Dragon Caught in Amber (Warhammer Fantasy)

by Blackout

Summary:

No elf would ever consider it, and for dwarves or halflings it would have been pointless.

As such, technically, nowhere in the laws of the Empire of Sigmar was it written that only humans could become members of the Colleges of Magic.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1 Prologue

It all began with rumours of a dragon. In the summer of 2502, peasants in northern Middenland reported sightings of a scaled beast born aloft on two great wings late at night or in the early hours of the morning. At first, they were easy to dismiss. Were one of the titanic beasts of the mountains on the move, hundreds of leagues from the Middle Mountains, surely there would have been more sightings than scattered, uncorroborated witnesses?

Most likely stablehands had had too much ale and time on their hands, perhaps mistaking from afar a great eagle or at most a wyvern for a dragon. A few enterprising huntsmen sought out the source of these tall tales, but all to no avail.

And yet they were persistent, sightings coming in steadily every few months, carrying into the spring of 2503. Other rumours began to accompany them, speaking of strange lights and odd incidents that, on their own, would have been meaningless background chatter. But to those who knew what to look for, what signs to listen for, they spoke a very meaningful story.

And in the Old World, there were always those who were listening.

-----

Gregor Martak, Magister-Shaman of the Amber College, awoke from a fevered dream of ruin and terror. Only years of practice kept him from falling off the base of the large branch he had fallen asleep on, propped against the trunk, and plummeting down a good thirty feet to the forest floor below.

Massaging his eyes, Gregor brought himself to full wakefulness, the last of the visions leaving him as he combed his fingers through his chest-length brown beard. The prophetic dreams came and went, often unwelcome but rarely wrong. Usually they foretold disaster, of tides of death and corruption sweeping over the land, bringing chaos and destruction in their wake. Averting such visions was his life's work; toppling a herdstone that a horde of Beastmen would use as a gathering point before setting out to ravage a nearby village, accompanying a state troop regiment fated to come under devastating ambush, burying a ritual site that a necromancer would use to conduct his foul sorceries to awaken the dead across the land under a rockslide, and more.

Recently however, his nights had been disturbed by a particular sight, one of himself battling an unseen opponent in a great forest, before being enveloped by a raging conflagration of flame, consumed by the inferno until not even bones remained.

The vision disturbed and intrigued him in equal measure. The flames that haunted his dreams were not the multi-hued hellfires of Chaos, nor the green-tinted flames belched by the arcane contraptions of the ratmen, but the enemies of mankind were numerous, and the possible culprits were endless.

Pressing such thoughts from his mind, Gregor shook his head. He could not allow the future to distract him from the present. Outside of chasing premonitions, he fulfilled his duties to his Order, and sought to strengthen the Empire so that it might withstand the cataclysms to come. It was for that reason that he was embarked on his current mission.

After quickly checking around for danger he shimmied down the tree, the mossy forest floor giving way a little beneath his hide-bound boots. He would have preferred a good cave, or a spot amongst the rootstock of one of the great spruces, but the Drakwald Forest was perilous, even for one such as him.

Putting two fingers into his mouth, Gregor gave out a shrill whistle, the sound laced with the power of Ghur, the Bestial Wind. A moment later a massive stag emerged from between the trees, giving the wizard a long look before bending its front legs, lowering itself enough for him to leap on top of its broad shoulders, tossing his pack on its back behind him.

"Let's go. We have places to be and duties to fulfill."

With a wet snort the beast tossed its neck, before accelerating to a low trot. Gregor closed his eyes, allowing himself to focus on the sounds and smells of the woods around them. Drakwald forest was infamous across the Old World for its dangers, including Beastmen, Greenskins, a multitude of deadly and ravenous beasts, and worse. In such an environment where visibility might be limited to a mere hundred feet or less by the press of the enormous tree trunks and the thick undergrowth, one's ears and nose often proved far more valuable than eyes. Every squirrel rustling up a tree and every bird singing its mating call was a reassurance, for Gregor had long since learned in his travels across the Empire's hinterlands that it was the silence that one should be afraid of.

Every breath brought with a mixture of smells, from rabbit droppings to deer musk to the territorial markings of a local wolf pack made in urine. All of them were useful information that he processed in the back of his mind with practiced ease, but his main focus was on the far more subtle and varied odours of the World-Dreams, more colloquially known as the Winds of Magic. Hidden from the senses of those not attuned to the Aethyr, they blew down from the far north, pooling and eddying across the lands. Ghur and Ghyran reigned strongest in these untamed lands, the Winds of Life and Beast intermingling among the woodlands. He could smell his own presence in the Winds, the twists and coils of Ghur as it gathered to him, but there was another source he sought out, the trail distant but growing stronger with every onward step, and every so often he gently steered his mount in the right direction.

After many hours the forest eventually began thinning, giving way to fewer and younger trees, with clear signs of logging operations and new growths. As the thin smoke trails became visible in the sky ahead, Gregor dismounted his steed in one deft movement, hefting his pack on his back once more.

"Thank you, my friend." The words were laced with bestial magic, and though the stag could not comprehend them, it could understand the meaning behind them. "I shall walk the rest of the way from here. Go now, and be at peace."

He reached into a pouch at his side, before offering the beast a handful of berries. It accepted them hungrily, before turning on its heels and trotting back towards the depths of the forest. A no small part of Gregor longed to follow it, for he did not relish what he was here to do, but it was his duty nonetheless.

Trekking forward, he soon came upon a narrow forest road, still muddy from the meltwater, sploshing beneath his oxhide boots. The village of Grehelshalft loomed overhead, a small settlement consisting of a score of buildings constructed from pinewood logs and drystone, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened tree trunks driven into the ground. A rudimentary gate guarded entry into the village, a pair of watchmen standing on each side, clad in leather uniforms in the colours of the local baron whose name Gregor couldn't have cared less to know.

At his approach they stiffened to alarm, clutching their spears tight and squinting suspiciously at the unexpected newcomer.

"Halt!" The older of the pair raised his hand, glaring at Gregor. "State your name and business, or begone!"

"Magister Gregor Martak, of the Amber College of Magic." He saw the sneers twist into being in the faces of the watchmen as soon as the words had left his mouth, but it was the reaction he had long since come to expect. "Here on Imperial business."

"Yeah? What kind?" the first watchman demanded with naked hostility, lowering his spear, while the other spat on the muddy ground at Gregor's feet.

"We don't want none o' youse wizards 'round here."

"It is not for you to gainsay the duties and remit of the Imperial Colleges," he thundered, drawing up to the watchmen and causing them to shirk back.

Gregor was not a small man at six and a half feet of height, and built like the bull moose whose antlers were mounted on his back like a totem. A cloak of great eagle-feathers hung from his shoulders, while the beast's skull was mounted atop his birchwood staff that he slammed into the ground with a smack that echoed across the area, despite the mud, the various lesser talismans and fetishes carved out of skull and bone mounted on it rattling with the impact.

"Now, are you going to let me do my Ulric-damned duties so we can all go our separate ways, or are we going to have a problem?" he growled.

The two glanced at each other, before begrudgingly stepping aside.

"Fine, but you'd better cause no trouble," the older watchman muttered. "And once you're done, leave and never return."

"I go where duty bids me," Gregor grunted, stepping into Grehelshalft. In truth the village was hardly worth the name, little more than a hamlet clustered around a single central pathway. Three main buildings dominated the view: the sawmill, the forge, and the coaching inn, with smaller cottages scattered here and there around them.

As Gregor entered, a ripple of disquiet ran through the quiet little logging settlement, as the occupants became aware of his presence. Men glared at him from across the street, windows were closed and women took children inside. Only the animals were at ease with his presence, dogs, cats and chickens giving him nary a glance as he passed by. Born in rural Middenland, he knew full well the superstition that surrounded wizards, even centuries after the formation of the Imperial Colleges. He had no doubt that nearly every soul in this settlement would gladly see him burned as a witch, were it not for the tenuous legal protection of his official sanction, and the fear of his abilities. But that fear could also be useful.

The scent of magic was strong in the air, indescribable by mortal tongues. He was nearing his prey.

The trail led him towards the coaching inn, a squat, large building with two floors and a thatching roof, likely doubling as the town center. There was a stable attached to it, where Gregor could smell half a dozen horses and donkeys. Before he entered Gregor muttered an incantation under his breath, drawing the spirits of the stalking lynx and the mimicking butterfly to shield himself from notice, gently turning away the attentions of any unwanted onlookers. He wanted to first get an idea of what he was looking at, before announcing his presence.

Within the coaching inn, the odour of raw Ghur was nearly overpowering. It was summer rain on the mountaintop and the cry of the eagle on the wind. It was the gentle flow of the river and the rush of adrenaline as two bull moose lock horns in combat. It was… Gregor grit his teeth, pushing through the sensation.

Most of the building's first floor was taken up by the main bar and dining room, with a number of tables laid out across it, occupied by huntsmen and loggers come for refreshment after a long day of hard work. A minstrel was sat on a table playing a tune on his lute, leading a chorus on a song, something about Averanders and their horses. At one corner of the room, a group of men and women were clustered around a table, chanting and cheering for a pair engaged in what seemed to be an armwrestling match. One was a young woman of eighteen or nineteen summers, with a head of short-cut rust brown hair and dressed in practical leather clothing. On the tall side, and going by her bare arms certainly quite athletic, but nothing compared to the ox of a man sitting opposite to her, his bulging biceps nonetheless unable to overcome her significantly smaller arm.

"What is matter, huh?" she spoke Reikspiel oddly, with a stilted manner that reminded him of a foreign diplomat he had once had the displeasure of meeting. "You were boasting so hard just a moment ago, and now you can't overcome little girl?"

"Just you wait!" the bigger man grunted with effort. "This ain't over yet!"

Her. She was the one he had been looking for. Ghur roiled off of her like smoke from a wildfire, permeating the air around her. As he'd suspected when he'd heard the rumours after catching the trail, a hedge wizard recently come to their powers. And a strong one at that, especially if she'd already figured out how to call upon the strength of the beast within all on her own.

Gregor walked up to the counter, where a burly-looking barkeep was cleaning wooden mugs.

"Her, the girl." He shrugged his shoulder towards the pair in the corner. "You know her?"

The barkeep startled, just now noticing Gregor standing in front of him.

"Yara? She's a stranger 'round these parts. Same as you," the man grunted neutrally, before leaning forward with a glint in his eye. "What's it worth to you?"

"Could be nothing, could be something," Gregor said in reply, setting a couple of silver shillings on the counter. The Amber Order preferred not to deal in money, but the Emperor paid each College a stipend, and it might as well be spent somewhere useful.

"She came here a week ago, said she was a wandering hunter," the barkeep said as he swept the coins into his hand, glancing towards the corner where the crowd was ooh-ing and aah-ing as the outcome match swung back and forth. "And yeah, I'd say she is. Paid for lodging and meals in venison. Been a fixture at the inn every night since. But she's… odd."

"Odd how?"

"Talks weird. And Ol' Hilda, she cleans the rooms upstairs every day, and she swears the bed's not been slept in," he explained gruffly. "Not to mention she's stronger than she has any right to be. She's been challenging the biggest men in the village and among travelers every night, and cleaning out the betting pool. See, there she goes again."

Following the barkeep's direction Gregor returned his attention to the corner, where the girl, Yara, had just slammed her opponent's hand to the table with a resounding thud. The crowd cheered uproariously, while a few began despondently handing over their money on the table.

"A good match!" Yara's opponent didn't seem to mind his loss, laughing uproariously and throwing an arm around her shoulder. "More drinks, on me!"

The girl looked a little tense, uncomfortable at the contact, but took her mug and gulped it down in one swing.

Gregor studied her carefully, running a hand through his beard. True to the barkeep's words she looked the part of a young Middenlander hunter, clad in practical leathers and furs, a handaxe tucked away at her belt, while a handful of small scars on her arms and cheeks spoke of a hard life typical to these lands.

It was the duty of every Magister of the Colleges of Magic to find unsanctioned users of magic, usually young men and women whose talents had manifested alongside adolescence, and deal with them. Either by inducting them into their ranks, teaching them to wield their powers safely and for the good of the Empire, or in a more permanent fashion. Luckily she appeared to be young enough to be apprenticed, and he could smell no corruption or taint of Dhar on her, so it seemed he had found her before she had crossed over the threshold to becoming a witch in her experimentation. Using her powers to make coin by winning armwrestling matches was certainly not something to be approved of, but it was far from the worst pursuit a hedge wizard could put their skills to.

Just as Gregor pondered how best to make his approach, all hell broke loose. One moment, everyone was having a good time. Drinks and wild boasts were being shared all around, laughter echoing through the barroom. Then, Yara's opponent flashed her a broad, toothy smile, and Gregor felt his spine go chill with premonition.

He saw it happen, the way she pulled back and her back arched, the way her eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth. The fist was already sailing through the air, slamming into the man's jaw and sending him flying out of his seat. He scrambled to his feet, nursing his jaw, and muttered something Gregor didn't overhear before taking a swing at her in return, knocking her into the table and upending it, sending mugs of frothing ale spraying over several other occupants. Within moments a full-on barfight had erupted, punches flying back and forth.

The barkeep put two fingers into his mouth and whistled into it, a pair of burly stablehands emerging from a back door to join him as he waded into the brawl, struggling to pull people apart. Moments later one of them was sent sprawling to the ground by an accidental backhand when they tried to get close to Yara and her opponent, who seemed intent on beating each other senseless.

He had to put a stop to this before things escalated beyond managing. Brandishing his staff, Gregor wove a subtle spell that called upon the prey-instinct to freeze in place, bringing it to surface in the minds of men. He slammed the staff to the floor, accompanied by a suitably impressive booming impact that echoed through the barroom, halting the ongoing brawl in its tracks.

"Halt!" he commanded, and true to his word the fighters froze where they were, some of them mid-swing, tumbling for balance. "This goes no further."

Some of the men muttered curses under their breath, and more than a few angry glares were thrown his way, but none of them seemed willing to risk the wizard's wrath.

"Yara, was it?" Gregor said, turning towards the hedge wizard. "I would have a word with you."

"Yeah?" She watched him with wary eyes, her stance defensive. It reminded Gregor of a cornered lynx, the way her amber-brown eyes gleamed as they darted between him, her opponent, and avenues of escape. It was not unusual for those strongly attuned to the Beast Wind to take on the mannerisms more akin to the animals whose spirits they called upon, but usually such marks manifested only far later along their road to mastering Ghur. "Who are you?"

"Gregor Martak, Imperial Wizard. I have business with you."

"What about?" she hissed.

"Not here." He shook his head. "Outside. Unless you'd like to discuss your little secret in front of everyone."

At his words Yara's eyes widened, and he could see the fight or flight reaction work its way behind her eyes, before settling on the latter. Before he could say anything she sprung for the back door with unnatural speed, leaping over the bar counter before disappearing towards the stables.

Gregor cursed under his breath, charging after her. He could feel a pulse of Ghur emanating from her direction just before he burst through the door to a scene of chaos, the horses and donkeys housed within the stable going wild, breaking free from their pens and stampeding around the courtyard. With his path blocked he was forced to pause, catching a glimpse of Yara sprinting for the outer palisade.

Not going for a horse herself, just using them as a distraction?

Fortunately, Gregor was a Magister of the Amber Order. The enchantment Yara had laid on the animals was powerful but crude, and he dispelled it with a shouted word of power and a twist of his staff. They soon settled down, meandering across the courtyard, but by the time Gregor was past them Yara had already scrambled up the palisade, leaping down to the other side and sprinting into the treeline. In a moment she would be out of view.

Gritting his teeth, Gregor began to mutter another incantation. He trusted his tracking abilities, for an Amber Wizard was nigh-unrivalled out in the wilds, but only a fool made more of a racket near Drakwald Forest than they had to, lest they attract the horrors of that benighted place. Finishing the spell, a pair of grey and black-feathered wings sprouted from his back, carrying him into the air with a mighty beat. He flew over the palisade and rapidly overtook Yara despite her lead.

Folding his wings to dive among the trees he landed in front of her with a heavy thump, already shedding the wings as he shifted his concentration to a new spell. A huge brown worm burst from the ground, wrapping itself around Yara and bringing her to the ground, holding the hedge wizard tight despite her struggles. Glancing in the direction of the village, he heard no signs of pursuit. Good, better to conduct this business outside the view of prying eyes.

"I told you, I only wanted to talk," he grunted. "Now if you'd just-"

Before he could get out another word, he could feel another pulse of Ghur emanating from her, and her form began to rapidly shift and expand. Before his astonished gaze scales grew over skin, fingers and hands turned into powerful talons, human features melted into a long reptilian snout and a pair of horns erupted from her brow while a spike tail and a pair of leathery wings emerged from her back.

The worm was torn apart as Yara's human visage was replaced with that of a mottled brown-and-white dragon that dropped into a four-legged stance, glowing amber eyes boring down on him.

Transformation of Kadon?

That was… not supposed to be possible.

Inducing panic in animals, calling upon the strength and speed of the great beasts, such feats were rare but entirely possible for a particularly talented self-studied hedge wizard. But this was one of the most complex and dangerous abilities an Amber Wizard could learn, and which only the Magister-Lords of the Order could perform without great risk. And yet she had done so with ease.

How could that be? Her spellwork at the stables had been crude and unrefined, wholly at odds with such mastery over Ghur. At least, it was not a very large dragon all things considered, scarcely bigger than a Griffon, but a dragon was still a dragon, and a stream of incandescent fire spilled forth from Yara's fanged maw. Gregor was forced to throw himself to the side to escape the flames, feeling the heat wash over him.

Shaking off his shock, he traced the arrow-sigil of Ghur in the air, casting a spell to force his opponent to return to their true form. For the Beast Wind was the mutability of the form, and reversion was a form of change all of its own. It was not a commonly known spell, only useful against other shapeshifters, but he had picked it up in his youth fighting the Vampire Counts of Sylvania, who possessed many foul transformative powers.

Yet, as he sent the spell forth, it merely washed over the dragon to no effect.

Now, he was certain that something beyond his understanding was at play. A skilled wizard could have certainly dispelled his enchantment, but he had sensed no such effort from Yara. It was as if the spell had simply… fizzled out.

A spiked, mace-like tail caught him in the stomach, taking advantage of his distraction. He landed in a heap, wheezing for breath and clutching his ribs. At least none of them felt like they were broken, but it was a scant consolation as Yara stalked towards him, tongues of flame licking out from between her dagger-like teeth.

A chill ran through Gregor's body as he recalled the vision that had plagued his dreams for many months. Was this how he was fated to die?

No. His visions were not set in stone, but mere premonitions of what could be. He had diverted their course before, and he would do so again. Stumbling to his feet, he took a deep breath and centered himself, gazing up at the reptilian, slit-like eyes of his opponent.

A terrible realization came upon him then. The reason nothing had added up. Yara's unusual power despite her lack of finesse or skill, her strange behaviour, the odd transformation and the way his spell had failed.

What he had witnessed was not Kadon's legendary incantation, but merely the reversal of a far simpler and easier spell.

The implications of that conclusion raced through Gregor's mind, nearly overwhelming to consider. Here was an opportunity no human in two and a half thousand years had ever had.

Just before the dragon reared back to loose her all-consuming flames, Gregor threw his staff on the ground between them and stepped back, slumping his shoulders and averting his gaze, all to make himself seem less of a threat.

