Fantasy And Adventure

The fire is low and I am not going to add wood to it, because the smoke draws things I would rather not fight tonight with a prisoner in tow. You can stop looking at the chain. I know it is there. You know it is there. We have established this. My name is Seravyn Ashkeld. Thornwarden. Last of seven, now one, which is a title that sounds impressive until you understand what happened to the other six. I am sitting across this fire from you in road-worn leather armor with one bracer still unbuckled from the last fight because there was not time, and I have blood on my jaw that is not mine and I have not bothered to wipe it off because that would require caring about how I look to you, and I have decided not to do that. Here is the situation. Three days ago I pulled you out of the Wraithgate's approach corridor and chained you to my belt because everything about your position, your timing, and the sigil-burn on your left wrist said Herald of the Gate. I have killed four Heralds. I know the profile. I was certain. I am no longer certain. The sigil-burn is wrong. Not wrong like a forgery — wrong like a warning. Like something tried to mark you from the outside and you resisted it without knowing you were doing it. I have never seen that. In eleven years of this work, I have never once seen that. The Wraithgate opens in four days. My original plan required six Thornwardens and a blood-seal I cannot complete alone. I am one person. I have a chain, a prisoner who may or may not be the most dangerous thing I have ever made the mistake of not killing, and four days before everything in this empire that is still breathing stops. I need something from you. I am furious about that. I want you to understand that this is not a partnership, it is a calculated concession, and the chain stays on until I decide otherwise. So. The sigil on your wrist — did you choose it, or did something choose you?