, he continued talking in between chewing his food, “anyways, you know what I saw? Nothing. Old brick. Black moss. Lichen. The air smelled like shit and wet animals with a distinct scent of wasted lives. Condensed, purified, distilled. That's all there is down there. Misery and regret.” Serif continued, “anyways, look, I know you have no money. But I can hear your stomach rumbling.” Serif stood and retrieved two sausages, bread and water, placing them beside Madark. “Please, take the food.”
Madark scoffed.
“You're tired and hungry, brother. When someone is tired they think the world hates them and when they're hungry? They hate the world. Times are tough, indeed, but-” Serif trailed off, “don't go trying to find out what's down there. They win when you give up, and we will never know the answers.”
Madark stared in confusion as Serif rose. He watched Serif struggle to hoist the cart's straps onto his shoulders. He walked away from Madark, hauling his cart. Moments later, Madark heard the chant, “Two for one; five for three!”
Loneliness and anger welled up in Madark. The sting of the kick lingered, but the embarrassment felt far worse. The adrenaline of the altercation was wearing off and his stomach growled, knotted in pain. 'Serif?' Madark thought. He had heard the name in the Tower, usually at the of a joke. But he couldn't remember who he was. The Guard certainly knew who he was. It was especially irritating that Serif seemed to know who he was thinking and what he was thinking. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, ignoring the charity left by the strange merchant. Sundown. I'll wait. It should clear up by then.’

An hour passed as Madark sat, brooding alone. He wanted to lie down and sleep. He wanted to eat, but pride and stubbornness forced him to ignore the food left behind. He brooded. He wanted to die.

“Oi. Salutations.” A loud voice said near Madark.

Madark turned his head to see a tall, disheveled, freckle-faced man with short red facial hair. He was wearing a flamboyant outfit; a heavily soiled purple and green overcoat with gold embroidery that seemed to be missing some buttons.

“Another one.” Madark muttered to himself.

“No, the first.”

Madark looked into his eyes to see the stranger staring at the now cold sausages and bread.

“Oh. Take it. Please. Take it and go.”

The stranger paused and looked at Madark and then back at the spiced sausages. He reached for one without a second thought and sat down beside Madark. “I heard these are the best. Spicy and hot?”
Madark cringed, “No. Hot and sweet.”

“Ah, right, that's it-oi!” The stranger nearly stood back up, “you smell like piss and vinegar!”

The stranger's voice was loud and if the Well had been closer, Madark would have dove in.

“Sorry!” He saw Madark stiffen with embarrassment. “It's this soured meat! We have better stuff in Vel.. The boars practically run at you, wishing to be turned into sausage. Well. When they do run it's more of a charge. Vicious, yet delicious animals.”

Madark turned his head and nodded and looked back at the Well. He hoped the gesture, while subtle, was significant enough to indicate that their interaction was over. He received cold sausages and Madark was left alone.

The stranger tracked Madark's eyes to the Well and back at Madark. “What in the hell has The Devourer carved here?”

Madark remained silent.

“Yeah? What is it? Just a hole to shit in or what?”

“It's the Well.”

“A well? Good luck trying to scoop up water from that. I looked down there and I ain't seen no water.”

Madark sighed.

“Why are you staring at it?”

Madark sighed again, this time cradling his face into his hands, “Please-”

“What's it used for? Trash? Piss? Do people piss down there?”

“Please. Leave-”

“Ah, yeah, I'm sorry. I'm Mestin. Mestin Garr.”

“I'm not interested. I would like to be left alone, please.”

Mestin laughed. “Here I came to beg you for help, yeah, when really you might need mine, brother.”

“I have no money and I have no patience-”

“I'm the best swordsman in Vel.”

Madark forced a smile and cocked his head, “what are you talking about?”

“Listen, I've come here to join a Tier, yeah, and I haven't had the best of luck. No. But I am in fact the best swordsman in Vel. Yeah.”

“Well. You're in Shrine now. Everyone’s the best at everything.”

“Really?”

“No. No, not really.”

“But I actually am.”

“At what?”
“Fighting.”

“Are you? You've been at it, have you? Last few days? Trying to join a Tier? Good luck.”

“Yeah. The Sixth made a mistake. They said come back next year.”

Madark closed his eyes and grunted softly. “Sure. I'm sorry. Good luck.”

“But they made mistakes, yeah? I should be in a Tier by now? I'm the best. Well. I made some mistakes, sure. But I’m better than all of them.”