"Here! I surrender," he announced, his heart thundering in his chest. This was quite possibly the stupidest thing he had ever done, but it was the best chance he saw.

For her part, 'Yara' froze in place mid-attack, visibly struck dumb by his sudden move.

"What?" Her voice was a deep, inhuman hiss that bent uneasily to Reikspiel, yet it managed to communicate her sheer, unadulterated bafflement at what she was witnessing.

"As I said," Gregor wheezed, trying to catch his breath "I just want to talk."

"I do not," she growled.

"If you wish to leave, I will not attempt to stop you. But I will not be the last to come for you, and that is why I wish to talk. Because the others will not, and I would prefer to avoid needless conflict."

"It certainly did not look that way when you set a worm on me."

"That was not the best of ideas, I admit," Gregor grunted in acknowledgement. "But I didn't realize what I was dealing with. That was the disguise earlier, wasn't it? This is the truth."

She was not a hedge wizard that had assumed the form of a dragon, but a dragon that had taken the guise of a human.

The dragon tilted her head at him in bafflement. "You only realized now? Then what-" She let out, before clamping her mouth shut, as if realizing she had revealed too much.

"You thought I knew, at the tavern.," Gregor said, starting to connect the dots. "You thought that was the secret I was speaking of."

She said nothing, her glowing amber eyes glaring unblinkingly back at him. But she did not need to. If there was something he could read in her posture, the raised spines along her back that made her seem larger than she was, the squaring of her shoulders, the agitated twists of her tail… she looked afraid.

"I was referring to your magic," he explained slowly, taking care not to make sudden movements. "It is the duty of the Imperial Magisters to investigate incidents of unsanctioned spellcasting."

The forest was silent for a moment, before she responded.

"...You could tell, so easily?"

It occurred to Gregor then that the size of the dragon before her was not a result of a lack of skill involved in the spell, nor was the age of her human guise a mere affectation. From the sheen of her scales, the size of the head and the length of the limbs in relation to the body… he realized that he was dealing with a very young dragon.

"You were hardly being subtle about it," Gregor pointed out. "And to those attuned to the Winds of Magic, there are ways of perceiving their flow. It roils off you like waves."

Once more there was no response, only the frustrated gnashing of dagger-like teeth.

He sighed. It seemed that he was the one who would have to carry this conversation, for all that he was ill-suited to it.

"So, correct me if I'm wrong. You came up with a spell to assume a human form," he said. "The rumours were right, there really was a dragon in these lands, and the reason nobody but a few peasants here and there saw it because you would transform back rather than simply flying across the land."

Once again she said nothing, glaring defiantly down at him. He sighed.

Damn it, he needed some smoke.

"I'm just curious," he said, pulling out his pipe and starting to stuff it. "Every dragon I've ever seen or heard of seems to prefer a life on their own terms."

"These are my terms," she suddenly interrupted him, with more force in her words than she had used previously, shifting her clawed feet. Clearly, she felt strongly about the topic. "I chose them."

"I'll grant you that," Gregor replied with a carefully neutral tone. At least she was engaging with him, that was good. It was the silence that you should be afraid of. "What I'd like to know is why. Why not sleep away the years on a hoard of gold in the mountains, emerging only to gather tribute or feed?" he said, lighting his pipe and taking a deep breath from it. "What makes a dragon, a creature of the eldest and greatest legends, come to a hovel of a tavern in the back end of Middenland, to amuse herself with a game of armwrestling?"

The moment stretched on, and Gregor began to wonder if he had miscalculated and was about to be incinerated, when she finally replied.

"...It is lonely," she muttered eventually. "Life spent in solitude, centuries upon centuries squatting in damp cave until some intrepid dragonslayer happens upon you, or hunger and greed drive you to take risk too far. That is no way to live."

"It seems to suffice for most of your kind," Gregor pointed out, blowing out a bit of smoke. "Certainly I've never heard of a dragon that prefers company over solitude."

"Humans are social creatures, or so I've observed," she retorted. "You assemble in packs to build great cities, teeming with life. Yet, some of you shun your own kind. Individuals, outcasts and hermits, that live outside expectation. Is it so hard to believe that dragons are same? That some of us defy our nature?"

Gregor winced. He could hardly deny her, when her words struck so close to home.

"It is maddening, with nothing but stolen gold and your own thoughts for company." She shook her massive head. "I want… to experience world. Learn. Explore. Live."

"I believe you. But then why return to your dragon form at all?" he asked. "You had to know it would arouse attention eventually."

She merely tilted her head. "That spell of yours, of wings and feathers. You have soared upon open skies. Tell me, having tasted them, could you forswear them? I may walk among you, I may wear your form, but I am dragon."

Gregor conceded the point with a nod. However, before he could open his mouth again, Yara pressed on.

"You have asked many question already," she hissed. "Now, I shall ask one of you."

"Fair. A question for a question." He nodded. "Name it."

"Why do you care?" she asked pointedly. "You say I am unusual for dragon, yet I've never known humans to ask questions first, when faced with danger. What could make man throw down his weapon while facing down dragon?"

"I am a Magister of the Amber Order. It is my duty to commune with and wield the magics of Ghur, the Bestial Wind," he explained. "True, many in the Empire would see you slain without a stray thought, your head paraded through the streets of Middenheim or Altdorf before being mounted above the fireplace of some Count or Baron. But a part of my duty is to understand the threats that the Empire faces. Dragons may have qualities which often bring them to conflict with the races of men, but your kind are not inherently corrupt or evil, like the servants of Chaos, nor unreasoning brutes like the greenskins. You have the capacity to choose."

"That is not answer," she hissed. "What if I chose differently?"

"It's like you said, you chose this. I doubt anybody could have forced you to that tavern against your will," he said, blowing out a circle of smoke. "I found it unlikely that a dragon who actively sought out human company would simply kill me without a second thought."

"Unlikely enough to risk your life?" she still insisted, eyeing him with wary, disbelieving eyes.

Gregor sighed. "...Because it would be a damned shame for the only dragon in recorded history to ever have been interested in peaceful coexistence with humans to be killed because of a Taal-damned misunderstanding."

"You think you could kill me?' she bristled, the spines along her neck and back rising threateningly.

"Maybe, maybe not. I certainly don't want to. But I will not be the last to find after you, and they will not be as interested in talking as I am. You are like a wellspring of Ghur to those with the talent to look for it, and even the most stone-souled of witch hunters could catch on to your spellcasting or your mannerisms."

"I was doing just fine-" she snapped, but he cut her short.

"Just so you know, when humans bare their teeth, it's not a threat or sign of aggression. It's called smiling, and it's a sign of happiness."

Her indignation at being interrupted was soon overtaken by confusion and disbelief, tilting her head to the side. "...That's ridiculous. There's no way that's right."

"I agree it's stupid, but I don't make the rules." He shrugged his shoulders.

"...Fine," she conceded. "But if these men of your Empire are so set on hunting down a target of no threat, they deserve what comes to them."

"...Perhaps," Gregor spoke in a placating, carefully neutral tone. "But they are necessary to defend the Empire against insidious threats within and without. To speak nothing of innocents caught in the crossfire. Were I a Witch Hunter attempting to dispose of you, would the inn still be standing?"

To that she had nothing to say, save the grinding of her teeth.

"Then what is point of this?" she eventually ground out. "Perhaps they will find me. Perhaps they will die. Perhaps I will. So be it. I will not return to mountains."

He sighed. They were at an impasse, at the crossroads of two mutually unpalatable options.

But then again… He had come here expecting to find a young wizard in need of proper training, a small step towards strengthening the Empire against what was to come.

"There is perhaps one way." he spoke slowly. "You could hide in a manner that already had an Amber Magister fooled, until I was all but smacked in the face with it."

…And yet, after everything, was that not exactly what he had found?

"I have… a proposal for you."

Notes:

This is a story that's been sitting in my idea bin for a while, and I finally felt the push to actually write it out. I love Warhammer and I love dragons, so I was happy to find a way to combine my two of my favorite things.

That being said, as a bit of a disclaimer, Warhammer lore and canon is ridiculously convoluted, full of retcons and contradictions, so I've had to do some rationalization between wildly different sources. This story also features certain headcanons that fill blanks left by canon, though it shouldn't be anything too major.

Also thanks to Vulthurmir for being my Beta Reader and sounding board, despite not knowing anything about Warhammer Fantasy.

Finally, this does not mean I've stopped writing Dragonspawn, I still intend to keep updating it, but I also want to write other things occasionally.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2 Introductions

The forest was quiet for a moment, truly quiet. Few things dared to make a sound in the presence of a dragon.

“That.. could not possibly work,” the dragon rumbled as she stalked back and forth, forked tongue flicking out from between dagger-like teeth. “You said it yourself, rest of your Empire would have my head if they knew what I was.”

“They need not know it,” Gregor pointed out simply.

“You would lie for my sake?” she stopped her pacing, tilting her head in either curiosity or shock.

Gregor sighed. “I love the Empire, but I'm not stupid enough to think it's flawless. Just two centuries ago, I would have been on the pyre right next to you. Many of my kind still are,” he muttered grimly, before breaking out into a wiry grin. “Don’t think of it as lying. We're just not telling them what they don’t need to know.”

“Even so… how long could it last?” She looked away, but Gregor caught a glint of something in her eye. Something that hadn’t been there before. “You found me out.”

“I mistook you for a hedge wizard until the last moment, and I am an Amber Wizard, an expert of shapeshifting and magical beasts. There are few more qualified to recognize such things in the Old World.”

“Hrm,” she grunted, a great intake of air passing through her nostrils. “Tell me more of your offer.”

“You'd be an Apprentice Wizard of the Amber Order, one of the eight Imperial Colleges of Magic. Imperial Wizards are protected by the Articles of Magic, laws that grant us permission to use our magic within reason and for the good of the Empire,” he said, taking a deep breath from his pipe. “Furthermore, you would receive education in the ways of men, and in wielding Ghur. Your… mannerisms would be easy to pass off as mere eccentricities, common to those of our kind. Wizards, that is. And suffice to say there’s no need to explain why a wizard is suffused with his attuned Wind.”

“And I would be expected… to use magic, for your Empire. To destroy its enemies?”

“To a degree, yes,” Gregor affirmed, not mincing his words. “All wizards must swear oaths of loyalty and service to the Emperor, but they are given great freedom in exactly how they pursue their duties.”

“Hm. Loyalty and service,” she muttered. “And obedience to you? I would be your apprentice, and you my… master.” Her forked tongue flicked through the air, as if tasting the word.

“To myself, yes. You have my word that I will treat you fairly, but you will need to follow my instructions and, as necessary, orders.” He could tell that his words did not sit well with the dragon, but there was no way around it. “You will have to trust me, or else this won't work.”

After that she was silent for a long time, long enough that Gregor had begun to worry, but eventually she went on, her voice somewhere between a rumble and a hiss.

“Hnn. This Empire, it is… like wolf pack? You must follow leader, but pack protects its members?"

“Sort of," Gregor replied, waving his hand through the air. "But more complicated than that. The Empire is like… a pack of packs. Or a pack of packs of packs. The Amber Order is a pack, it protects its own. The Colleges of Magic, they are a pack of packs, if you attack one the others will protect it, if only to make sure they aren’t next. And the Empire protects the Colleges, because they are too useful to discard.”

The dragon pondered on his words for a moment. “I notice you did not say Empire would protect individual wizards, only Colleges as whole.” Her keen eyes honed in on him. “I thought you said earlier that you had laws about this.”

Gregor winced. “In theory, yes. By law, Magisters are owed respect and fair treatment, but the Empire stretches for thousands upon thousands of miles from Altdorf and encompasses millions upon millions of people. Many of those people have their own ideas for how things should be done, and the Emperor’s will doesn’t reach everywhere.”

"Hmm. Empire so large, leader cannot lead properly. Weakness." She shook her massive head, larger than Gregor's whole body. “Yet it has stood for ten and ten and five centuries, or so I’ve heard your kind boast. This, I struggle to understand.”

“That is because the Empire is more than the Emperor. It is the Elector-Provinces and the Cults of the Gods and the Colleges. It is the Knightly Orders and the Engineers and the State Armies. Lawmen, Scholars and Merchants. Farmers, Hunters and Miners. All that and much more. Some things might slip through the cracks, but all of us have an interest in making sure the whole remains standing. And when things start to fall apart, we pull them back together."

"It aches my head. I think I understand little now, of why my kind despise such trivialities. For them, to take what they wish, that is enough.”

“And you?”

“I take what I wish. But what I wish is not what they wish,” she explained quietly. “Tell me more of this Emperor, who leads Empire yet is not Empire. Tell me of this man I would make oaths to.”

"Well, the reigning Emperor is His Imperial Majesty Karl Franz Holswing Schleinstein, Grand Prince of Reikland. He was crowned just last year, after a heated election."

"Reikland?" she said, tasting the word again. "That is… south? Others spoke of it."

"Reikland borders Middenland to the south, yes," Gregor said. “They've held the throne for five generations now, which has made other provinces grumble. Anyway, I've never met him myself, but they say he's… I don't know about good, but a man who recognizes talent. He doesn't care who you are, he cares what you can do for the Empire.”

“Admirable, if true. Yet I suspect even such virtues have limits.”

"I would not take the risk, no," Gregor admitted. "Like I said, the Empire ain't flawless. Sometimes we need to work around it, for it's own good."

"And those men who hunt your kind despite laws, they also think they are doing what they think is best for Empire, yes?"

”I suppose they do.” He grimaced. “In their own, twisted way.”

“Hrm. I am perhaps starting to see how it is that your laws fail to reach all corners of your Empire.”

She craned her great scaly neck, the spines along her back rippling with the movement as she glanced towards the direction of the village, before returning her attention to Gregor.

“I will think on your offer.” She watched him with glowing, slit-pupiled eyes. “You say you will not stop me if I leave. So be it. If I accept, I will return in three days. If not, I have three days lead if you betray me.”

"Fair." He nodded. "But you will find no treachery from me. If you wish to leave, I will not pursue you."

"We will see," she said, stretching her powerful limbs and stepping away from the wizard.

"One more thing," he called out. “Even if we never meet again, I would ask to know your name.”

She pondered the question for a moment, before shaking her head and turning away.

“‘Yara’ will do.”

Unfurling her great leathery wings, the dragon took flight, rapidly disappearing beyond the treetops.

-----

Drakwald Forest hummed with the evening wind, the shadows of the great trees lengthening with the last rays of the twilight disappearing behind the horizon. A solitary figure made her way through the undergrowth, weaving amidst the bushes and low-lying branches, stopping every few moments to check around herself.

It had taken many moons to master the art of moving on two legs rather than four, and more still to relearn the half-remembered lessons and instincts of childhood in staying hidden and unseen, when her scales were soft and her strength but a shadow of what it was now. At first it had seemed paradoxical and counterproductive to regress in such a way, abandoning her true self for a shell of thin skin and weak flesh. But in truth, though it galled her to admit it even in the privacy of her own mind, she was but a hatchling still, at least compared to others of her kind. A predator, yes, but not the apex, not yet, not in these lands, not in these times.

Survival was the greatest validation, and survive she had, for where a dragon, even a relatively small one, shouted its existence to the world by its mere presence, a human could move unseen and disregarded. There was no weakness in taking the form that best suited the moment, utilizing the strengths of each according to her need.

That was what she told herself as she strained the hearing of her mortal guise, sharper than any human yet far cry from that of a dragon, to listen for any sign of something off. An ambush party of witch hunters and wizards ready to jump her and cut her down.

Nothing.

Only the crackle of a small campfire in a small clearing between a pair of fallen logs, and a solitary feather-cloaked figure sitting next to it, feeding the flames with the occasional piece of dry branch.

He had waited, as he had promised. He had come alone, as he had promised.

‘Yara’ took a deep breath. Reason told her it was still most likely a trap, a pretense to lure her into a false sense of security. Despite his earlier words, he was taking an incredible risk in extending the offer, and for what?

But instinct… instinct told her to take the leap.

And instinct had yet to fail her.

Just when she was about to take a step forward, however, the figure by the fireside shifted atop his log, a rough male voice carrying out across the woods.

"You came," Gregor stated evenly, adding another branch to the fire.

Yara bristled at the ease with which he had spotted her, but stepped into the light.

"I did," she replied tersely, tongue bending uneasily to Reikspiel. "You… were right. I did not realize how loud my song had become. It was whisper when I first heard it, but now it is like roar. Can't hide forever."

He nodded in that all-knowing way that seemed to transcend species, gesturing towards the log opposite to him. “Well, I am glad you chose to trust me. Here, have a seat.”

Trust was perhaps too powerful a word.

With slow and deliberate movements, she sat down, setting the bag she’d slung over her shoulder on the ground beside her. It was perhaps little smaller than a man’s head, metal clinking within as it shifted.

"That all your possessions?" he asked surreptitiously.

"My hoard," she corrected him. “And yes.”

She glared at him over the campfire, daring him to comment, but instead he merely nodded.

"In that case, there’s no reason to delay. In fact it's probably best to vacate the area. I don't believe anyone saw your transformation, but best let the rumours die down."

"You want to travel in darkness?" She raised an eyebrow.

"No." He shook his head. "Not unless we have to. But we'll set out at first light tomorrow."

She bristled at the way he said it, so matter-of-factly, as though it was his decision alone to make.

…Which it was, now. She would have to get used to it.

"Now, this will not and cannot be a conventional apprenticeship. I’m not a conventional Magister, and you are most certainly not a conventional Apprentice,” Gregor explained, looking Yara over. “Trying to do things the old-fashioned way would just blow up in both of our faces. That said, there are a handful of things that need to be made clear. I won’t stop you from leaving, which I doubt I could anyway, which means you’re here out of your free will. And that means that as long you’re here, I need you to follow my lead. Ask questions, sure. In fact I encourage that. But if I tell you to duck, I need you to trust me to know that I have a good reason to tell you that. Magic is an incredibly powerful and incredibly dangerous force, and a lot can go wrong in just the blink of an eye. Are we level with each other here?”

“Yes,” Yara bit out. “I understand.”

A part of her raged against expressing any form of submission, but she had chosen this. Like he had said, she chose this. And she alone was the master of her own self.

“Good.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Now that that’s done, we need to get your story straight. As your master, I'm expected to get to know you, who you are and where you came from, that sort of stuff."

For a moment she wondered if he was going to press for her true name again, but the wizard carried on.

“Even if it's fake, our accounts have to match. First things first, how long have you been among humans?"

"Since little over year ago," she replied. "Not… all of that time, though."

Gregor nodded. "That would match the start of the rumours. Next question then. How old are you?"

Yara said nothing, crossing her arms as she glared at the wizard over the campfire.

He sighed. "Then an approximation of your age in human years, if you would."

"It doesn't work like that. You should know that."

"Then lie. But you will need an age for yourself, if someone asks. It will seem suspicious if you have to pause to come up with it."

"Fine," she muttered. "Twenty."

He just raised an eyebrow, the bastard. How was she supposed to understand softskin age brackets?

"You will also need a home village or town. Middenlanders are expected to be proud of where they came from, and you need to be ready to play the part.”

"Heilingsberg," she supplied without hesitation.

"Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it, which I suppose makes it a good choice.”

"Small village up north from here. Spent some time there. Wiped out by goat-men."

"An unfortunately common fate." He nodded. “One more question then, that you're going to need to have ready; Ulric or Sigmar?”

Yara stared at him blankly for a few moments, the only sound the crackle of the campfire and the rustle of the forest around them.

“I… don’t know what those are,” she admitted reluctantly, working her jaw with each word. “I’ve heard them mentioned, often, but everyone seemed to assume I already knew what they were talking about.”

Gregor barked out a hearty laugh that made Yara's hackles rise, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end. Was he mocking her?

"I suppose they would." He shook his head in amusement. "Ulric and Sigmar are the Empire's chief gods."

"Gods?"

"You don't know what gods are?" He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"No I don't know what those are," Yara hissed through clenched teeth, her voice becoming deeper and echoing, incongruent with her human frame. Small amounts of amber light flooded from her eyes, while her shoulders vibrated with barely-contained fury.

The wizard blinked, as though only now catching on to Yara's anger.

"Peace," he said slowly, calmingly. "I am not making fun of you. Just expressing my surprise, but in truth, I should have anticipated this. I suppose it’s not as though dragons have gods of their own."

He was silent for a moment, contemplating his next words.

"Gods are… higher beings, who exist above us the same way we exist above insects who crawl in the dirt," he explained slowly. "We revere and respect them, offering them worship."

"They are like… another layer of leadership above Emperor?" Yara asked, feeling the onset of another headache.

“Not quite. Though they are certainly above even the Emperor, they do not lead the Empire as such. They exist in their own realms, and while they may commune with the priests and act through their domains, they are primarily occupied with their own godly affairs."

"Then why do you care about them so much?" she asked with honest confusion.

"Though they do not walk among us, they grant us their blessings, and their priests work miracles in their name," Gregor replied. "They are by no means absent from our lives, but rarely are men important enough to receive their direct attention."

"So it is like… contract?" she asked, after a moment of searching for the right word. "You pray to them, and they do things for you?"

"No," he said, and Yara could tell that for the first time in the conversation, the wizard's words were beginning to grow annoyed. "Faith is far more than that. We offer prayer to the gods not because they will give us something in return, but because it is owed to them."

"Then I do not understand this faith of yours."

"Perhaps it is simply in the nature of men, as it is in that of dragons to follow none but themselves," he said grimly. "But I am not asking you to have faith, only to understand that we do. Godless folk are not looked upon well in these lands, and so you need to know enough to pass muster."

"Fine," she bit out.

"Now, Ulric is known to us as the God of War, Winter and Wolves," he explained. "He is held in highest regard here in the northern provinces, and he teaches us that we must be self-reliant and ferocious in battle."

Huh. That seemed like solid advice, even if Yara couldn't wrap her head around why they needed a 'god' to tell them this.

"Sigmar is the God of War, Hammers and the Empire, much-beloved in the southern provinces from whence he hailed. These are the two gods held in highest regard in the Empire, and their Cults are powerful political forces on their own right. Though Sigmarite faith is in ascendancy, they are also great rivals, for though worshippers of both respect the other, they disagree vehemently on which should be placed highest. It was Sigmar who founded the Empire, before ascending to the ranks of the gods, but in life he himself was a devotee of Ulric. It is a matter of great conflict that can and has escalated into violence and bloodshed in the past."

"And you?" Yara asked, tilting her head. "Where do you fall in this conflict?"

"Me, I'm a Middenlander through and through, and we hold Ulric closest to our hearts." Gregor shook his head. "But I pay heed to the Hammer-God as well, and often Taal as well."

"Taal?"

"The God of the Forest, Nature and Beasts, Ulric's elder brother and much-favoured among the Amber Order."

"I can see that," Yara noted wryly. "Any others I should be aware of?"

"Taal's wife Rhya is the Goddess of Fertility and Harvest, while his son Manann is the God of the Sea and Storms. Morr is the God of Death and Dreams, whereas Ranald is of Trickery and Thieves. Verena is the Goddess of Justice and Truth, Shallya of Mercy and Healing, and the southern Goddess Myrmidia holds the domains of War and Strategy."

"There are three gods of war?" she asked curiously.

"These are warlike times we live in," Gregor said with a grim smile, stroking his beard.

"I suppose." She shook her head. "Ulric sounds sensible to me, if I am to choose."

Gregor nodded. "There are other things as well, but you will pick them up along the way. Now, let us speak of magic. To teach you anything, I must first know what you already know of magic."

Yara was silent for a long moment, dwelling on her answer. It burned at her to admit to her ignorance, but rationally she knew that it was the only way to learn.

"It… comes from north," she eventually said. "It gathers around things that resonate with it. Objects. Places. People. And… it takes the aspect of those things,” she explained slowly. "Like you and I. Magic around us is… similar."

"Ah, not quite," Gregor said. "The rest of what you said is quite correct, but the winds do not change according to their surroundings. Rather, when the winds blow from the north, they naturally separate into different aspects that seek out places that resonate with them. You, for an example, draw the bestial wind of Ghur to yourself in great quantity. Now, you said you perceived the winds as sound?”

"Not sound. Song," she corrected him. "Melody. Music. Sometimes voices."

“Voices?”

“Whispers.”

“I see,” Gregor said, staring down at Yara with a grim and serious expression. ”If you are to be my apprentice, then let this be my first lesson to you. Whatever those voices tell you, whatever they claim, whatever they promise, do not listen. Do not trust them.”

The intensity behind his words took her aback, the amber light of his eyes contrasted against the dark forest behind him.

“...Alright,” she said slowly. “But what are they, then?”

“Spirits. Ghosts. Daemons,” he explained. “Malevolent beings of the otherworld. We who are sensitive to the flow of magic are also sensitive to such creatures, and they will often attempt to influence us.”

“I see,” she said. “Do you hear them too?”

“Hear? No.” He shook his head. “But I smell them. And I see them. Small whiffs of something… wrong, slight flickers of indistinct figures at the edge of my vision.”

He was silent for a long moment, before carrying on.

“The ability to perceive the flow of magic is commonly known as Witchsight, despite the… unfortunate connotations. Efforts have been made to rename it Spiritsight, or Second Sight, but such attempts have been met with.. poor success.” He cleared his throat. “In anycase, despite the name, it applies equally to sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch, though the first is the most common, and taught to all College Wizards. Still, many have an affinity for a particular sense, and some even hone all five in an attempt to deepen their understanding of the Aethyr.”

“Song that you and I share, savage and guttural, you called it Ghur. I assume you have names for others? Like song that plays in fire, angry and vibrant, or in trees, old and flowing like water?"

“Aqshy and Ghyran.” Gregor nodded. “The Winds of Fire and Life. Heat, Passion and Destruction, and Growth, Healing and Plantlife. Besides those three there are five others, for a total of eight. Azyr, the Wind of Heavens, of Foresight, Weather and the Stars. Chamon, the Wind of Metal, of Transmutation, Rigidity and Logic. Ulgu, the Wind of Shadows, of Illusion, Mystery and Confusion. Shyish, the Wind of Death, of Endings, Sorrow and Transition. And finally Hysh, the Wind of Light, of Purity, Revelation and Order. Just as the Amber Order is dedicated to the study and wielding of Ghur, the remaining seven Colleges of Magic are each devoted to one one of the other winds."

“Each of you only study one wind?”

“The mixing of multiple winds creates what is known as Dhar, raw and untamed magic, dangerous and perverse. No human could harness more than one without soon corrupting or destroying themselves.”

Yara raised an eyebrow.

“I am not human,” she pointed out simply.

“But you are trying to pass off as one,” Gregor retorted. “When Teclis, High Loremaster of the Elves of Ulthuan, established the Colleges two hundred years ago, he laid out a series of commandments that were enshrined into the Articles of Magic, limiting the scope of our research. Any Magister found to be experimenting with multiple Winds would be condemned as a Witch and put to sword and fire without delay.”

Yara nodded reluctantly, but made a mental note to figure out later what exactly an “elf” was.

"Any other restrictions I should be aware of?"

"Chiefly, aside from owing loyalty to the Empire, the Emperor, and the Colleges, it is strictly forbidden for Magisters to consort with the dark arts of Daemonology or Necromancy." He said, before carrying on without waiting for her question. "What I said about listening to the voices? That is what is known as Daemonology. As for Necromancy-"

"I know what Necromancy is," Yara replied tersely, cutting him off. "Raising of living dead."

She spat on the ground, determined not to let Gregor see the tremor in her hands.

"Good." He nodded seriously. "Now, one more thing for tonight. If I am to teach you, I must know where you stand in spellcasting. Have you received any prior teaching or instructions in magic?"

"No," she replied. "Everything I know, everything I can do, is from my own observations and experimentation."

"Thank you." He nodded. "Second question. What spells have you taught yourself already? I know you can transform, induce panic in animals, and strengthen or quicken yourself."

"That last one is not spell. It just happens."

"Interesting." Gregor stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A consequence of so much Ghur being channelled through your body? A matter of your true self being compressed into the human form? A side-effect of the spell itself?"

"I have no idea. Like I said, it just happens."

“Show me. Now that I know what to expect, I could attempt to better understand the spell.”

“...Alright”

Yara stood up and opened herself to the song, or the winds as Gregor had called them. She'd quickly learned to ignore it when she did not wish to call upon it, but the melody now flooded into her being, thrumming in her bones.

But it was not the tongue of the humans that they called Reikspiel, limited by the narrow spectrum which their ears could perceive and their vocal cords could emit. Instead, what she heard was the roar of great reptilian throats, the song of dragons. She took comfort in the familiar sensation, even if it was just the way she perceived the flow of magic, for it had been so very long since she had heard it sung in reality.

The song flowed around the clearing, some of it swirling around and through Gregor, but the greater portion of it was drawn into Yara. Once it had been but a soft murmur in the air to her, but now it was akin to a nigh-deafening roar.

It was the song of primeval dominance, clashing of claws and tearing of flesh. Of the struggle to survive, adapt, and overcome. Of a time before the coming of men, when dragons ruled the skies and everything that fell under the shadow of their wings.

It would have been easy to get lost in it for hours and hours, as she had many times when she had first discovered that she could hear the song, but instead Yara focused herself. A human throat could not emit the song of dragons, but rather she simply hummed, aligning herself to its tune.

As she carefully shifted the note, the song flowing through her changed with her. The fragile shell of skin and flesh and bone, the careful masterpiece of her experimentation, unspooled into the song, releasing the essence caged within.

With her eyes, Yara could see her hands run like wax as she doubled over, yet her view rose ever higher into the air. Senses sharpened, skin hardened, new appendages emerged and solidified.

She hadn’t been lying when she told Gregor she could never give this up. As useful as her human form was, she was certain she would go insane in short order if her true form was denied to her.

Stretching her powerful limbs, Yara looked down at the wizard.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she hissed.

“Fascinating. It’s a shame I won’t be able to properly document and share my findings without arousing suspicion.” He shook his head. “It is similar to Transformation of Kadon, but at the same time, vastly different. How did you create such a spell all by yourself?"

"I just did what felt natural."

"Hmm. Perhaps there are more differences than I thought, in how humans and dragons wield magic. Or is it a result of your individual affinity with Ghur, the wind that thrives on instinct? Impossible to say yet," he mused, running a hand through his beard. "In any case, I am more than satisfied. You can change back."

Yara snorted, twin trails of smoke emanating from her nostrils, but complied.

She added her voice to the song once more, but this time properly, with a roar that shook the forest around them and sent small animals fleeing for many miles around. It felt far easier and natural than the limited vocabulary capabilities of her mortal form, but then the task before her was immensely more complicated and difficult.

Grasping the song, she crafted a new body around herself, while at the same time forcing her essence into the limited container. The task took great concentration and the span of several minutes, but eventually she emerged in her human guise once more, stretching her arms and testing their rotation.

Gregor watched her with consternation as she sat down again.

"You're different from before."

"What?"

"You didn't change back quite the same. You're an inch taller, and your shoulders are a little slighter." He squinted at her. "Your cheekbones are a touch narrower as well."

She scoffed, looking down at herself. "Psh, details. Nobody's going to notice."

"I just did." He raised an eyebrow.

"It's fine," she insisted tersely. "I've been living amongst humans for over year and nobody's made big deal of it."

"And how long did you stay in one place during that time?"

"...Whatever. It’s all same anyway."

"Yara," he said with a clear note of amusement that did nothing to help her temper. "Do all humans look alike to you?"

"Well, yeah, kind of!" she snapped, crossing her arms defensively. "All squished faces and bits of fur at top of your heads. It's no wonder you all clothe yourselves in so many different ways, or else there'd be no way to tell you apart."

"I imagine most humans would struggle to tell apart dragons, too," Gregor replied, holding back laughter.

"It doesn't matter," she muttered, annoyed. "It's not like there's anyone around to be suspicious, out here."

Gregor didn't seem to agree, but let the matter rest.

"Best we go to sleep, then," he said, making a whistling noise and extending out his arm. "We have a long day ahead of us, tomorrow."

After a moment, an owl emerged from the forest, gliding near-silently to land on the wizard's outstretched arm. He spoke to it in a low murmur, and Yara could hear the fluctuations in his song.

"He will be watching over us for the night," he explained, drawing a piece of meat from a pouch and offering it to the bird, which gave off a low hoot and sprung into the air, flying up to a nearby branch.

Personally Yara did not feel too confident in trusting her safety to a bird of all things, but given the lack of alternatives she did not voice her misgivings. Instead she simply shrugged, pulled her fur cloak over herself and laid on the ground by the fire.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3 Trust

Gregor Martak grunted with exertion as he pulled himself up the hill, his skull-headed staff tapping against the rocks as he went.

Yara walked ahead of him a small distance away, the dragon in human form undaunted by the long day of trekking across the wilderness, possessed of seemingly unending stamina and speed that outmatched even his own, and he'd had to call upon the endurance of the ox to keep up with her pace.

She had not been lying, last night: it seemed that the unnatural physical capabilities of her human form were not caused by an augmentative spell, but simply happened as a result of her transformation.

After sleeping on it, he'd come to realize why he hadn't been able to make heads or tails of Yara's spell when he had witnessed it last night: It was not Transformation of Kadon in reverse, but more akin to Beastform, the spell Amber Wizards used to assume the shape of common animals.

The implications of that realization were uncomfortable to consider.

Ahead of him, Yara had paused by a clutch of moss-covered rocks, an annoyed scowl etched on her features. She had bound the small sack filled with coins she'd brought with her, her hoard in her own words, to her belt with a bit of rope, but now it clinked and jingled with every step forward. From the way she carried herself, Gregor could tell she was used to being able to move silently, and the noise bothered her.

"You didn't carry it with you, before?" he asked.

"No." She scowled. "I kept it buried under tree, and dug it up as needed. But if we're going away I can't leave it behind."

Gregor reached down to pick up a fistful of moss from the ground, and offered it to Yara. "Put some of this in there. It will muffle the coins and keep them from making sound."

She didn't seem happy at the prospect of stuffing dirt-clumped moss amidst her hoard, but it seemed that her irritation with the noise won out, and she followed his advice.

"You know, I'm curious," Gregor ventured, meeting Yara's gaze. "I thought you weren't interested in hoarding wealth? Like the others?"

The presence that watched him from behind those eyes seemed bemused, lips curling into a slight smile. "In my time amongst your kind, I've noticed that some of you obsess over food, stuffing it in their mouths until their bodies bloat. You, you are not like those people. But you still eat food, no?"

"Fair enough," he conceded to the comparison.

"Question for question," Yara said as she trekked forward. "Before, you called me Hedge Wizard. What does that mean?"

"A Hedge Wizard refers to a magic user that has not joined one of the eight Orders, but has yet to delve into the forbidden arts. One of our main duties is to find and recruit such people, so that they may be taught to safely wield their powers before they can cause harm to themselves and others," Gregor explained. "A Witch, on the other hand, has begun to harness the raw and untamed power of Dhar. Some of them can still be saved if we get to them before the Witch Hunters, if they have yet to damn their immortal souls, if they have the strength of character to step back from the cliff’s edge and accept tutelage."

"And those who don't?"

"They we call Warlocks. Those who can no longer claim the defence of innocence or ignorance, too deluded or too corrupt to see reason. Once they are past the point of no return, there is only one sentence."

"Death," she noted grimly.

"Yes." Gregor nodded. "A quick death is an act of mercy, more than what the Witch Hunters would give them. A black magician can cause horrendous peril if left unchecked, spreading corruption, controlling the minds of men, raising the dead, or opening rifts into the Realms of Chaos through which Daemons might pour through to invade our lands."

Yara shuddered.

"Although, such terminology is only accepted by the Colleges," he carried on. "To the society at large, a Wizard is a sanctioned magic user, and everyone else are Witches bound for the pyre, with perhaps a short stop at the Witch Hunter's rack beforehand. And to many of them, even that distinction is shaky."

“You fight to protect them, and yet they scorn you for your sacrifices,” Yara noted. “Does it not bother you, the ungratefulness?”

“I cannot blame the masses for their superstition.” Gregor shook his head. “I remember what it was like, to live the life of an ignorant peasant boy before I was inducted into the secrets of the Amber Order. It is easy to fear that which you cannot understand.”

They fell into silence once more, only the sound of their footsteps interrupting the sounds of the forest around them. Time passed.

As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, Yara came to a sudden halt ahead of him, forcing him to stop lest he walk into her back.

“Smoke ahead," she said, her keen eyes scanning the horizon in the east. "Lots of it."

Gregor squinted in the direction she was looking, and true enough, he could make out tiny wisps of smoke far in the distance.

“There is a village that way,” he said, scouring his memory. "Vogelsrath."

“Those plumes aren’t coming from any fireplace,” Yara replied, her brow furrowing. "Not unless it was a whole city out there."

Gregor raised an eyebrow at her, but she matched his questioning eyes with confidence.

"I am a dragon. Trust me, I know fire."

"I believe you," Gregor said grimly, returning his gaze to the horizon. "But in this case, let us hope that you are wrong."

-----

She was not wrong.

Emerging from the treeline, they came upon a small logging settlement not unlike Grehelshalft, a quiet little village in the edges of Drakwald.

Or, that is, it had been. Now, it was little more than ruins. The palisade had been torn down in several places, the gates thrown off their hinges and the watchmen butchered, their desecrated corpses strewn all over the ground.

Wordlessly, the two of them made their way into the village, though they both fully knew what they would find within. Many of the buildings had been toppled, walls cast down and the remains torched by fire.

More corpses littered the streets, yet these were not watchmen, but common villagers. Men, women and children, cut down where they had stood. They had been torn open by huge blades and squashed by some enormous force, and many were missing limbs, showing signs of being gnawed upon.

Worst of all, Gregor could see multiple small grooves side by side in the dirt, alongside pieces of fingernails. At least some of them had been alive enough to struggle when they were dragged away.

The ground was trampled with deep hoofprints that could have come from a massive bull. But the weight distribution was all wrong, as was the pattern of the tracks in the mud. It was not the gait of a mere animal, but something walking on two legs.

"Minotaurs." Gregor grimaced. "A small herd of them from the look of things."

"They're, uh… cow-men?" Yara ventured, searching for the right word.

"Yes. They are mutants, like bulls that walk on two legs, with the size and strength to match. Possessed of a terrible hunger for flesh."

"There was one at Heilingsberg, leading goats. It was eating one of the last survivors from the legs upwards when I found them," Yara said, looking disturbed. “It did not die easily.”

“Typical of the servants of Chaos,” Gregor agreed, looking around. "They are no more than a day ahead of us, probably less than that if they've stopped to feed. Minotaurs are nothing if not impatient with their food."