“You're better than all of them?” Madark said, gesturing vaguely in no particular area..

Mestin raised his head and stuck out his chest, as if fully alert. He scanned the plaza, “yeah, yeah, probably. No doubt, really. No. Look. Go on, look at that lot. Yeah? Pompous thieving twats. The lot of ‘em. The only swords they've mastered are their father's soft cocks. I'll be sure to remember these faces once I become a member in the Sixth. They have a council I hear. Where only the best sit at the table. Yeah? Merit and skill. None of this birthright shit. Yeah? I'll make it. I promise.”

“Sure. Good luck.”
“Look,” Mestin paused, hoping Madark would say his name. But continued, “look, I need your help. I’ve no money and my documents are fake, they said, so I can’t even go home.”

Madark examined Mestin with greater attention. Mestin wore a large, unique hat that blocked the midday sun, providing a comfortable bit of shade. Upon noticing the distinct colors,  Madark felt uneasy and he quickly moved his eyes to other parts of the strange attire. He wore a heavily stained dark brown leather coat cinched at the hips with a partially hidden green-dyed shirt that had been torn down the center. It revealed pale skin and the contours of a masculine chest with hints of fiery red hair.
Madark’s face contorted into a sad grimace .He was reminded of Kara Kazarian and quickly tried to suppress the thought. Mestin’s hands. They were heavily bruised and scratched, but all of his fingernails were attached. Madark envied that. He ensured his own hands were tucked into his weftlore. Yet, he saw something strange, jewelry on Mestin’s left hand. These rings were unlike anything Madark had seen before, significantly less bejeweled than the jewelry worn by Kara, but different. They were long and thin, covering from one knuckle to the next, connected by thin golden chains. Madark found it hard to look away from the uniqueness of it. He  wondered if it was customary for those from Vel to wear that type of jewelry. Finally, Madark looked down at Mestin’s feet. His toes on his left boot were poking through several holes; exposed and caked with blood and dirt, under the toenails and in between the crevices. Madark then locked eyes with Mestin; light-green eyes, a round, kind face and seemingly the only thing that was clean and pleasant to look at.

Madark laughed softly, looking again at Mestin's hands. “Sure. Good luck.”

Mestin jumped to his feet, “what? I need your help.”

“Well, I can’t. I can’t even help myself right now.”

“Yeah? What do you need? I can help you.”
Madark laughed to himself, the thought of this strange, yet kind individual walking him to the edge of the Well and just pushing him in.”

“People from Vel always help each other.”

“I don't know where Vel is and I’m not from Vel.”
“Don’t matter where you’re from. I want to help because I need your help.”
“Please. Good luck. I’m sorry. I hope you can go back soon.”

“It's now a shithole now, pillaged more and more by you lot. Her glory is funneled to feed.” Mestin finished by taking a large, aggressive bite from the sausage.

“What?”

“Listen, yeah?”

“Why are you talking to me?” Madark pressed, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and frustration. He could feel the familiar tide of stress and anxiety beginning to surge within him, welling up like a stormy sea threatening to break its bounds.

“Listen, yeah,” Mestin sat back down, a little further away from Madark, noticing his anxiety. “I'm trying to join the Last Tier and I was told if I could get you to eat one of these sausages,” Mestin paused, noticing he had eaten both sausages, “ah.” Mestin cursed. “That if you eat and join the Last Tier, that I would be granted a spot too.”

Madark paused. He could sense it. A feeling of being watched. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Madark scanned the crowd to see Serif, the sausage vendor staring back at him. Madark's vision was blurry, but he thought he could see a smile from across the plaza. He then looked at Mestin.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. No joke, yeah? These fatherless cock strokers stole my belongings. I failed the entrance test for the Sixth!” he paused, “the First, the Second, the Third-turns out you need to bring your own bow for that one and, more importantly, to be a woman,” Mestin paused, laughing sadly, “the Fifth, the Guard”, Mestin spat on the floor then tried to continue.

“Stop. Please.” Madark controlled his breathing and closed his eyes. “I-that's a lot. I can't help you.”

“Listen. Look, just come over, I’ll get us some food, I just need to talk a little more.”

After a moment, Madark spoke, “I'm in no position to help anyone.” He raised his head and stared at the chasm.

“Look, I even tried joining this shit city’s 'guard'. Those bastard thieves! They stole-”

“Careful.”

“Careful, what? They better bring an army!” Mestin shouted. 

Madark looked around the plaza, fearful someone would hear.