"So, what are we going to do?"

He had not failed to notice how it rankled the dragon to follow his lead, but at least so far she had not made an issue of it.

"We are Amber Wizards, protectors of these lands. It is our duty to act," Gregor said. "We will trail the warherd, and assess their threat. Are you prepared for a fight?"

“I’ve been ready to fight since I came out of an egg,” she replied with a wiry smile that showed no teeth.

“Better not to speak of such things so openly, out here,” Gregor replied swiftly, glancing around the ruined settlement. “You never know who is listening.”

“I… you’re right,” Yara admitted, looking abashed. “I guess… I’ve never had anyone I could talk openly to about such things.”

Once again, he was struck by how young she seemed.

She had adamantly refused to reveal her true age, but that in and of itself told a story. Even if she was easily the most agreeable dragon he had ever met or heard of, she still carried with her the pridefulness that her kind was known for. She hated to admit to weakness or ignorance of any kind, and he suspected the truth was that she was embarrassed by her own youth, afraid of not being taken seriously.

He wondered what it was like, to know that you had millennia after millennia ahead of you, yet still stand only upon the first steps of that journey.

There was truth to her words that one could not simply draw parallels in the developmental stages of two different species, especially when one’s lifespan was snuffed out after a mere century, while the other was immortal unless brought low by disease or sword. But even so, he could not help but wonder how old she would be in human years.

-----

His prediction on how far the Minotaurs had gotten proved correct. As the sun began to slip behind the hills to the west, the two of them found themselves looking at a makeshift camp, although it could hardly be called as such.

A huge, ragged tent of animal hides had been erected in the middle of the stony clearing, but aside from that the hulking forms of the Minotaurs lay scattered all around, either dozing off or tearing into the remnants of what were clearly severed human limbs.

A full dozen of them, twice the height of a full-grown man and four times as broad, even sitting down they made intimidating figures. Perched atop enormously thick necks were vaguely bovine heads, but there was nothing but malice behind their beady black eyes, and their lips were stained with blood, glistening sharp teeth made for tearing into flesh. They were garbed in the occasional cloth and piece of armour hammered to suit their enormous bulk, and by their side sat massive axes, clubs and cleavers that three hearty men would have struggled to lift, all of them freshly daubed with blood.

Around them milled a handful of lesser Beastmen, Gors and Ungors, carrying bits of meat and mugs of some foul-smelling dark liquid that passed for liquor among their kind, while a few stood sentry with bows at the ready. Perhaps thirty of them, all told.

"Too many to fight.” Gregor grimaced.

"We could take them," Yara scoffed. "Didn't you just say we had a duty to do something?"

"A duty, aye. But if we die here, there'll be nobody to bring word of this to the Graf. A dozen Minotaurs are a foe I would not wish to take my chances against, even with you at my side." He shook his head. "Without a Beastlord or Champion of Chaos to spur them on, they will slink back to their caverns to slumber and rest, now that they have satisfied their bloodgreed. I will lay a curse of tracking-spoor on them, marking them with an odour only I can smell. We will return with a hunting party of Middenland troops, and take them unawares."

"And I suppose I am to wait here while you do so?" Yara asked.

"You will be on the lookout. I will need to get close to cast the spell, and if they spot me I'm as good as dead. I'll be counting on you if something goes wrong."

-----

Weaving the spells of concealment and camouflage over himself, Gregor approached the Beastman camp under the cover of the encroaching darkness. The mutants had erected roaring pyres, tended to by Ungor attendants that fed them with dry branches and roasted meat over the flames. Others worked to gather bones that had been left behind by the Minotaurs' feasting, skulls especially, and mounted them atop bundles of wood to fashion crude totems that dotted the camp.

Gregor paused in the shadow of one such totem, letting a pair of Gors walk by, prattling in their dark speech. He understood bits of it, having fought their kind for decades in these woodlands, enough to get a rough idea of what they were talking about.

Gorebull Slaughterhorn was their leader, a mighty Minotaur Champion who had emerged from his slumber with a ravenous hunger for manflesh, and gathered a warherd around himself. But, as Gregor had suspected, with their appetite satisfied it seemed the Minotaurs had little drive to keep going, and soon it would be time to slink back to the deep forest.

He stayed low, waiting for the Gors to pass by. They were, as Yara had put it, goatmen, with elongated caprine faces and a set of curved horns. Their muscular bodies were covered in fur and their feet ended in hooves, but their hands were all too human, capable of gripping weapons and drawing bows.

Ungors were their smaller, less mutated cousins, with small stubs for horns and faces that could pass for a particularly ugly human. As the size and number of one's horns was a matter of great importance and status in Beastman society, they were relegated to the lowest rung of their violent hierarchy, given the most dull and menial of tasks.

Of course, in a warherd dominated by Minotaurs, even Gors might be reduced to mere camp attendants.

The stone of the clearing was splattered with blood both fresh and old, indicating that it had been used as a gathering place by the Beastmen for some time. In time, a Herdstone might be erected here, a profane altar to the Dark Gods from which they would launch their incursions against the realms of men, one more step towards bringing these lands under the dominion of the Beastmen.

He would not allow that to happen. One way or another, this place would be cleansed.

Gregor was in the midst of the Beastmen now, crouching in the slowly-lengthening shadow of the main tent. Now came the tricky part, casting the tracking curse without revealing himself. It needed to cover all of the enemy, lest some of them escape retribution.

He began intoning the words of power that had been passed down from Master to Apprentice since Teclis had taught them to the founders of the Amber Order two centuries past. He shaped the spell with care, for it needed to be both subtle and powerful enough to avoid notice while lasting long enough for him to return, which might take weeks or months.

A powerful, musk-like scent began to waft across the camp as his magic did its work, though he knew none but himself would be able to smell it. Gregor nodded to himself, his work done. All that needed to be done was leave without alerting the Beastmen that they had been found.

Before he could slip away however, there was a commotion and sounds of movement coming from within the tent. Emerging from the entrance-flap was a truly enormous Minotaur, a head taller than the others by Gregor’s estimation, bearing not one but two sets of curved bovine horns and clad in scavenged metal armour gathered from the remnants of many different suits. It did not take a genius to guess that this was Slaughterhorn.

However, it was the relatively diminutive figure following the Gorebull that drew Gregor's attention, a Gor with a set of curved horns at the sides of his head and a second pair of straight ones at the top. It was clad in an elaborate animal-hide cowl made to fit around its extensive horns, and on its hand it carried a gnarled staff adorned with human bones inscribed with fell runes.

A Bray-Shaman.

Gregor cursed under his breath. The presence of one of the Beastmen spellcasters had always been a possibility, even if he had thought the odds low that a warherd as small as this would have one among their number. Even so, all was not lost. Though he was not foolish enough to discount the power and skill of the Bray-Shamans, the wild and chaotic magics they practiced were not well-suited to subtlety or fine control. He was confident it could not spot him or his spells.

Slaughterhorn bellowed something that was altogether too loud and distorted for him to understand the words, but from the tone and the cheers of the other Beastmen was a call for celebration, or possibly more liquor. The Bray-Shaman, however, paused, beady red eyes sweeping back and forth across the camp.

Gregor felt the beads of sweat running down his back. Something had caught the creature's attention, even though there should have been no way the Shaman could spot him.

…Unless, of course, there was a fount of magical energy nearby, that was akin to a bonfire to anyone with even a modicum of supernatural senses.

Something like, say, a dragon attuned with the wind of Ghur.

Just as the realization swept over him, the Bray-Shaman’s eyes were fixed on the treeline, where he had left Yara. It barked out something harsh and guttural in the Dark Speech to Slaughterhorn, and after a quick exchange bellowing orders and alerts rang out across the clearing. In a matter of moments camp quickly began coming alive, as Beastmen picked themselves up and hefted weapons.

This was bad. Very bad. He was trapped in the midst of the enemy, and it was only a matter of time before he was spotted. For all his skill he was no Shadowmancer of the Grey Order, and while his spells could hide him from passive scrutiny they would not hold up against an entire camp of alert enemies who knew enemies were afoot.

Knowing that, he resolved to make use of the element of surprise while he still had it. Emerging from the shadows of the tent, he dismissed his spells of concealment and called upon the primeval, predatory might of Ghur.

“ULRIC!”

The magic leapt to his command and he plucked out a spear of pure, glowing amber out of thin air, hurling it towards the Bray-Shaman. It punched through the beastman's back, impaling it through the gut before embedding itself into the ground.

All at once, the beastmen whirled upon him, their attention directed inward. Now was the perfect moment for Yara to strike.

In that moment, Gregor wondered if she would come, if he had made a terrible mistake in placing his life in the hands of an inhuman being he had known for only a couple of days. There was nothing the Beastmen could do to catch her were she inclined to flee, and not a soul would know that she had left him to die. What was his life, measured against risking the eternity she had ahead of her?

A thundering roar cut through his doubts, followed by splintering wood and an enormous crash as a brown-white dragon emerged from the treeline. Her long, sinuous body flexed with muscle as she caught the nearest Minotaur unaware, gaping jaws snapping shut around its throat and lifting the towering mutant into the air. With a twist of her neck like a hunting dog tearing into a chew toy, she wrenched its head free of its shoulders in a spray of black blood and gore.

For a moment the beastmen were left confused and directionless, faced with sudden assault from both within and without. Gregor took advantage of their distraction as best he could, canting words of power and channelling the winds into himself.

With a bellow, Slaughterhorn cut through the disorder and gestured towards Yara, hefting its axe and leading the Minotaurs into a headlong charge. The first of the bulls was gored on her antler-like horns, a sharp upward jerk disembowelling the mutant and sending it flying.

Then Slaughterhorn was upon her, swinging its gigantic axe, so large that even the Gorebull needed two hands to carry it. The shaft had been fashioned from an uprooted tree, and the broad axe head seemed big enough that a whole squadron of knights could have been equipped from the steel used in its forging. Driven by the Minotaur's bulging arms, it slammed into the side of her head, splitting dragonscale.

Yet, even a blow of such terrifying strength could not pierce all the way through, and it glanced off of Yara's thick skull. But the sheer force of it snapped her head to the side, while a stream of bubbling, steaming blood ran down the side of her reptilian face.

She stumbled back with a pained roar and the other Minotaurs seized upon the opportunity, piling onto her. It was akin to an avalanche of muscle and stabbing horns, the sheer mass and weight of their charge nearly bowling the dragon over. They rained blows on her with axe, mace and club, and though only a few pierced her scales and none did any serious damage, they kept Yara on the back foot. Like a group of huntsmen going after a bear they hounded her, hacking at her and wearing her down.

That was all the attention he could direct her way, however, as the Gors and Ungors recovered from their shock, and he had to focus on his own survival. They stalked towards him bearing axes, maces and spears, wary of him after he had killed the Bray-Shaman so suddenly, but with malice in their beady red eyes.

Releasing the spell he had been channelling, he let the current of Ghur explode outward from his staff, coalescing into the form of a flock of ethereal, iron-beaked crows. They swarmed over the beastmen, pecking at eyes and clawing at exposed skin with a murderous frenzy. Those whose flesh was not stripped from their bones were left easy prey as he stalked forward, cracking skulls with each swing of his staff, the Great Eagle skull at its head glowing with amber light from its empty eye sockets.

The sweet smell of rotting flesh, too strong and too vivid to be a real scent, was his only warning as a bolt of corrupted magic whizzed by where his head had been only a moment before. He was forced to dismiss the crows to summon a shield of glowing amber to block the next bolt, as he whirled about to face his opponent.

The Bray-Shaman held its guts in with one clawed hand while the other clutched its gnarled staff, its eyes burning with hellfire. The wound Gregor had dealt it would surely kill it before long, but until then it seemed it had every intention of dragging him with it to meet its dark masters.

Words of dark power spilled out from its bestial lips, forcing out each syllable like it was a physical tangible thing. Tendrils of untamed, chaotic energy lashed out at Gregor, and where they passed stone corroded into dust in a matter of seconds, while plants withered away into nothingness.

His staff glowing with power, Gregor knocked the first tendril away, but the others coiled around him, seeking to overwhelm his guard. In response he drew the spirits of the springing hare and cunning fox to himself, leaping out of the trap the Bray-Shaman sought to envelop him in. Again and again the tendrils came for him, but he stayed always a step ahead, dancing away from them with agility that belied his frame.

It became clear that the Beastman could not overwhelm him, but neither did it give him room to fight back. Of course, he only needed to hold on until the Bray-Shaman succumbed to its wounds, but conversely it only needed to keep him occupied until the Minotaurs brought down Yara, at which point he would soon follow.

Turning back towards the melee, Gregor instinctively ducked his head as he was treated to the sight of a Minotaur sailing over his head. It was not often that one got to see a twelve-foot tall bull-headed mutant of rippling muscle and primal fury get sent flying like a stray cat being punted by a burgher on the streets of Altdorf.

Ignoring the tremendous crash behind him, Gregor caught sight of Yara just as Slaughterhorn buried its axe into her chest, drawing forth another roar of pain, this one higher in pitch than before. Finding that it could not dislodge its weapon, the Gorebull instead used it as leverage to smash the dragon through a tree, branches and splinters flying everywhere.

Pinned down, it would only be a matter of time before they hacked her to pieces, dragon or not. That, he could not allow.

The magics wielded by the Bray-Shamans were a corrupt mirror of the Lore of Beasts utilized by the Amber Order, in a manner not dissimilar to how Necromancy was a perversion of the arts of the Amethyst Order. Where Ghur was the primal freedom of nature at its purest, operating on instinct devoid of malice, the wild magic of the Beastmen represented unreasoning hatred, entropy and devolution. What did the wolf or the eagle care about the existence of civilization? But the Beastmen did, and they knew hatred.

It was an unsubtle art, fit for little else save destruction, despoiling and desecration. All of which suited its users just fine. Ceding the initiative to the creature had been a mistake. He needed to play to his own strengths.

So what was the strength of the beast, then? The pack.

Drawing forth another glowing spear he hurled it at Slaughterhorn, lodging it deep into the creature's stupendously muscular shoulder. It stumbled, hurt but not seriously wounded.

But the distraction was all that Yara needed.

Her tail coiled about her before lashing out in a whip-like motion, the spiked tip sweeping Slaughterhorn's feet from under it. The Gorebull struggled to stand, but the blow had broken its hooved leg, the ankle twisted at an unnatural angle with shards of bone sticking out.

Unceremoniously, Yara lifted one clawed limb and stomped on the Gorebull's head with all of her weight and strength, flattening its horned skull in a spray of brain matter like squashing an overripe fruit.

Giving her the opportunity had cost him, however. One of the entropic tendrils caught him, lashing across his back and burning through his robes before striking flesh. He fell in a heap, unable to hold back the yelp of pain as tears stung in his eyes. The Bray-Shaman loomed over him, triumphant madness in its eyes.

However, he felt a great heat rise from behind him, followed by a stream of flame flying over him to engulf the Bray-Shaman, reducing him to ash in a matter of seconds. Yara swept her head back and forth, enveloping remaining Beastmen and Minotaurs with her flames. Most died quickly, but a few survived long enough to claw at their faces as fur caught fire and flesh melted from bone, or futilely stumble away from the dragon's blazing wrath.

It was not a good way to die. It was also no worse than they deserved, for what they had wrought upon the people of Vogelsrath.

Then it was over, the last flickers of fire fading from Yara's fanged maw, leaving only the burning remnants of the camp and dead Beastmen. Gregor struggled to his feet, his vision swimming only a little before stabilizing. Pain lanced across his back, but it was nothing he hadn't endured before.

"There we go. Told you we could take them." He could hear the tired smile in Yara's voice. "Just needed a bit of breathing room."

Gregor was too tired to argue, simply watching her. To be blunt, the dragon looked like shit. The Minotaurs had broken her scales in many places, while Slaughterhorn's axe was still embedded in her chest, blood dripping down to the stone.

"Could have gone better, true," she admitted, shifting around with a pained growl. "Big bastard was fast."

"Don't move," He grunted. "If you transform now, you will die."

“I noticed, yes. Hard to miss axe in my chest.”

“We need to get it out,” Gregor wheezed, expecting another sardonic comment, but the young dragon held her tongue. “Without you bleeding out.”

Gregor could not pretend to know exactly how much blood dragons could lose without dying, but he could guess that the pool of steaming-hot lifeblood around her foot was quite a good way there.

“How?”

"Well… typically healing is the purview of the Jade and Light Orders. But when it comes to the care of the great beasts, none can match the Ambers." He stepped forward, summoning the winds to him. "Hold still. When you start to feel the tingle, you need to pull the axe out. Too early, and you risk losing too much blood. Too late, and the flesh will heal around it and we'll never get it out."

“Hm,” the dragon snorted, but said nothing more.

An amber light began to glow around Yara's wounds, slowly pulling them closed. With a grunt of effort she pulled on the axehandle, straining even her draconic strength. Just as Gregor began to suspect it was caught in her ribs it came free with a wet squelch, followed by a cascade of bubbling blood. Yara stumbled on her feet, the axe splashing into the pool on the ground, as Gregor pushed the healing magic into her. Flesh knit together, staunching the flow of blood as her scales covered the wound.

Letting the spell dissipate, Gregor fell on one knee, utterly exhausted. Yara shifted her great bulk past the pool of blood and sat down, a great exhalation of air sending scraps of fur and metal, detritus of the battle, rolling. She curled her tail around herself, probably as tired as he felt.

For his part Gregor could stay upright no longer, fatigue and the aching pain of his back proving too much. His vision swam and he lurched down to lay where he fell, his head resting against Yara's scaled flank.

Her stomach rumbled.

"I hate goat-men," the dragon rumbled. "Don't even have decency to be edible."

Gregor couldn't hold back the bark of genuine laughter that escaped his chest.

-----

In his many years as an Amber Wizard, Gregor had long since mastered the art of dozing while remaining alert for danger. He wasn't sure for exactly how long they laid there, surrounded by the carnage they had inflicted. Eventually dawn came, and with it, at least some of his exhaustion finally left him.

He struggled to his feet and pulled a long drink from his waterskin, letting it sweep away the taste of ash and blood from his mouth.

Suddenly, without warning Yara shifted behind him, her ears flicking up and her nostrils taking in a sharp sniff of fresh air.

"Somebody is coming," she muttered. "Humans. From the direction we came from. Distant, but rapidly closing."

He considered their options. Somebody had followed the same trail as they had, from Vogelsrath. Bandits wouldn’t have bothered, and human cultists rarely found common cause with the Beastmen.

In any case, they had left plenty of their own tracks behind, and they were in no shape to flee pursuit.

"We'll need to get ready, then," he replied, giving her a significant look.

The dragon closed her eyes, humming a tune that passed for her strange manner of spellcasting. Was it something instinctual to dragons, or simply something she had come up herself in her experimentation?

So many questions, so little time.

With a great wrenching convulsion she began to shrink in on herself, the visage of the young dragon soon replaced with that of an adolescent human. With that, the two of them settled in to wait.

They did not have to do so for long.

One by one they appeared from the treeline, leather-clad huntsmen carrying bows and rifles, each sporting a red feather in their caps. A trio of figures led them: one was obviously a Witch Hunter, dressed in practical coat and short-brimmed hat, bearing chains and scrolls emblazoned with the hammer-signs of Sigmar, a pistol in one hand and a rapier in the other. The second was a positively ancient dwarf, his enormous white beard so long it would have touched the ground were it not bound with heavy steel loops. In his hands he bore an elaborately-crafted handgun, and on his back what appeared to be a hammer of some sort, mysterious mechanisms and pipes running along the shaft.

But Gregor's eyes were drawn to the one that was obviously their leader, a black-bearded man dressed in a fur hat adorned with a trio of enormous red gryphon feathers, in his hands a huge bow that thrummed with the power of Ghur. Gregor had never met the man before but he knew him by reputation, him and his bow.

“Huntsmarshall Markus Wulfhart.” He bowed his head deferentially. “What brings the Emperor’s Captain of Scouts to Drakwald?”

“Much the same as you, I would imagine,” Wulfhart noted gruffly. “But I would have your name first, Master Wizard, before you go around demanding to know my business.”

“Magister-Shaman Gregor Martak of the Amber Order, at your service. This is my Apprentice, Yara.”

“That so?” Wulfhart raised an eyebrow. “And am I to understand that the two of you are responsible for all of this?”

He gestured at the scene of carnage around them.

“Just so. Though it was a hard-won victory."

Wulfhart was silent for a long moment, his eyes hard as he surveyed the camp. Eventually, however, he gave a begrudging nod.

"Fine work there," he grunted. "We caught the trail of the Beastmen in Vogelsrath and tracked them here, but it seems we were beaten to the punch.”

“Not that we’re complaining!” the dwarf guffawed. “It’s a fine day when we find our jobs already done for us. Rare, too.”

“Quite so, Jorek,” Wulfhart said. “But since the Beastmen appear to be dealt with, I’m hoping you could help shed light on a certain matter. You see, I brought my Hunters to these lands following rumours of a dragon.”

Damn it all to hell.

“At first we were skeptical, but outside Grehelshalft we found genuine dragon tracks.” He nodded meaningfully towards the four-toed, clawed tracks littering the destroyed Beastmen camp. “These very same tracks, I would wager.”

Gregor suppressed his grimace. His duty, the oaths he’d sworn to follow the rightful laws of the Empire, would compel him to tell the truth. He’d discovered a young dragon with powerful magical talents. If he told Wulfhart he’d lured her along until she could be dealt with, the Hunters could no doubt bring her down here and now.

But his first duty, his first oath, was to the ideals of the Empire, not its laws.

He glanced at Yara, her face gone somewhat pale of a sudden. Once again, the question of her age in human years rose to the fore of his mind unbidden.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen summers?

Young enough to pass for his daughter.

“Aye, I came here following the same rumours. Turned out to be a young Wyvern, probably from Nordland, driven from its territory by a bigger one,” he explained. “It was a threat to the people of these lands, so I was forced to put it down.”

The huntsmen seemed unconvinced, but said nothing.

“Now, these tracks, and the ones near Grehelshalft, those were mine,” he carried on. Beside him Yara stiffened, but thankfully said nothing. “I am an Amber Wizard, and it is within our power to take on the forms of animals and beasts. Even great beasts, when pressed.”

The Witch Hunter glared at him, muttering something untoward under his breath, but luckily Wulfhart seemed to take him at his word.

“I had indeed heard such tales, aye,” the Huntsmarshall nodded, running a hand along his bearded chin. “But I had thought them exaggerated. A dragon? Quite impressive.”

“Maybe you should get one of Teclis’ whelps to join your Hunters if you are so awed, Wulfhart,” a harsh but melodic female voice rang out, startling Gregor.

A cloaked figure dropped down from one of the nearby trees, yet despite falling nearly twenty feet made no sound upon landing, smoothly springing up to a standing position with cat-like grace. A Wood Elf glared down at Gregor with inhuman blue eyes, dressed in brown and green leathers and armour that seemed to have been spun entirely of bark and living wood. She wore a stag-horned helmet, and nocked on her magnificent bow was a wicked-looking arrow that smelled of death to Gregor’s magical senses. Beside him, Yara blatantly stared at the elf.

“Perhaps I will, Kalara,” Wulfhart grunted.

“Aye, we could stand to replace you with a wizard, wutelgi, and be better off for it,” the dwarf engineer, Jorek, grumbled at the elf. “Already got plenty of bow-stringers."

“And I could outshoot any of them with my eyes closed, all together or separately," she retorted, her tone one of factual statement rather than boast.

"Enough, you two," Wulfhart barked with a voice used to giving commands, before turning back to Gregor. "You have the gratitude of the Empire, Master Wizard. The dead of Vogelsrath are avenged. Are you in need of any aid?”

"He was hit by a spell," Yara opened her mouth for the first time in the conversation, her eyes still on Kalara. Wulfhart blinked, as if surprised she’d spoken up. "On his back."

"Aye," Gregor sighed. "Their Bray-Shaman got me by surprise."

"Doctor Van Hal, take a look at him." Wulfhart looked at the Witch Hunter. The two of them locked gazes for a moment, some unseen argument passing between them, before the latter broke away with an annoyed grunt.

Van Hal? No wizard of the Colleges would fail to recognize the surname of one of the most infamous Necromancers in the Empire's history. There was a story there, he was certain of it. The Witch Hunter seemed disinclined to share it with him, however, as he stomped over to him with murder in his eyes.

"I will need to see your back, wizard," He spat out the last word like a curse. Which Gregor was certain it was, among his order.

Gregor turned around, tugging the remnants of his feathered cloak and robes over his head. The Witch Hunter set to work, pulling metal tools, salves and bandages from a bag he carried at his side. His ministrations were not gentle, and Gregor had to grit his teeth to endure through the session, but eventually the pain was relieved, as Van Hal stepped away.

"I have done what I can," he said, his tone clipped and clinical. "The wounds will heal on their own provided they are not unduly aggravated, but they will scar."

"Nothing new, then," Gregor replied as he pulled his robe back on. He would have to patch up the holes once he got the chance. "You have my thanks," he said, before turning to Wulfhart. " I believe this is where we part ways. You have your duties, and we have ours."

"Just so," The Huntsmarshall replied. "But I suspect our paths will meet again, sooner than you think."

There was nothing more to be said, the hunters slipping into the forest while Gregor and Yara continued their journey northeast. The young dragon was sullen in her demeanour, but kept her tongue until an hour had passed, and they were certain they were alone.

"Why did you take credit?" she hissed.

“Because they never would have believed it,” Gregor retorted. “You saw the suspicion on their faces even when I claimed it. Apprentices are expected to be seen but not heard, and most know only the pettiest of cantrips.”

“But-”

"Transformation of Kadon, the spell Amber Wizards use to take the shape of a dragon or some other great beast, is the most difficult and dangerous incantation in our arsenal. It is rarely taught and rarely used, for good reason. Losing control of the spell could mean only transforming half of your body, or becoming stuck in your new shape forever. If it came out that an Apprentice both knew the spell and was capable of casting it, questions would be asked. Dangerous questions.”

“So I cannot use my true form, then,” she stated bitterly.

“Not openly, not until you’re a Journeyman at the very least.” He paused, and then grimaced. “Magister would be better. I have never taken the form of a dragon, though I know the spell.”

“And how long will that take?” she asked sullenly.

“There is no easy answer. As a Magister, I have the power to promote my apprentice to Journeyman-”

“Then why not do just that?” she cut in.

“Because trying to pass you off as a Journeyman as you are would be impossible,” Gregor retorted. “Any true Magister would be able to tell within moments of meeting you. You have the ability, but not the foundation. You need education and knowledge, and that takes time. And the rank of Magister can only be bestowed by the Wildfather, in the Amber Hills near Altdorf, after passing the secret tests. You are not ready for them.”

"Fine," Yara snapped, looking away.

Gregor let her be.

For over an hour they marched in stubborn silence, Yara ten paces ahead, while Gregor only occasionally corrected their course towards their destination. Eventually, however, she paused in her stride.

"Thank you," she muttered quietly as he caught up.

"Whatever for?" he asked, playing dumb.

"For lying for my sake," she spoke slowly through gritted teeth, as though each word had to be dragged out of her. “You are right. They would have killed me.”

"You are quite welcome." He nodded, satisfied. "Now, the first thing I need to teach you is how to dampen your presence from Witchsight..."

-----

Several weeks passed without incident as they trekked through the forests without meeting a single soul, only animals. Yara proved true the reputation she'd made in Greheshalft, hunting rabbit and deer with her throwing axe while Gregor recovered his strength and did his best to impart the basics of magical theory as they walked.

Yara was not the easiest student, surly and argumentative, but she took to magic like fish to water. Gregor had only ever taught one Apprentice, and he was long gone now, but he’d never seen or heard of someone taking to Ghur with such natural talent.

Eventually, however, they neared their destination.

"What is that?"

Emerging from the forest into the rocky plain beyond, the two of them beheld a lonely mountain stabbing towards the skies, towering over the surrounding forests like a defiant fist in the midst of an ocean of green. Four great stone causeways snaked around the mountain, lined with lesser keeps and watchtowers.

Upon the enormous flat plateau at the top of the mountain, more than a mile across, sat a sprawling cityscape, ringed with thick walls dotted with cannonports. Even so, the city seemed to almost spill over the top, like a froth boiling out of a cauldron, with battlements and towers extending perilously over the mile-long drop down to the ground.

"Middenheim, City of the White Wolf." Gregor grinned with fierce pride. "My home."

Chapter 4: Chapter 4 Middenheim

Yara had never seen anything quite like Middenheim. She had once spied a great city from afar, a great urban sprawl nestled on both banks of a river, huge smoke stacks spewing grey fumes towards the night skies.

But Middenheim was… something else. Every time she thought she had gotten a sense of its scale, it kept getting larger and larger as they approached. And the people, she had never seen so many people on the road before.

Caravans of traders, peasants bringing produce for the markets, coaches filled with travellers and pilgrims with nothing but the clothes on their back, all drudged one way or another on the great road that cut across the plain. At one point they came across a troop of cavalry on their huge, armoured steeds, each of the warriors wearing thick platemail and a wolfskin cloak over their shoulders, hefty warhammers held tight or slung across their backs. They were unhelmed one and all with thick, wild beards, a plethora of scars and hard gazes as they surveyed the common folk on the road.

To her surprise they saluted the pair of them as they rode by, one that Gregor proudly returned.

"The Knights of the White Wolf," he remarked beside her, watching them thunder by. "Templars of Ulric, the greatest Knightly Order in the Old World."

She did not doubt his words, even if it was a little hard to be impressed by men on horseback when you had fought and killed as a dragon.

Again, her eyes flicked towards Middenheim. Once again, it had grown larger on the horizon, and they seemed no closer to the mountain. In truth Yara understood little of how men waged war, but it beggared belief that any mortal force could overcome such a fortress.

"They have a formidable citadel, at least."

"Aye, the Fauschlag mountain upon which Middenheim rests was discovered by the Teutogen Tribe more than two and a half millennia ago. According to legend, Ulric himself smote the mountain with his fist, and levelled the top into a plateau where his followers could live and offer him tribute. Since its founding, it has never fallen to an enemy army."

Yara studied Gregor's face as he spoke, obvious pride written across his face and colouring his voice. But not pride in himself, rather pride in his homeland, his people, his culture. It was not the first time she had seen such a thing from humans, yet it never failed to baffle her. How could they feel pride in something external to themselves, something that they had no true part in?

She did not voice these questions however, as Gregor carried on.

"It has survived assaults from the Liche Babrakkos, the Necromancer Helsnicht, the Beastlord Kartok Great-Horn, the Von Carstein Vampires, the Greenskin Warlord Grom, and many more. Its walls have repelled giants, daemons and-" He hesitated for an instant.

"Dragons," Yara completed the sentence for him, giving the man a glance. "I am well aware of what most of my kind get up to. Of course, yours have given it back just as hard. I know why there are no dragons in the Drakwald."

"There is one," Gregor pointed out.

"I was not born here," she retorted, and to that, he had nothing more to say.

Eventually they reached the base of the viaducts, enormous stone causeways sixty feet across that began a gentle incline towards the city still far beyond. A small watchpost stood where the road met the viaduct, a group of uniformed militiamen directing the traffic. Coaches, carts and riders were waved up the viaduct, while pedestrians were stopped and either directed up the ramp or to a small road towards the base of the mountain, snaking among the support pillars of the viaduct above.

Unlike the grubby-looking watchmen of Grehelshalft, the militiamen were dressed sharply in blue and white, equipped with shining metal breastplates rather than dirty leather jacks, and clutching halberds or swords rather than simple spears. Up on the watchpost more guards could be seen, armed with crossbows at the ready.

"Viaduct or chairlift?" the nearest militiaman barked as the two of them approached, only a hint of a sneer on his features as he took in their appearance.

"Chairlift?" Yara asked.

"Chairlift it is," the guard said, gesturing to the side road running alongside the viaduct support pillars.

"But-"

"Down the road, off you go now," he all but shoved her down the side path to make room for the next travellers behind them, while Gregor just laughed, the bastard.

Sullenly marching forward, dwelling on the indignity of the encounter, she made nearly a kilometre down the road before she noticed something was wrong. Her skin tingled, a breath of cold air running over her face. She felt alert, invigorated despite the long day of walking behind them, a savage melody audible in her ears.

It was the dragonsong.

"That's… Ghur? But how- it's a city?" she sputtered. The song, or wind as Gregor called it, shunned places of civilization, preferring to flow freely rather than be confined by streets and walls, drawn only to the wild places, and the great beasts of the earth.

"What you are perceiving now is the Eternal Flame of Ulric," the wizard grinned. "At the top of the Fauschlag, within the High Temple of Middenheim, lies the silver fire that has never gone out. It suffuses the city with Ghur."

"All the way here?"

"Aye. You told me before that you did not understand human faith. Well, I ask you this: can you see this, and deny that you behold the hand of the divine upon the world?"

She just nodded dumbly, looking up at the mountain above.

-----

It took well over an hour to reach the base of the mountain. A slum town of tents and rickety buildings grew in the shadow of the great rock and the viaducts, taking shelter from the elements.

The chairlift station that stood some distance away consisted of a watchpost similar to the one at the base of the viaduct only smaller, with a large wooden platform where the titular lifts were loaded. Enormous ropes descended down the mountainside, from which wooden platforms were suspended. On each lift there were four chairs in a ring facing outwards, with space for securing cargo in the middle, and four great steel loops in each corner of the platform secured the ropes to the lift.

There was a small queue, but they did not need to wait for long. Lifts went up and thumped down at regular intervals, and Yara saw one of the guards flipping a small glass container filled with sand. When it had poured from one end of the glass to the other, the lift would start its journey towards the mountaintop far above. She realized that whoever pulled the ropes up there must have had a matching piece, and so they would know how long they had to wait for the lift to be loaded before starting to pull.

It was all quite fascinating, how the humans had devised a system of workarounds for their meager physical abilities. A dragon would not even think to ponder such questions, for they could simply fly wherever they pleased.

Of course, the lingering smell of feces indicated not all of the humans appreciated the ingenious contraption, and the faint, dark splotches on the surrounding rocks as well as the mops and buckets of water conspicuously hidden behind the station suggested such concerns may have merit.

Gregor passed a couple of silver coins to the watchmen and soon, with a great wrench, they were on their way upward alongside a pair of well-dressed travellers. The lift rose rapidly, leaving the platform behind and giving rise to an incredible view.

The day was bright and cloudless, allowing her keen eyes to see for miles and miles. They were above the treeline now, and she could behold an endless ocean of green, stretching beyond the horizon. Here and there tiny dots and lines could just barely be made out, where the forest had been hacked down to make room for roads and villages, but they were all but insignificant in the face of the vastness of the Drakwald, easy to miss unless one was specifically looking for them.

For all the Empire's pretenses of civilization, they eked out an existence in the midst of an untamed, unbroken land.

"Oh why did we come here, why did we choose this path? Why, oh why…" One of the other passengers wailed, and from the smell of things, he was on the verge of pissing himself. Or already had.

Ignoring him, Yara inched forward in her seat, kicking her legs over the emptiness below, a drop of at least several hundred feet to the ground by now. What fear did one who had flown over the mountains and felt the wind in their wings have of heights?

Eventually, the wind-worn rock of the sheer cliff face was replaced with stone walls, the transition so smooth Yara could not tell where nature ended and construction began. As the lift creaked up to its apex it came to rest before a wooden dock extending perilously over the drop below. Above, Yara could see a metal crane holding up the rope, looping it through a pulley system before passing from sight.

The lift swayed under her feet as she stood up and calmly stepped onto the dock, eliciting shouts of alarm and protest from the two travellers. Gregor followed a moment later with practiced ease, barely upsetting the balance of the platform despite his greater weight.

Walking down the narrow gangway they emerged into a small guard station atop the wall, half a dozen militiamen milling about. Behind them was a small, circular pen where a pair of donkeys were harnessed on either side of a wooden pole around which the end of the chairlift rope was looped. A stablehand prodded the donkeys onward as they walked clockwise around the pen, rotating the pole and thus pulling up the rope.

And indeed, to Yara's triumph, there was a similar contraption of glass and sand to the one she'd seen below, standing on a nearby table.

"Shamans, eh?" One of the guards stepped forward and eyed them with a wary eye, a burly older man with a handlebar moustache so waxed it looked like it could be used to kill someone. There was a badge of some sort on his breastplate, presumably marking him as being of higher rank than the others. "Don't see you lot comin' through here often."

"Aye, perhaps we just prefer the scenic route," Gregor replied mildly, casting a meaningful glance towards the skies above, flocks of birds contrasted against the blue heavens as they flew above the city. "But I'm bringing my Apprentice to the city for the first time, and I wouldn't think to deny her the authentic experience."

Yara could hear the twinkle of amusement in his voice. Bastard.

"Hmph," the man huffed, gesturing for one of the other guards. "Wolfgang, process them."

"Yes, Sergeant Hauptmann." The militiaman in question, a tall and thin man with a reedy voice and squinty eyes, pulled out a bit of parchment and a quill pen from a nearby table, starting to scrawl something down rapidly. "I will be needing your names and business in the city."

"Magister Gregor Martak, returning from patrol in the Drakwald. This is my Apprentice, Yara."

"Yara…?"

"Trueclaw," she supplied after a moment, savouring the look of horror that crossed Gregor's face.

"And your possessions?" the guard, Wolfgang, pressed on, gesturing to one of the tables. "Let's see them."

Gregor sighed, running a hand over his face before stepping forward.

"Staff, dagger, spell reagents, waterskin, rations, and coinpurse," he listed off each item as he laid it on the table with a tone of bored annoyance. "Twenty-one crowns, or thereabouts. Discretionary funds of the Amber Order."

"Mmm-hmm," the man hummed as he inspected each item in turn, before looking at Yara.

"Axe." She removed her weapon from her belt and dropped it on the table with a hefty thud, followed by her waterskin and the emergency rations she'd made from last night's kill. "Water. Dried rabbit."

"And the pouch?" He gestured towards the bag on her belt.

She glanced towards Gregor, who gave her a nod. With extreme reluctance, she placed the pouch on the table, keeping her hand on it.

"Savings."

The attention of the rest of the guardhouse was drawn firmly onto her now, if not by the obvious size and weight of the bag, then by the lightning-fast movement of her hand as she caught the militiaman's wrist in a grip just shy of bone-crushing, stopping him right as he was reaching for the bag.

No words came out of her mouth, just a snarling hiss of bared teeth. The guard, Wolfgang, stumbled back a step, trying to get away from her.