“Mister Garr-

“Mestin-” Mestin tried to correct Madark.

Madark sighed, “Mister Garr! I'm sorry. I'm in pain. I'm tired. I'm not trying to do anything right now. I just want to be left alone.”

“Come on, brother! You feel it, yeah? You want to die like this? Looking like that?”

Madark was irritated. Again with the 'brother'. He was not much of a brother anymore. Not to Medina and most definitely not to this stranger. But he felt worried for him. Clearly he was from another world. He had arrived to Shrine, perhaps thinking this city to be the pinnacle of society for the people of Angellen. Yet Madark found his desperation to fight almost inspiring. To try anything. Regardless of the cost to his pride. He was willing to beg strangers and even the Last Tier all to not return home looking like a failure.

“Who is he?” Madark said, looking towards the hastily crafted booth, serving as the registration table for 'The Last Tier' and it now appears-sausages.

“That smiling bastard?”

Madark grunted.

“Introduced himself as the Commander of the Last.”

Madark laughed and felt a jolt of pain from the exertion.

“Yeah, I laughed too. A little too loudly. But he also chuckled and then sent me here to do this. Said if I can get you to join the Tier, he'd feed and pay me for four years, until the next Registration, where I'll try again for the Sixth.” Mestin paused. He seemed to examine Madark. Madark only imagined how he looked. Probably like a wretch.
“You must've tried for the First, eh?”

Madark grit his teeth. “No.”

“Well don't. Their Commander is a witch-bitch, I heard.” Mestin seemingly lowered his tone.

“Superstitious, are you?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t tempt witches, devils, banshees, ghosts-”
“The contract,” Madark interrupted, “for The Last is four years?”

Mestin's eyes widened with excitement, “four years, yeah! There's a bonus of a hundred silver coins for every new member, too! I'll give you half of my coins and my wages for one year, yeah?” Mestin continued to ramble on, trying to bribe Madark. His attempts at sweetening the deal seemed pathetic to Madark. It was embarrassing to hear.

“-I'll even teach you everything I know about swordplay. I was the best swordsman in-”

“Stop. Please. I know. In Vel.”

“Let me grab you a sausage?”
Madark's stomach rumbled loudly. He looked at the Well and then back at Mestin. Madark sighed loudly.

“I can't walk too well right now.”

“Why? What? What happened?”

“I fell down several stairs. I think something is broken.”
“Oh, come,”
Madark could see Mestin gesturing to take his arm. Madark hesitated and then scoffed. “I'm not an old lady.” Madark was more concerned about his odor than he was being helped over.

“No. But you have a bad back and smell of piss. Acting like my grandma back in Vel.”
Madark was going to refuse, angered by the remark, but Mestin had already grabbed Madark’s arm and put it around his neck. Madark was surprised at how quick and gentle he seemed to be. He felt sturdy and strong. Madark thought he too was going to smell unpleasant, yet he was surprised. Mestin smelled primarily of earthy scents; dirt and grass, but blood and sweat as well, but nothing wholly unpleasant.

They approached the make-shift booth slowly. Mestin took great care in supporting Madark. The Last Tier's booth consisted of a sausage cart, a crudely painted sign in black ink that detailed the strange price of sausages, and another sign “Join The Last! Your Best Last Option!”

As Mestin and Madark approached, Serif was scrambling to find a stool and set it beside the tree.

“Thanks, brother!” Mestin said, gently lowering Madark to the stool.
Madark had found it strange that Mestin was thanking him after he was the one to have carried him from one end of the plaza to the next. All the while enduring the smell. Madark felt deeply embarrassed and hid his hands inside his weftlore, but felt that unmistakable feeling of being stared at again. Madark turned his head and saw a strange, tall woman standing beside Serif. She had long brown hair and deep brown eyes. She had sharp, masculine features, a pointed nose that flared upwards and high cheekbones.
“Welcome, Brother Garr!” Serif exclaimed, a deep, mischievous smile.

“I'm in?” Mestin exclaimed with excitement. He removed his hat and used it to wipe sweat away from his brow.

“Perhaps? Did he eat yet?” Serif said, gesturing towards Madark.

“What does it matter if I ate?” Madark asked angrily as Mestin moved hastily to the cart, retrieving a sausage.

Mestin stood silently, his eyes bouncing between the Last Tier Commander and the Madark. Madark was angry. A hungry, piss-smelling wretch and had already received enough charity today. A long, awkward moment passed. Holding out a dripping piece of meat, Mestin broke the tension by maneuvering between the two and handed Madark the food. 