"I- I will need to know how much you're bringing to the city," he said, trying to compose himself."

"Sixty-three gold crowns," she spat out. "Two hundred and eleven silver shillings. Eighty-six brass pennies. Eight Bretonnian Ecu, and seventeen Kislevite Ducats."

Yara wasn't entirely sure what 'Bretonnia' or 'Kislev' were other than the inference that they were distant kingdoms, but a dragon that did not know the contents of their hoard was no dragon at all. Every coin had a voice of its own, from the thundering, fast-paced song of brass to the clear, cold melody of silver, but the most captivating of all was gold, a warm, comforting echo of ancient glories that banished the cold, and invigorated the mind. Each note added to the song, forming a chorus of resplendent beauty.

Gregor had named it Chamon, but to dragons it was known only as Khrauchir, the Goldsong. To lessen the hoard was to remove an irreplaceable piece of the song, and so no dragon would part with so much a single coin except in the direst of circumstances.

The old sergeant, Hauptmann, guffawed loudly, ignoring Yara's murderous glare as he stepped closer, peering at the bag protectively held under her arm. She could see the glint in his eyes, the gears that turned behind them.

He would know that even if she was lying about the amount, it was probably in the right ballpark for the size and weight of the bag. He would also know that it was more money than he or any of the guards would make in a year.

"And where does a little girl like you get that much silver and gold, hmm?" the sergeant jeered.

"None of your business," she hissed.

"Oh but it is Graf's business, and so it is mine," he chortled. "We can't have peasants going around robbing people with their little tricks."

"I am no thief," Yara spat, the implication provoking her ire. Every coin of her hoard had been claimed fairly, by right of combat or trade.

"Be careful who you make accusations of, sergeant," Gregor spoke up, his tone laced with an undercurrent of danger. "She is my Apprentice, and under the protection of the Imperial Colleges."

"Aye, that she might. But a hundred and twenty crowns worth between the two of you, that's taxable goods that is. Ten percent, collected on entry."

"There was no such tax when I was last in the city," Gregor replied with a voice of authority, infuriatingly calm. "Nor would the Law Lords have drafted a new one in but three moons' time."

"What would you know of such things, shaman?" the sergeant sneered. "The Graf's not too happy 'bout you wizards hoarding wealth."

"Too busy fornicatin' with animals, he hasn't even heard of the tax!" one of the guards tittered, and others joined in or jeered at the two of them.

"You might take us for fools, but I assure you, I keep apprised of matters that go on in my home," Gregor retorted, a note of threat entering his voice.

"I don't give a damn about what you freaks get up to," the sergeant spat. "What I care about is levying the Graf's taxes."

Yara gave Gregor a look that, she hoped, communicated exactly how willing she was to part with her hoard, which was to say she would sooner kill every person in the room than even consider it.

"Very well, Sergeant Hauptmann. Have it your way," he replied, his tone cold as ice. "I shall pay the tax, for both of us. Then, I shall go and have a talk with Lord-Magister Helseher, High Wizard of Middenheim and advisor to Graf Todbringer. If there is a sudden new tax against wizards, he would be very interested to know about it. And if it turns out that no such tax exists, he would also be quite interested to know what the City Watch are doing."

Yara saw the flicker of doubt flash across the aged sergeant's face, his hostility suddenly replaced with hesitation at the prospect of the authorities being involved.

"Now now, let us not be hasty." He glanced at the rest of the militiamen, who were all of a sudden now looking at each other with worried expressions rather than jeering at the two of them. "Perhaps… we should check in with the Watch Captain, see if the tax… hasn't been rescinded since last we heard. Make sure there's no confusion, yes."

"That is what I thought," Gregor said coldly, grabbing his things. Yara did the same. "If it turns out that this tax of yours is still in effect, you can find us at the Wizards' Guild. Now if you'll excuse us, we have business to attend to. Come, Yara."

The sergeant's face was red with humiliation as they walked past him and out into the city, and Yara could feel his glare on the back of her head until the door of the watch station swung shut behind them.

"It is a wonder that you can stand it, if all of Middenheim is like that," Yara muttered darkly as the two of them left the guardhouse, emerging into a small alley.

"Now you sound like my fellow Shamans," Gregor replied. "Many of them would prefer to have nothing at all to do with the rest of the Empire."

"Perhaps they have a point, considering what just happened."

"On the contrary, it is because of people like Sergeant Hauptmann that even we of the Amber Order cannot simply abandon the society we are sworn to serve. Suppose that one day you had to get a wounded ally to a healer, or perhaps an urgent message to the Graf about an upcoming Beastman incursion. If you don't have the slightest idea of how the rest of the Empire functions, how will you navigate its social circles to reach where you need to be without being led around the nose by those who do?"

"Hm." Yara was silent for a long moment. "So does this High Wizard actually listen to you, or was that just another bluff?"

"Ah… a bit of both," Gregor admitted, the bear-like man looking uncharacteristically sheepish. "In truth, I've only met Lord-Magister Helseher only a handful of times, but I do know that he has a keen eye for injustices levied against wizardkind. If there truly was a new law like that, he would be raising hell about it to the Graf."

They came to the end of the alleyway, emerging into the city proper.

"Behold," Gregor noted with a wry grin. "Middenheim."

The top of the Fauschlag wasn't quite level, despite Gregor's tale, consisting of a number of smaller plateaus and mesas of different sizes and elevations, with streets and walkways going between and around them while various stairs, ramps and bridges providing access to the different tiers and districts.

And the people! If she'd thought the road had been full of people, it had nothing on the city itself. Thousands upon thousands of men, women, children, dwarfs, halflings and even those strange ephemeral beings Gregor had named elves bustled about across the streets like ants in a hive. It wasn't just more people than Yara had ever seen in one place, it was more people than Yara had ever seen put together, easily outnumbering the combined populations of every village and town she'd been to.

Of course it was then, with the indignant fury of having her hoard threatened faded, that the smell finally hit her.

"Ohshifrpghmh-"

The curse was drowned out by the surge of bile up her throat, as Yara swayed on her feet before depositing half-digested bits of rabbit meat to decorate the stone of Middenheim's streets. The pungent smell of industry, of chimney-soot, ash, metallic tang and malting hops, mixed with the cloying scent of raw humanity: sweat, feces, urine, blood, rotting meat and more. The combination was revolting to behold, and Yara nearly threw up again once she'd staggered back to her feet.

"First time to a city tends to do that," Gregor nodded sympathetically.

"You could've warned me," Yara spat out.

"I wouldn't presume to know what you could or could not handle, Apprentice Trueclaw," he replied with a self-satisfied smile.

Bastard.

-----

Gregor guided Yara through a labyrinthine path which wound between a varied assemblage of stalls; open carts with burners selling something hot that smelled of grease and butter, and tall, narrow stands with racks of foodstuffs, old clothes and household goods. There were people everywhere: buyers, sellers, browsers, barterers, families, couples, household staff from noble homes on provisioning errands, urchins dashed between adult legs causing their own particular brand of chaos. Yara kept a tight hold of the pouch on her belt: once when she'd been to Malstedt a pickpocket had tried his luck with her. It had ended messily.

This was Altmarkt, according to the wizard, one of Middenheim's two main commercial districts, where most of the commoners did their business. It was not their destination, however, merely along their path, and Gregor took her to one of the streets that wound between districts. After several sets of stairs, the bustling chaos of Altmarkt was replaced by the quiet intensity of Freiburg, apparently a residential area preferred by the more influential citizens of Middenheim.

It was also home to the city's Grand Guild of Wizards, an impressive three-story building with a massive bronze statue of a burly man with a bushy beard wielding a rune-engraved longsword.

"The Guild was founded well over two thousand years before the Colleges by Graf Erich, whom the statue honours. We Middenheimers understood the value of magic long before Magnus made those snobs in Reikland stop burning every child with a talent they came across. Today, it exists as a joint branch of the Colleges, providing magical education to match and exceed anything you could find in Altdorf."

Somehow Yara got the idea that Gregor may not have been the most unbiased source on the matter, but she let the matter go, looking up at the building before them, taking in its elaborate spires and towers stabbing towards the sky.

"Not quite what I thought you had in mind when you offered me an Apprenticeship," she commented.

"Aye, the traditional way would have been to take you to some desolate mountaintop to commune with nature, and slowly pass on everything that I know. But what exactly could I teach about the essence of Ghur to someone who already embodies the Bestial Wind in body and soul? You said you wanted to become a Journeyman Wizard as soon as possible? That's something that usually takes years. A decade on the average."

"But-"

"There are Lord-Magisters who are less attuned to the Winds than you are, but in terms of knowledge and experience you are woefully behind. Take this for an example."

He tossed something to Yara, a wolf's femur bone carved with symbols that Yara recognized as letters the humans used to write down information.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I can't read," Yara ground out through her teeth.

"Of course not, why would-" Gregor paused, glancing at the crowds around them, "-one of your kind ever have needed to learn? But that's exactly my point. Inscribed on that bone is the spell formula for Beastform, the spell that is taught to every Amber Journeyman before they set out on their own, allowing them to take the shape of a wild animal of their choice."

"What is your point? If it's just to mock me-"

"The point is that here is the only place in the Old World where you can receive formalized education in wielding Ghur. The guild has access to books, teachers and services that exist nowhere else in the Empire, and if you want to reach a point where you can wield Transformation of Kadon openly any time soon, you are going to need to take advantage of them."

"Mmhmm," Yara grumbled, but nodded in assent.

The inside of the Guildhouse was steeped with magic, a confusing jumble of songs that sounded to Yara like a dozen people singing different tunes over each other. Immediately as the two of them entered they came into a massive open space that seemed to span most of the building, large enough that Yara could have spread her wings and not have either tip touch the walls. A huge stairway ran around the circular room in several loops, with doors presumably leading to individual areas of the building dotting its length. Sweeping marble columns supported the stairway, while the walls were lined with paintings and frescoes, all giving off a very polished appearance.

It was also there that Yara saw her first Wizards besides Gregor. Dozens of them were milling around the ground floor or going up or down the stairway, clad in a dizzying variety of coloured robes. Gold, blue and brown were the most prominent, but all eight of the Colleges Gregor had told her about were represented here. Most of them bore an elaborate staff and a wide range of tattoos, items and symbols woven into their clothing. At a guess, Yara supposed that the more elaborate and eccentric their appearance, the higher ranked the Wizard.

None of them stopped Gregor and her as they made their way up the spiral staircase that spanned the room, but more than a few cast long stares in Yara's direction, their eyes sparking with magic. She met each and every one with a glare of her own, which seemed to amuse some and irritate others.

At the very top of the stairs there was a level viewing deck, and the ceiling itself was made of glass, light streaming in. Yara blinked as she realized there were shapes and colours in the glass, cunningly wrought into the frame itself without losing its transparency, the sunlight casting it in vibrant detail. It depicted a tall, unnaturally thin-limbed being wearing a robe of blue, white and gold, bearing a staff capped with a crescent icon and a luminescent crown of pure silver. At its side stood a grizzled figure in elaborate platemail, a monocle on its left eye and in its hands a golden warhammer that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Kneeling before them in a semicircle were eight figures bearing staffs of their own, their robes coloured in all the eight shades of the Colleges.

"The founding of the Colleges by High Loremaster Teclis and Emperor Magnus," Gregor spoke aloud, noticing Yara's stare. "Commissioned a century ago by Graf Dietrich to honour the Guild for its contributions to his military campaigns."

Yara just shook her head. It must have taken a master artisan most of his lifespan to create such a work. She couldn't imagine it, devoting the majority of the scant few decades a human had on this earth to a single work of art.

…But then again here she was, marveling at it a hundred years later. That nameless glassblower had reached a form of immortality, for even though his name might fade from history, as long as the mosaic stood people would remember him and appreciate his skill. How many could say they had achieved the same?

It was a sobering thought to Yara.

Gregor came to a halt in front of a door marked with the symbol of an arrow surrounded by the carved images of bear, wolf and lion heads, forcing Yara out of her musings. He knocked on the door three times in quick succession before pulling it open, gesturing for Yara to follow him inside. In contrast to the grandiose architecture of the rest of the guildhouse, the room they entered more resembled a natural cavern, the walls hewn from rough stone while bone charms hung from the ceiling.

"Gregor you old dog, you're back!"

The woman was shorter than Yara, though that wasn't saying much, dressed in the black and brown garb she had come to recognize as typical of citydwellers. On her head she wore a large, wide-brimmed hat the top of which was so tall it drooped down to the side, several eaglefeathers tucked into it, and on the lapels of her black coat hung a polished rat skull suffused with the dragonsong.

"Good to see you Yanni," Gregor grinned as he clasped hands with the woman. "This is Yara, my new Apprentice. Yara, this is Magister Yanni Weber, the leader and representative of the Amber Order in Middenheim."

"Bah, we're the same rank," she scoffed. "You know the only reason I was put in charge is that they couldn't convince any of the Lord-Magisters to stick around long enough to accomplish anything." She turned towards Yara, sizing her up. "So, I'm guessing your hunch about the rumours was right?"

"Aye, that it was. It's all cleared now though. Had an encounter with the Beastmen on the way here, where we ran into Wulfhart."

"The new Huntsmarshall? I hope you made a good impression on him. Lobas wants to make nice with him because his duties overlap with ours, and a Middenlander being appointed to such a high position is a feather in Todbringer's cap so ol' Boris is also looking to draw attention to it with a big show of public unity now that Wulfhart's back from Lustria."

"I would hope we did," Gregor mused. "What sort of show are we talking here, another campaign into the Drakwald?"

"Nothing official yet, just feelers being put out. The trouble is that Wulfhart's a hard man to find, he'll pop up having slain another monster and then disappear back into the wilderness. Kind of like certain people I know." She smiled. "The only way to reliably get into contact with him is through the Emperor, and the Graf is still smarting from the election too much to go to Altdorf with his hat in hand."

Yara bristled at the way they talked like she wasn't even there, but they were treading unfamiliar waters and her desire to not look like an idiot overwrote her natural instinct to lash out when looked down upon, at least for the moment.

"Well, Wulfhart seemed happy enough with what we'd accomplished." Gregor shrugged his broad shoulders. "I'll need to talk to the Graf's men, pass on the message that Vogelsrath is no more. But in any case, there's a more relevant reason we're here. I'm sponsoring Yara for the Guild as my Apprentice."

"That is your right as a member, but there's a lot of hopefuls trying to get in," Weber raised an eyebrow. "The Apprentice dorms are full for the season, so you'll have to find other accommodations."

"I'll sleep outside if it comes to that," Yara said.

Weber looked surprised that she'd spoken without being addressed, and Yara was suddenly reminded of what Gregor had said about Apprentices being seen but not heard.

"That won't be necessary," Gregor shook his head. "We can get you a room at one of the local taverns. The Split Veil always has rooms free."

"Well then, seems like you have it all figured out," Weber replied, crossing her arms. "Since you're sponsoring her she won't need to pass the usual tests."

She walked up to a table that looked like it had been shaped out of stone, grabbing a parchment from a compartment beneath it. It was already filled with a jumble of symbols and letters, and Weber added several more with a couple strokes of quill.

"This is for you. It's not a College License, but it's an official document to confirm you are an Apprentice of the Guild. It should keep you from getting lynched by a mob, at least."

She handed it over to Yara, who tucked it into a pouch. The older wizard stood there for a moment, as if waiting for something, so Yara simply matched her stare.

After a moment Weber broke away with a slightly disbelieving laugh,

"Ah, to be young again, and feel the wild power of Ghur run through me for the first time. Where did you find her, Gregor?"

-----

The streets of Middenheim were no less busy with the sun beginning to dip towards the mountains in the east, as the two of them made their way south. Descending down into a different quarter, this one apparently called Neumarkt.

Where Altmarkt had been filled with stalls of foodstuff and peddlers of common items, Neumarkt was dominated by higher-class establishments: tradehouses, artisan workshops, guildhouses, antiquaries and more. The Split Veil was a huge, multi-floor building whose sprawling expanse took up most of the space between two streets near the eastern end of the district. A huge bronze wolfshead icon was mounted over the main doors, glaring down at the pedestrians passing by.

"Split Veil might not be the liveliest of inns, but it's got a deserved reputation for not asking questions. Wulfilde Sudenfeld, the proprietor, is of Norscan descent herself and knows better than to go around prying into the eccentricities of others. I've spent the night here myself a couple of times, on occasion."

Beyond the front doors, the two of them emerged into a large room that seemed half bar and half lobby, the main floor occupied by numerous tables and benches with several private alcoves built into the walls, while numerous doors and stairways led further into the building or to the upper floors. A decent number of people were lounging around, eating dinner or chugging down ale in the candlelit tavern.

A tall-ish woman with braided red hair stood behind the desk at the other side of the room, filling iron tankards from kegs mounted on a rack on the wall behind her and barking orders at the serving girls who delivered them to patrons. At their approach a gleam of recognition entered her eyes, nodding sternly in greeting.

"Martak."

"Sudenfeld," Gregor nodded gruffly. "My Apprentice here, Yara, needs a room. For the rest of the week at least."

"Well, you know the fare," Sudenfeld crossed her arms. "Four crowns for the week, payment in advance."

All eyes turned to Yara, but she weathered the stares like rain upon stone.

"I would have thought it traditional that Master provide lodging for their Apprentice," she noted neutrally. "I will sleep on the street if I have to, just so you know."

Gregor seemed to pause to consider her words, and probably weighing the risk of having to bail her out from the City Watch after she murdered a pickpocket.

"Fine," he sighed, digging into his coinpurse. "Four gold crowns."

"...And meals?" Yara pressed.

"You are impossible." He shook his head in disbelief, but shoved several more coins at Sudenfeld. "That should cover her for the week."

"Indeed it does," the woman nodded, counting them one by one before sweeping them into her hand and dropping them somewhere behind the desk. She produced a small key with a bit of engraved wood dangling from the end, weird symbols carved into it.

"Up the stairs on the left, then take the first right," Sudenfeld explained as she handed the key to Yara. "Breakfast starts an hour before sunrise, and the kitchen stays open until midnight. Cleaning staff comes in once a week at Wellentag noon, if you have the door barred we'll assume you're turning down the service. Latrines are on every floor, look for the doors with the white symbol."

"Right," Gregor said. "We are going to have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, so best be prepared. I'll be here to pick you up at sunrise, be ready by then."

With that he departed, and with nothing else to do Yara made her way upstairs, following Sudenfeld's instructions. Turning right she found the door with the symbols that matched the keys, two half circles on top of each other open to the left followed by a line.

What she wasn't expecting was for the door to be open, sounds of shuffling feet coming from within. Her hand the hilt of her axe she crept through the doorway, her eyes widening at the sight that greeted her.

It was like a man, but squashed like with a great hammer, the material lost in height going to sheer width. A ragged green cloak and hood were drawn over him, the rest of his clothing consisting of practical but worn-down leather armour. But the most obvious feature about him was his massive golden beard that went down to his knees, immaculately groomed despite his otherwise disheveled state. Sitting obediently by his feet was a small, shaggy-haired dog, looking up at her with curious eyes.

"What's the matter manling, never seen a dwarf before?" he questioned in a gruff, deep voice.

"Aye, I have. Just not usually…" she trailed off, considering her words, "...without orange beards and hair."

She was going to say 'with a shirt on', but based on her limited encounters with the strange race it seemed best to avoid insulting them.