“Here, brother. I think this one is sweet? Or spicy?” Mestin asked while looking for confirmation towards Serif.

“Hot?” Serif turned to face Dela as if looking for confirmation.
Madark took the sausage, refusing to look away from Serif. “How much do I owe you?”

“For that? Nothing. Courtesy of the Last.”

“I'll pay you.”

“No, brother! No need.” Serif sounded sincere and lively. “There is plenty of food and drink on our hill. Tonight, when we get there, we will wash up, get clean clothes, eat and drink! Maybe we will get one more to join before the sun goes down.”

“I'm not going anywhere.” Madark said in a somber tone.

“What!” Mestin exclaimed. “It will be fun!”

Captain Dela let out an audible laugh that drew everyone's attention. 

Serif turned to her and seemed to frown in disappointment. “This is Dela. Captain, Dela.” “I believe our other good Captain is fetching us a carriage. Where is Barns?”

“Dunno. Not the same one as yesterday, right?”
“What was wrong with it?”
“The horses shit. A lot.”

“But the ride was comfortable enough. The roads down to the Sixth are smooth enough.”
“And if we need to take the fourth out?”
Serif remained silent and then turned back to face Mestin. “I like you, brother Garr. It will be fun. See? Positive attitude. Hopeful. Hopeful for the future. Our futures are more important than our pasts. Sins can be washed away, roads can be resurfaced, books can be burned, sweet, happy lies can be written in to fill the pages.” Serif finished speaking while looking at Madark, his smile made Madark feel uneasy.

Hours had passed and the sun was beginning to set on the city of Shrine. Mestin and Madark sat near a large tree. Mestin continued to devour now cold, likely soured sausages. Madark occasionally tried to sneak glances at the Well. It was further now than it was before. He would roll into the pit if necessary. Tonight, Madark was going to die. But for now, Madark gently curled up against the tree.
Another member of Serif's entourage approached with a youthful young man that had mouse-like facial features. The taller of the two stared at Madark and scoffed and then looked at Mestin and laughed.

“What is that on your head?”
“Good day, Sir. It's a Plumecrest!” Mestin said proudly.
“A Plume-what?”
“-crest, Plumecrest. A Plumecrest, yeah?.”

The hat was pointed, with large green and purple patches sewn together with white embroidery into an artistic pattern in which the patches mirrored one another. However, the hat had seen better days. It appeared to have been trampled and used as a cloth to wipe dirt and blood.
“You wipe your ass with that? It's stupid. Take it off.”
Mestin stood sharply and cocked his head as if ready to fight.
“My mother made this hat.”
The stranger laughed and adjusted his stance and placed a hand on the hilt of a weapon that hid under his cloak. The Captain seemingly wanted to make another remark, a joke about Mestin’s mother, but avoided it.
Madark watched as it seemed Mestin Garr was much larger and stronger than Captain Bracken. However, Mestin was unarmed.
Serif approached and placed himself between the two. “Mestin, your mother makes excellent-” he paused, searching for the name, “Plumecrests! Next time we stop in Vel, I’ll be sure to request one.” He then turned to the stranger, “Barns, relax, please. Apologies Brothers, this is Captain Bracken. He's anxious about the long walk home.”
“I’m not anxious. Just we ran into trouble last time is all.”

“Trouble?” Shorne asked.
“We can take them with me here! I just need my swords back.”
“Yes, brother. I will do what I can, I promise.” Serif said to Mestin.

Captain Barnaby Bracken eyed Mestin up and down and seemed to nod in approval after sizing him up with more scrutiny. “You joining the Last?”
“Trying to sir.” Mestin responded.
“You'll be a good fit. We need fighters, not more drunken cowards.” Barnaby turned to Serif. “Now Commander, the Sixth still has the toll.”

Serif nodded to Barnaby, their voices faded as both continued walking away from the Last Tier booth.”
They left, leaving the tentative new recruit alone in front of Captain Dela who sat looking both bored and unimpressed. The latter more so as she evaluated Shorne.

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Shorne said, nervously to Captain Dela. An awkward silence filled the air as Captain Dela continued her blank stare. Shorne then turned away, awkwardly, “ah yeah that hat does look stupid.”
Mestin opened his eyes wide and slightly cocked his head.

“I like your hat, Mestin.” Madark lied. The contrasting colors and shape were unsettling to Madark for different reasons.

“Really? Thank you, brother. When we get paid I'll buy the wool and feathers for yours.”
“Please, don't. I don't need one.”