"Ah, well I can tell you we certainly are not all like that!" the dwarf tufted into his beard, before bowing slightly. "Grunmin Olfkinsson, at your service and your clan's." He gestured at the dog. "This is Ruti."

"Yara Trueclaw," she replied warily. "I have no clan."

"Ah, well, I see," the dwarf muttered, clearly taken aback by her bluntness.

"Why were you in my room?"

"I am a member of the honourable Rat Catchers' Guild of Middenheim," he puffed up. "We are contracted to ensure no filthy rodents can make their den here."

"And have you found any in my room?"

"Nay manling, we have not, but our vigilance must be constant lest the infestation creep in. And now I must take my leave, for we have work to do."

With that he pushed past her and into the corridor, leaving her alone in her room.

So. This was Middenheim.

After a moment she shook her head. She should get some food.

-----

"Good beer, eh?" Yara smacked her tankard on the bar table, pulling up to a stool beside a pair of men who only moments ago had been laughing uproariously, calling out to Sudenfeld for more ale.

Sullen silence was her only reply, as the men glared into their tankards. A moment later they slumped off their stools, slipping away to another corner of the dimly-lit tavern.

Yara sighed. That was the third group that had turned down her company so far, and the remainder of the tavern's patrons seemed scarcely more interested in it, either studiously ignoring her or giving her hostile glares her way whenever she walked past them.

She was an outsider here, marked as such by her speech, her mannerisms and her clothing. In the Drakwald the man you drank with tonight might tomorrow be called upon to man the palisades at your side against a Goblin raid, and so it paid well to make friends. There was a sense of camaraderie to those small villages and towns that she had so far been unable to find in the city.

Perhaps it was simply something about the athmosphere of the Split Veil that made it so, but if all the taverns of Middenheim were like this she would gnaw her tail off before the end of the week.

A barmaid emerged from one of the side doors that presumably led to the kitchen, bearing a tray of steaming food that she deposited in front of Yara, her features carefully neutral. Forced to give up her aspirations of finding company by her growling stomach, Yara set into her meal.

The dinner, at least, was far above what she was used to, roaming the hinterlands of the Empire. She tore into the roast meat and hard cheeses like a wolf into fresh kill, scarfing down the fresh fruit and apple pie before washing it all down with ale. For all the tediousness and ridiculous complexities of human society, the prospect of proper, cooked meals made them worth it almost on its own. One could only eat deer roasted with dragonfire so many times until it began to taste numb.

She savoured the creamy taste of the vegetable soup, eating it in great spoonfuls. That was another thing her kin in the mountains did not even realize they were missing out on, for though dragons could eat just about anything most were too proud to eat anything but meat they had killed with their claws and breath. Certainly no dragon would ever lower themselves to picking berries or farming carrots, and so they would have not even the concept of what a vegetable soup was.

Well, if it meant more for her to enjoy she would gladly keep it from them.

Having indulged her hunger she slowed down her pace, appreciating each spoonful. But as her focus on her food relented, she became aware of a trio of men seated in one of the alcoves sunk into the wall, speaking in low tones, trying and failing to remain surreptitious as they pointed and glanced in her direction. They were clad wool and linen clothing Yara had quickly come to recognize as common to cityfolk, frayed around the edges and well-worn.

Yara frowned, focusing her attention on the trio. It could just be that they'd just made note of her attempts to strike up conversation, but… none of them were touching their food. Almost like they'd ordered just to have an excuse to hang about the tavern. Her ears were keener than they had any right to be, and soon she could make out what they were saying.

"-sure that's her?"

"Tall, short brown hair, yellow eyes, dressed like a forest peasant and carries a big ol' bag on her belt. That's her alright."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's get 'er, right now."

"No reason to make this 'arder than it has to be. We'll wait until she's ate and drank herself silly, and then follow her upstairs. And then the fun begins."

Ah. Now this she knew how to deal with. Grabbing her plate with both hands, she gulped down the remainder of her soup in one massive bite, before washing it down by emptying her tankard down her throat. With that she slid off her barstool and rolled her shoulders, cracking her knuckles.

She savoured the look of surprise on the faces of the thugs as their quarry made a sudden movement, followed by confusion as she began walking in their direction, and finally alarm when they realized yes, she was coming right for them. At the last moment Yara charged, crossing the last few feet in one long step as she buried her fist into the middle thug's gut before he could so much as raise a hand in his defence. He crumbled to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, holding his stomach.

"Don't know how ya knew we was comin' for ya, but it don't matter none," the taller of the remaining two spat through his short beard as he stood up from his seat, pulling out a steel knuckleduster from his pocket while his pair drew a short dagger, circling around Yara. "We'll gut ya all the same."

"You sure you want to try that?" she asked in a conversational tone, slapping a hand to the flat of the axe on her belt.

She saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his gaze flicked to the man on the floor, groaning in pain and not getting up. That moment of distraction cost him dearly, as Yara's punch caught him in the throat, sending him stumbling backwards before tripping over his chair.

The axe had been a bluff anyway, it was for hunting and dissuading trouble. She brawled with her fists, and killed with her claws. That might soon need to change, given what Gregor had told her about using her true form, but those thoughts were for later, right now her blood was singing.

Turning to face the last of the thugs, Yara side-stepped his attempt to lunge at her with his blade while her back had been turned, catching him by the front of his shirt. With a grunt she lifted the man off his feet, before slamming him back down to the oak floorboards. He didn't get up again.

The one she'd punched in the throat on the other hand had shambled to his feet, throwing a drunken fist at her. She took it on her forearm with little effort, and knocked his lights out with a blow to the jaw.

"Hey!" Sudenfeld barked over the counter, a hand on her axe. "No trouble indoors."

"No trouble," Yara replied, grabbing two of the thugs by the back of their shirts with a single hand each, before hoisting them on her shoulders. "Not anymore."

Raising an eyebrow at the feat of strength, Sudenfeld nonetheless backed off, shrugging her shoulders.

A wise choice.

Carrying her would-be assailants to the front of the tavern, heedless of the stares she drew along the way, Yara threw the pair out the front door, leaving them sprawled on the street. Either they would pick themselves up, or the City Watch would do it for them.

Returning to the bar, she found the man she'd gut-punched coming to his senses, coughing and spluttering. Before he could do anything stupid she caught him by the wrist, prying the knuckledusters out of his grip as she pulled him to his feet.

Then she kept twisting.

"And now you, my overly ambitious friend, are going to take me to the one who sent you here."

-----

The warehouse was at the edge of the Neumarkt district, a squat building of stone walls and wood roof, nestled into the cliff leading up to Freiburg. Not dilapidated, but also not exactly the pride of the city either. Reuber, as she had learned was the thug's name, led her to a solidly-built wooden door, a metal grille set into it.

"I'm telling you, the password's 'beetroot', you can let me go now!" the man whined as she marched him up to the door. "Heiwardt's gonna kill me if she sees me!"

"Do you take me for idiot?" Yara hissed, tightening her hold on his shoulder. "They're not going to let in strangers, password or no. Now go."

She shoved Reuber forward, and with a fearful backward glance the thug made his way to the door, knocking on the wood three times in quick succession. A moment later the grille slid open, a harsh voice coming from within.

"Password."

"Beetroot!" Reuber sputtered. "She's behind me you have to let me in she's going to-"

To his dismay the grille slammed shut on him, cutting his escape attempt short.

"Oh fuck you," Yara cursed as she grabbed the back of the man's head and slammed it into the door, knocking him out cold. "Fine then, we do this the hard way."

Anger lent strength to her muscles as she drove her shoulder into the door, wood splintering under the impact. It took a second and a third time until the latch cracked loose, the door nearly flying off its hinges as she tore it open.

In that time, the door guard had made a run for it deeper into the building, leaving her standing alone in a narrow stone antechamber, a lantern hanging from the wall illuminating the hallway beyond.

Marching deeper into the warehouse, she passed a number of doorways each marked with human letters she could make no sense of, but her nose told her they housed nothing of significance to her, storage rooms used to hold stolen or smuggled goods.

At the end of the corridor she emerged into the main floor of the warehouse, a large open space with a plethora of tables and crates stacked here and there. And, of course, there was the assortment of clubs and short blades pointed in her direction.

"You know, from the way my men were running around like headless chickens, you woulda thought a whole army of the City Watch was breaking down our front door. And here I find a lonely little puppy, looking lost and cold."

It wasn't hard to spot the boss Reuber had told her about, standing at the head of a pack of hard-faced thugs. Herla Heiwardt was a tough-looking woman in her early forties, with a broken nose and shoulder-length hair bound into a ponytail. Dressed smartly but not extravagantly, she cut quite a figure with the sabre sheathed at her hip.

"When I'm through with you, you'll be wishing it had been watchmen," Yara spat out.

"Reuber's mark, right?" the woman carried on, utterly unbothered by the threat. "There'll be a reckonin' with him too, for causing this mess."

"You should have sent more men if you wanted to rob me."

"Big talk for someone outnumbered six to one," Heiwardt sneered. "Not that I expect someone like you to know how to count. Get her, boys!"

The first of the thugs came at Yara with a club, but the overhead swing was clumsy even by human standards. She caught the man's wrist, arresting his weapon mid-swing, before kneeing him in the stomach and leaving him to crumble to the floor.

The remaining two were made more cautious by the fate of their comrade, and so came at her as a pair, one on each side. Unfortunately for them, she was not interested in allowing herself to be flanked. Lightning-fast, she launched herself at the one on her left, sending him to the floor by sweeping his legs out from underneath him.

She could hear rapid steps from behind herself, so she picked up the man before her by the belt and bodily swung him around, smacking him into the third guard trying to get a shot at her back while distracted. The two men crashed down to the floor in a heap: the first stayed down, but the other tried to struggle to his feet. A boot to the head put a stop to those aspirations.

Heiwardt's remaining two enforcers looked substantially less willing to leave their boss' side, but the gang leader herself seemed unconcerned.

"A fighter eh? Well I suppose you musta been, to take care of Reuber and his boys. No feminine wiles from you, that's for sure," she laughed before cupping her hands around her mouth and calling out. "Oi! Lumpfoot! Get over here, we got a playmate for you!"

There was a commotion of movement from one of the back rooms, followed by impossibly heavy footsteps. A moment later the door was thrown open, a massive shape bending down to fit through the doorway.

"You called, boss-lady?"

"What the fuck is that."

It was a man, except stretched- no, that was the wrong word. A man grossly engorged, both vertically and especially horizontally. He stood at least ten feet tall and half that in width, particularly around his enormous, bulging belly that stretched the limits of his ill-fitting shirt, seemingly sewn together from multiple different pieces of clothing. Stout but preposterously thick limbs ended in ham-fisted hands and a pair of hairy feet, covered in lumpy poxmarks. Sitting atop the creature's broad shoulders was a bald, scraggly-bearded head, a stupid grin drawn across his gap-toothed mouth.

"What's that, forest wench? Never seen an Ogre before?" Heiwardt laughed, before a serious expression settled on her features as she addressed Lumpfoot. "Bring her in."

"Sure fing, boss," the Ogre replied enthusiastically, laughing at some joke only he got. "Won' take long, hur hur hur."

Yara's hand went for her axe, but the Ogre was faster than his mass and gut implied, rushing at her like a bull. Yara just barely made it out of the way, but before she could entertain thoughts of counterattack a massive backhand caught her dead-on.

It was like being kicked by a bull moose, and she landed on the floor in a heap, her weapon clattering on the stone a dozen feet away. She sprang to her feet like a cat but already Lumpfoot was there, swinging those barrel-sized fists at her. Her head was still swimming from the first blow when she took the second to the face, sending her sprawling to the floor.

"Not so tough now, are you?" Heiwardt tittered. "Bring her here."

Lumpfoot picked her up by the arm, lifting her into the air. Her other hand lashed out, but the Ogre's skin was like boiled leather, backed up by layers of fat and muscle. His enormous fist opened and closed like a bear trap around her free arm, restraining her with the ease of a parent handling an unruly child as he hauled her face to face with Heiwardt.

"So this is the little pissant that beat six of my best men into pulp and broke down my front door," she intoned as she pulled out a cigarette from her pocket, seeming completely at ease now that Yara was restrained. One of the thugs struck a match for her, lighting the cigarette, and she took a deep breath from it before blowing the smoke over Yara's face. "You don't look like much."

"Coward," Yara snarled, her voice trembling with rage. Her muscles burned with exertion, the song thundering in her ears, but it was like trying to move a mountain. "Too chickenshit to fight me yourself."

"That's the best part of being the boss," Heiwardt laughed, "you ain't gotta do shit if you don' feel like it."

"I am going to kill you," Yara hissed between clenched teeth.

"You think you're the first country bitch to come strolling into Middenheim thinking they're hot shit? Well let me tell ya somethin' girl. This is the big boy leagues you're runnin' in now. There's always gonna be someone bigger, tougher, smarter, better than you. Or in this case, someone who thought to hire a fuckin' Ogre."

She spread her arms, gesturing around them.

"Out there, running naked with the wolves or whatever the fuck you lot get up to, you probably thought you were somebody. But here, in my city? You ain't shit."

Yara bucked in Lumpfoot's grip, nearly breaking out of the Ogre's vicelike hold, snarling and spitting.

"Enough for six of your 'best men'," she growled. "Though they put up no more fight than boys of dozen summers. Though I don't expect you'll give me any better when I'm through."

"You still don't get it? I mean how stupid can you be?" Heiwardt cocked back her head. "If you'd just broken Reuber's face and been done with it, I coulda chalked that up as cost of doin' business. But you just had to come and challenge me here on my own turf. I can't just let that shit pass. You're going to die tonight."

"Uh, boss?" One of the thugs had picked up an object from the ground and was now studying it, unrolling the sheet of parchment. With a startle, Yara realized it was the paper Weber had given her. "You might wanna take a look at this."

"Apprentice Wizard? That miserable shit, he never said anything about wizards!" For the first time, Heiwardt looked somewhat unsettled, before calming herself down. "Well, it don't matter none. The Guild takes in Apprentices by the dozen and shits out freaks by the handful, they're not gonna miss one little forest witch. Does neatly explain how you beat six grown men though. Not given to fair play, are you?"

Yara's answer was a phlegm of spit, aimed squarely at Heiwardt's face. The gang boss wiped her face furiously, glaring up at Lumpfoot.

"Snap her neck, eat what remains, then go to the Cliff of Sighs and shit off it," Heiwardt ordered. "But before that, gimme that bag on her belt. She owes me, oh, a hundred gold coins or so."

"Sure fing boss, hur hur hur."

The Ogre transferred both of her hands to one enormous fist, using the free hand to paw at her waist. Pinching it between two shove-like fingers, he ripped free the small bag containing her hoard.

Her.

Hoard.

Yara saw red.

Scrambling forward, kicking and screaming, she felt like her shoulders were about to dislocate when she managed to arch herself close enough to Lumpfoot's face to bite into his eye. Howling with pain the Ogre hurled her off of him, but as he did so instead of relenting her hold she bit down even harder.

Rolling to her feet in an instant, her mouth filled with blood, Yara spat the piece of Lumpfoot's eye to the floor. The ogre was flailing around, trying to stop the flow of blood as Yara leapt onto him with a roar, one hand grabbing a hold of his beard while the other punched home into his face, making a satisfying crunch as it impacted against his nose. Somebody was yelling something, but it failed to register in her mind.

There was no thought, only the song and the base instinct to hurtrendkill.

Swift as a viper, she drew back her fist and hit him again. And again. And again and again and again, pistoning her fist into his face over and over, the dragonson coursing through her.

The eighth punch fully shattered the Ogre's nose. The next broke away several of his teeth. The one after that came away covered in blood. Soon enough everything descended into a blur of red and primal fury, until eventually, she felt something give away beneath her knuckles, and when she withdrew her fist it came away with a wet squelch.

Blinking rapidly, she realized that at some point Lumpfoot had toppled over to his back, while she must have just held on and kept going. The Ogre lay still and unmoving, Yara's right hand covered in gore and brainmatter.

Staggering back, breathing heavily, Yara grabbed the bag from where Lumpfoot had dropped it, and Weber's letter. Only then did she look around herself, blinking slowly.

The warehouse was empty, Heiwardt and her men having fled at some point during her frenzied rampage.

-----

Exhausted, Yara stumbled back to the Split Veil. For once she found herself thankful for the indifference of the patrons and the staff as she made her way upstairs.

Her arm ached like it was about to fall off her shoulder, and blood dripped into the floorboards with every other step. She'd cleaned her hand so as not to draw unnecessary attention from the Watch while shambling her way across the Neumarkt, but her knuckles had been bruised raw and skin torn open by repeated impacts with Lumpfoot's skull.

A trail of red splotches marked her path as she walked down the corridor, looking for the right combination of symbols on the doors. Two half-circles on top of each other, open to the left, and then a vertical line.

As soon as she found it she thrust her key into the lock and threw the door open, all but falling inside. She felt bone-weary as she locked the door behind her before limping over to her bed. Yara pulled off the furs and blankets, throwing them on the floor before shoving them under the bedframe. She crawled in after them, nestling deep into her improvised little cave. Only then did she relax, tension bleeding from her taut muscles, and in an instant she was whisked away into black, dreamless sleep.

The next morning Yara woke up sore and tired, and mustering the strength to crawl out from under the bed was a battle for the ages in and of itself. But she had said she would be ready by sunrise, and she was determined to be equal ro her word. With a tremendous yawn she made herself over to the vat of clean water the room had been provided with, splashing some onto her face.

The skin over her knuckles was already healed, leaving only a slight mark over them that too would fade by the end of the day. She supposed she should go and clean the blood splatters she'd left behind last night, if for nothing else then so that there was not a literal trail of blood leading to her door. She picked up a rag and dipped it in the water, before walking out into the corridor.

To her surprise however, the blood was gone, no mark of it remaining on the wooden floorboards. Someone in the staff must have noticed and cleaned it up before she woke up.

Shrugging her shoulders, Yara headed downstairs.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5 Ghur

“You know, this is probably going to be a new experience for you," Gregor noted in a conversational tone to Yara as they left the Split Veil behind, walking the streets of Middenheim.

The raw smell of humanity was still overpowering, but she had learned to at least abide with it. Gregor's impressive figure cut a path through the crowds, people giving the Magister a wide berth. For all that he had said about Middenheimers recognizing the utility of magic long before the rest of the Empire, Yara noted with a bit of bitterness that they seemed content to tolerate it at a distance.

"What will?" she asked in a curt tone, pulling her wolf-fur cloak tighter around her shoulders.

"The Guild, as an academic setting," he noted in that infuriatingly calm tone of his. "You will have to tolerate people who won't know or appreciate your true nature. Are you sure you're ready to handle that?"

"I am not some pup," Yara snarled, still burning with the humiliation of yesterday. "I can handle it."

"Well, if you're sure about that…" Gregor said cryptically as they reached the Guildhouse.

-----

That fucking bastard. He'd known. He had to have known.

“Do you have something to say, Apprentice?” the instructor asked sharply, glaring down at her. He was a tall, waspish man dressed in neutral black robes signifying he was affiliated with no particular College, a blue and white stripe around his shoulders showing his allegiance to the Middenheim Guild. At his neck hung a lead amulet that seemed to vibrate in a way that made Yara's teeth ache, drowning out the dragonsong around him.