“Ah it’s fine! Don’t worry about it, yeah?” Mestin then turned, “Shorne? Right? I’m Mestin. This is-” Mestin realized he still didn’t know Madark’s name.
“What happened to your swords?” Madark asked, preventing an awkward silence.
“The fucking Guard!” Mestin raised his tone. “They said I didn’t have the right papers. I don’t even know how to write, but they said they are a forgery or something or another.”

“You don’t know how to write?” Shorne laughed.
“A forgery?”
“Yeah. I bought these in Vel and the AMS twat said they were good. I get here four days ago. I showed them my papers and they took my swords and my boots and held me there for a day. Then, they let me go and told me I would need to be sponsored by someone to get my swords back, saying nothing about my boots!”
Madark nodded and looked down at Mestin’s current boots.
“These? Yeah I stole them. Dead guy. The Sixth are some serious bastards. Fella was too slow and got whacked. They’re a bit small on me though.” Mestin said, wiggling his toes through the hole on his boot.

“I see.” Madark responded. “And Serif said he’d get them back to you?”
“Yeah, no. I don’t care about the boots, they were better-”
“No.” Madark interrupted. “The swords.”

“Ah! Yeah!” Mestin clenched his ring-covered left hand. “I can feel them still. They’re in there. Our Commander said if I get you to join he will sponsor me.”

Madark cringed at the word our.

“That the documents aren’t forgeries?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Which is it?” Shorne tried to enter the conversation but was ignored.
“May I see them?”
Mestin reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved several stained, creased, and damaged pages and handed them to Madark.
Madark had never seen travel documents before. The papers he looked at were stamped documents authorizing approval for travel from Vel to Shrine. Stamped by the Shrine Guard and AMS Mystarch, Mystarch Aberleen. ‘Aberleen?’ Madark didn’t recognize the Mystarch’s name nor the stamp.
“I showed them to the commander and he assured me they were fine, yeah? His Warlock even checked them!”
“Mm. How much did you pay for these?”
“Too much. All of it.”
“I see.” Madark said.
Madark suspected the documents were indeed forgeries. Clever use of smudges and penmanship would fool the average person. But still the name was unknown. To fool, one would be none the wiser, but to a Warlock? Warlocks are specifically tasked to verify documents and transactions. And they’re really good at it. It’s strange. It shouldn’t make this type of mistake.”
“Are you sure his Warlock looked at these?”

Before Mestin could respond, Serif returned.
“Gentlemen, I have secured our carriage.” Serif said proudly then turned to Shorne. “Who are you again?”
“Shorne, Commander.”
“Yes. The newest recruit. Marvellous. 

Shorne smiled, his face looking especially rodent-like. An untrustworthy face Madark thought.
“Shorne, I presume you’ve met Mestin Garr and Madark Madrigal?”
Madark raised his eyes in suspicion. How do you know my name?
“Madark!” Mestin exclaimed excitedly, learning the name of his new friend.
“Madrigal?” Dela leaned back, examining Madark.
Madark squirmed uncomfortably. He was anxious now. He had been saving his good nail for when he really needed it, and now, with everyone’s attention, it felt like the time.”

“The actual brother?” Bracken said in a hushed tone, “thought he was dead? You’re supposed to be dead?”

Mestin and Shorne shared confused glances.
Madark thought back to their first meeting. He didn't remember introducing himself. And certainly didn't say his family name. He clenched his fists anxiously.

“Anyways. Gentlemen, and lady, our carriage is approaching. Dela will ride in the front with me,” Serif paused and turned to Dela in a mock whisper, “because we may need your services soon. But, hopefully not.” Serif concluded ominously.
The two-horse carriage slowed to a halt in front of the group.

“You rented the same cart?” Dela said dejectedly.

“Well yes, it’s cheap. And we have have wounded, we needed a carriage.” Serif gestured towards Madark, “and the walk to The Hill? At night? That’s a risk even I’m not willing to take.”

“A cart won’t help us, I just mean we could still find a member from the AMS.”

“Unfortunately that's too expensive. I barely sold any sausages today and now I need to pay these fine new members their first pay. Plus, the new recruits over this week...” Serif said his words trailing off.

“We're in?” Mestin said excitedly looking at Madark and Shorne.

“Wait. What? I'm not going. I didn't sign anything. I'm not a part of your so-called 'tier'” Madark emphasized.

“But I got us a carriage?” Serif said as if pained and upset by Madark's reluctant tone.