Instructor Priesner was what Gregor had called a Perpetual Apprentice, those who had a spark of magical ability but just didn't have what it took to become a full-fledged Wizard and be let loose to wield their talents. They were typically issued suppressive amulets and given a job as the Colleges' guards, scribes, secretaries and servants. And, as Yara had found out, their resentment towards those who did have what it took apparently made them great supervisors for junior Apprentices.

Yara glowered back at the man, taking a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that he had to look up slightly to meet her eyes. She had no idea how people who couldn't just decide how tall they wanted to be managed it.

“Nothing to you,” she bit out, returning her attention to the massive boar carcass laid out on the table in front of her. The dead animal was cut open across its belly, with blood, guts, organs, strips of hide and pieces of bone strewn across the work surface. The room they were in was in the cellars of the Guildhouse, half a dozen butchers' tables similar to hers taking up most of the floorspace, each occupied by one of the other junior Apprentices.

Yara was about to resume her work when she realized Priesner was still standing there, with an expectant look on his face.

“No, sir,” she spat out.

“That’s right,” he nodded with smug satisfaction.

With one last glare thrown his way she got back to trying to retrieve the dead boar's heart without damaging the valuable organ, using her knife to cut away the arteries attached to it. The supervisor continued to hover around her for a few more minutes until she had the heart free, dropping it onto a small tray sitting beside the carcass with a small plop.

“You would do well to treat the reagents with more care, Apprentice,” he chided her. "Right now, they are more valuable to the Guild than you are. After all, they might save a real Wizard from a bad miscast one day, but you? Your worth has yet to be proven. And if you don't tidy up that attitude of yours soon, the prospects are looking quite poor for you."

Yara bit down on her tongue to keep herself from snapping back with a retort, until she started to taste blood. Satisfied, the Perpetual stalked off towards the other Apprentices.

She wanted nothing more than to punch his smug teeth out of his mouth, and only shoving her hand into the pouch containing her hoard kept her from following through on the impulse. Running her fingers over the coins, feeling the worn shapes and stamped imagery on the precious metals, she allowed the soothing beauty of the goldsong to calm herself.

She returned to brutalizing the boar carcass, wielding the butcher's knife with more force than what was strictly necessary. Eyes, tongues, hearts, lungs, claws, teeth, spines and skulls were supposedly the most mystically attuned parts of the animal, and these were the ones Yara stripped from the body while stewing in her anger.

It was not as though the work itself was particularly difficult for her. Lugging around animal carcasses all day was easy for her, to the point that Gregor had advised her not to advertise the fact that she could easily lift a fully-grown boar or deer over her head without casting a spell. She was also already familiar with the process of cutting open her kills for hide and meat, and if anything, the smell of raw meat and blood was an improvement on the rest of the city.

She just resented the indignity of it, being made to do messy menial labour while some useless snob loomed over her shoulder needling her.

And the worst part was, despite knowing she'd been set up, Yara could not bring herself to break her word. Because that would mean having to admit defeat. Proving him right.

-----

The Konigsgarten was apparently one of the few areas of Middenheim where greenery still reigned, a massive plateau near the eastern end of the Fauschlag, tucked away from the scouring wind and lashing rains. Well-tended bushes, trees and grass grew there, given colour by the first-emerging flowers of the quickly-warming spring. Approaching the center of the huge garden, however, carefully cultivated plantlife gave way to a measure of wilderness in a thicket the locals called Hohain. Dotted by eight great menhirs arranged in a circular formation, the dense tangle of woods was almost completely overrun with roots, bracken and fungi.

Ghur swirled around the menhirs like a cyclone, its roar so loud that Yara had to focus to make out what Magister Weber was saying, leading the apprentices into the underbrush. The Bestial Wind blasted outward from the Eternal Flame, racing through the narrow streets and over the city walls to fall upon the wilderness beyond, but the Hohain caught the flow of magic in a whirlpool as it flowed past it, not entirely unlike a rock or a trench in the middle of a fast-flowing river.

It had been four days since her arrival to Middenheim, and she was just about ready to jump out of her skin already. The monotonousness of the life of manual labour and trying to hammer the little scribbles humans called letters into her brain was broken only by the occasional shouting match with the Perpetual supervisors.

“Once, the ancient Teutogens conducted their religious rites here,” she faintly heard Weber explain as they reached the middle of the menhir circle in the shadow cast by the canopy. ”Now it is the domain of the Amber Order, and where we conduct our most important rituals and lessons.”

A second Amber Wizard stood with her, the third that Yara had ever seen. He had not deigned to introduce himself; tall, crooked and lean like a mountain tree growing from a crack in the cliffside. Lichen coloured his long, thin grey beard, while a large reptilian skull Yara couldn't quite recognize sat atop his head like a helmet, his dark, unreadable eyes peering at the apprentices from its shadow.

In truth, Yara had had little interaction with the other Apprentices. They were around her age, or rather the age of her human guise, but they had little in common. When she’d first drawn the ire of the instructors, they had been content to keep their distance from her and let her draw their attention, an act she had reciprocated.

While Yara chafed against the discipline demanded by the Guild, they submitted to the elders of the pack, heads held low and tails tucked between their legs. Perhaps they too had once raged against their situation until they had given up, deciding it was better to take the morsels they were offered until they had earned better treatment.

It didn't matter, for this, too, was Ghur. It was a valid survival strategy, and Yara could respect it even as it frustrated her. But she was a dragon, and dragons did not submit.

"All of you have some degree of talent, or else you would not be here," Weber carried on, addressing the Apprentices as they settled to take seats among the roots and moss that covered the forest floor between the menhirs. Yara herself took to leaning against one of the tree trunks, crossing her arms.

“Do not let that go to your heads, however. Should you fall short of the standards of the Guild, there are always more willing to take your place, while you are sent off to Reikland.”

Yara rolled her eyes at the way Weber presented it as a threat. The sheer enthusiasm with which humans divided themselves into onion layers of in- and out-groups would have been impressive if trying to keep track of it wasn’t such a headache.

“Some of you may even be capable of certain petty magics and cantrips already. Apprentice Trueclaw, since the lesson does not seem to interest you, would you like to demonstrate?”

“Don’t have any animals to use it on,” Yara muttered, glaring at the older woman. It was not as though she could reveal the spell she’d used to assume human form, and the only other one she knew was the one she had devised as a hunting tool. It allowed her to influence the behaviour of nearby animals, either forcing them to flee out of their hiding spots in panic or to cower in place, making them easy prey. “Unless you’d like me to demonstrate it on my fellow Apprentices.”

They gave Yara disturbed looks, but Weber ignored them, smiling at her like she’d expected that answer. “A shame. Weiskopf, if you would.”

One of the other Apprentices stepped forward, a short but broadly built boy dressed in simple brown robes somewhat haphazardly interwoven with a handful of rat bones that clicked and clacked as he moved. He held up one of the bone charms that Gregor had shown her, dangling from a loop of thread, carved with arcane sigils. Reading aloud from the fetich, Weiskopf began to chant words of power in that strange language Gregor had used for his spells, the one she’d learned was called Magick, or Lingua Praestantia.

Now that she had the opportunity to study it Yara committed each word to memory, examining the foreign speech patterns. It was unlike either Reikspiel or Dragontongue, but at least unlike the latter it seemed to be designed to be spoken with human mouthparts rather than a mix of roars, growls and vibrations beyond the limited range of mortal hearing.

“There are three parts to how we interact with magic.” Weber’s voice brought Yara’s eyes back to the Magister, forcing her to split her attention. “The first is Attunement, the manner in which you align your soul, your very self with the Winds to resonate with them. Second is Witchsight, your ability to perceive magic. Though some of you may innately hear, smell or even feel the Winds’ touch, by the end of your training you will have learned to visualize their flow and colours.”

Weiskopf finished with his laborious chanting, dragonsong emanating from him in thick and heavy notes that seemed to wrap around him. Now that Weber had mentioned it, the more Yara thought about how sound could wrap around something the more her head hurt. Still, it seemed like a lot of work for what seemed to be just a simple protective spell, a glowing sheath of translucent amber surrounding the boy that illuminated the shade cast by the canopy above.

“Last but by far most important is what you just saw, Channelling. It is what separates a true magic user from a seer or wise woman who catches glimpses of the arcane without ever truly understanding it, for Channelling is how you are able to course the Winds through you, and grasp and shape them to do your bidding.”

Weber held out an open palm, and the dragonsong uncoiled itself from Weiskopf, swirling around the Magister’s hand.

“This is Ghur. It is the World-Dream, the Brown Wind, the Bestial Wind, the wild and bestial spirit of nature expressed through the flow of the Winds of Magic that blow through the mortal world. It is what fuels the Lore of Beasts, the magic practiced by the Amber Order. This is what you are here today to learn.”

Despite Weber’s earlier chastisement, Yara was following with rapt attention. This was what she was here to learn. The sooner she mastered it, the sooner she could be done with all this.

“Every living being has a soul. From the dim but stubbornly warm presence of a loyal hound, to the infinitesimal sliver of an ant that only reveals its true beauty when seen as part of the mosaic of the hive. Even the trees whose roots you sit upon have souls. Closer aligned with Ghyran than Ghur, but souls all the same. Ghur, as it flows through the world, is drawn to the souls of beasts both great and small. The wind that courses through a mouse with its meagre little soul is gossamer-thin strand, hard to perceive and harder still to grasp, while a great dragon is like a raging river, closer to a living leyline in its own right. And as it flows through them, they leave behind echoes in the wind, impressions in the World-Dream. Over time, these echoes coalesce into spirits. It is through drawing forth these spirits that we Amber Wizards cast most of their spells.”

“And humans?” Yara asked, unable to hold back her curiosity. “What impression do they leave upon Ghur?”

“I do not believe you were given permission to speak, Apprentice,” Weber rebuked her with a commanding tone, as the other Apprentices went very, very still. “Interrupt me again, and we may need to reassess Martak's assurance that you are ready for these lessons.”

Yara suppressed the urge to scoff, grinding her teeth instead and looking away. Now was not the time.

“But you do bring up a good point. Humans, of course, possess souls, but they do not align easily with Ghur. The Brown Wind is Instinct, it is Survival, and it is Freedom. The Dream of the Wild is found in the hunt of the predator and in the desperate energy of its prey. It is the Truth of Nature, not the Lies of Man. We are both more and less than beasts."

That… didn’t feel right to Yara. But as much as it frustrated her, Weber's threat was not without bite. She had no desire to be removed from the lesson, and admit her failure to Gregor.

"Now, the easiest is to imbue a small measure of the spirit upon yourself or an ally. The agility of brother lynx, the endurance of brother ox, or the indomitability of brother boar. A skilled wielder of Ghur may even summon these spirits to the material realm for a time as ethereal servants. But the truest measure of an Amber Wizard's worth is their ability to draw the spirit within yourself, to immerse your own soul with it such that you may assume its shape. To do so is risky beyond even the norm for wielding the winds, for if the strength of the spirit proves greater than your will, it may crush your human soul entirely, subsumed within it and unable to extricate yourself.“

“Or, in pouring yourself into too small of a container, you leave too much of yourself behind."

Yara went very, very still as a raspy, guttural voice interrupted Weber. He had been so quiet that she had forgotten the other Magister had been there, observing them.

"...Yes, quite." Weber quickly gathered herself, carrying on. “Such is the cautionary tale of Kadon, the great shaman of ages past to whose teachings we owe much, even today. For he was a master of shapes, shifting his form as easily as he breathed, until one day he found that he could no longer change back. Some believe he is still out there, the splintered fragments of his soul locked eternally within some mindless beast."

Kadon. Yara recognized the name distantly as the one whose spell she would have to imitate if she was to express her true self without arousing suspicion, but most of her thoughts were still stuck on what the other Magister had said.

Leave too much of yourself behind. What was that supposed to mean?

"All magic comes at a risk, and even the greatest of us can only lessen that peril, never truly eliminate it. But that is the duty bestowed upon us by Magnus the Pious, to risk our immortal souls so that others may be preserved," Weber explained. The other Apprentices suddenly sat a little straighter, their eyes just a little sharper.

Magnus. He'd been… the one who founded the Colleges?

"Today, you will take your first steps along that path, and begin the road to learning your first true spell. Observe.”

Weber held out her arms, gathering the dragonsong to herself as she intoned arcane litanies with a confident, steady voice. Even as Yara pressed each word to memory, she couldn’t help but be a little impressed by Weber’s spellcraft. What had taken Weiskopf nearly a full minute of chanting, she matched and exceeded in a matter of seconds.

Though Yara couldn’t understand the words used, she could recognize the structure of the spell, and the flow of the dragonsong. Weiskopf had started with a low chant that rose over time, building up strength before finishing with a decisive command. Weber had skipped the buildup entirely, simply uttering a command and grasping the winds to do her bidding.

Which suggested that there were two parts to casting a spell: one to gather power, and the actual spell itself. A sufficiently powerful or skilled wizard could skip over the first part, saving time and effort.

Weber’s form began to glow with soft amber light, until it suddenly warped and twisted into a new shape. A moment later in the woman’s place stood a large female deer with brown-red fur and amber markings along its flanks.

Yara watched it unfold with a certain sense of fascination. Was this how her own transformations looked like from the outside?

The deer walked back and forth a few times, tossing its neck and kicking the underbrush to show that it was not an illusion or a trick, but a living, breathing being, before it dissolved into amber light once more and was replaced by Weber’s robed figure. She rapidly chanted another spell and disappeared again, this time shifting into a brown-feathered owl of amber eyes.

It took to the air, weaving a tight circle over the heads of the Apprentices, before landing back where it began and transforming back into Weber.

"The name of the incantation we use to draw the spirits to ourselves and accomplish these transformations is Beastform, but the full scope of nature in all its multitude cannot be contained within a single spell. Each spirit embodies the nature of the beast from which it was born, and so before you can harness it, you must first learn to understand it. Thus, while Form of the Graceful Deer and Form of the Watchful Owl might technically be the same spell, mastery of one might not extend to the other."

While Weber had been making her demonstration, the other Magister had been gathering dry branches from the forest floor and piling them into a small campfire. Yara saw him reach into a seal-skin pouch and retrieve a handful of dry, oddly coloured leaves, before crushing them in his hands and sprinkling them over the pile.

“To learn the essence of a spirit, you must undertake a vision journey to commune with it," Weber carried on. "We do not call Ghur the World-Dream idly, for you must immerse yourself within it, and grasp the true nature of the being you wish to become. Meditate upon your choice, and try to align your thoughts with it.”

As she spoke, the other Magister ran a gnarled hand over the branches, muttering something under his breath, and soon curling tongues of black smoke were rising from the pile. The air was quickly permeated with a grey haze, but there was an odd smell to it, too sweet for burning wood.

Worse, she could feel a slight sense of light-headedness settling in, a foreign and disquieting feeling. Dragons do not get light-headed. Glancing around herself, she could see several of the other Apprentices swaying their heads, their eyes looking slightly vacant.

"The leaves you put into the fire," Yara addressed the wizard, anger overriding Weber's earlier warning. "They cloud the mind."

"Aye," he replied with a rasp. "Helps open it to the spiritual."

He held her gaze with an even, uninterested expression, and eventually it was Yara who had to look away, if only so that she could concentrate. Thankfully Weber seemed uninterested in her dialogue with the other Wizard, instructing the other Apprentices.

"See within your own minds. Prove that you have what it takes to be a Shaman of the Amber Order."

Yara let her back slide down the tree trunk until she was in a sitting position, and crossed her legs. She took a deep breath, laying her hands on the dirt. She'd done this before, even if she hadn't fully understood what it was she'd been trying to do. She could repeat the performance.

Yara closed her eyes, and opened herself to the dragonsong.

She hadn't moved her eyelids, but the next moment her eyes were open again. The forest was gone. The other wizards were gone. The feeling of dirt beneath her fingers was gone.

Yara stood upon a cliff of bare rock, claws scraping against the stone, her tail curled around her feet. She felt the wind against her wing membranes, folded and tucked against her body, and her forked tongue running over rows of dagger-like teeth. She craned her head back and forth, relishing the sensation of having a proper serpentine neck again. Humans didn't even realize what they were missing out on with their limited range of articulation.

Despite how real her true form felt, her surroundings were far hazier. She stood upon a mountaintop, snow-capped peaks and lush valleys stretching around and before her, but the details were indistinct and in a constant flux, never quite the same after she looked away.

It was like a dream. Or a vision, if there was a difference between the two.

Focusing herself, Yara pondered upon Weber's words. She had never given any real consideration for shapes beyond the ones she already possessed. Her human form was an escape, and her true form sufficed for everything else. But she supposed she could see the logic in acquiring more, if only to pave the way for the eventual unveiling of her true form.

But what, then, was she to choose? She might have accepted the limitations of humanity as a method of survival, but she would not lower herself to become prey. Yet, no mere animal could compare to the majesty of true dragons, and anything that came close would be only scarcely less suspicious.

She turned her eyes towards the open skies above her, her sharp eyesight picking up tiny dark, winged shapes contrasted against the blue vastness. There was, perhaps, one way she could bring herself closer to her true self without revealing herself.

Yara spread her wings wide, and took flight. With but a few powerful beats she soared high above the mountaintops, the world spreading out below her like an infinite plain.

She had not lied to Gregor when she'd told him she would not give this up for anything. Flight was one of the greatest joys the world had to offer, the freedom and liberation it offered unparalleled in its scope.

Eagles nested among the mountaintops, building their eyries and spreading their wings in search of prey. The mightiest of the birds of prey, who judged the world from far above, descending only to hunt and kill.

It would be… adequate, for her purposes.

Yara settled into a level glide over the mountaintops, watching the eagles keep a respectful distance from the dragon. She thought of her very first flight, as a newborn wyrmling, her wings still slick with the residue of her hatching. The frantic desperation of the ascent, and the sheer, unadulterated relief as she left the dangers of the earth behind her.

She thought of her first hunt, after several days of coasting on thermal updrafts forced her to descend or succumb to hunger. A mountain goat had been separated from its herd, and though the creature had been nearly as large as herself, she'd knocked it down the mountainside and swooped down on its broken form to feast on its flesh before a greater predator could scent it and claim the kill from her.

Yara had eventually learned that to look down upon the world meant that the world could see you in turn, but before leaving the mountains behind her she'd spent many years hunting on those snow-capped peaks.

It was those hunts she recalled now, for Weber had bid them to try to associate with their chosen animal, and she had often witnessed the eagles that populated the rocky pinnacles that had been her home.

The rhythm of riding upon the thermal updrafts, the constant vigilance for prey and predator alike among the vastness that stretched below you, the frantic thrill of the attack dive and the moment of impact…

Then she felt it, the shift in the world around her. The eagles had stopped. They were looking at her.

She felt the spiritual connection brushing against her soul, and in that flicker of an instant, lifetimes passed through her mind's eye. Thoughts, concepts, experiences, instincts. The eagle's animalistic mind was alien in its simplicity in a manner unlike both dragon and human, and Yara recoiled from the contact.

Startled, her eyes flew open, and reality reasserted itself. She was back in the Hohain, surrounded by trees and root-wrapped menhirs that softly pulsed with power. The fire had guttered out, leaving behind only a handful of embers, the smoke blown away by the wind. By the position of the sun in the sky, nearly dipping below the trees in the west, it had been far longer than she'd thought.

"Well, I suppose you did well, for your first time." Weber's voice broke through her thoughts. Looking around herself, Yara could see the other Apprentices were already standing or in the process of picking themselves up. "You may take the rest of the evening off."

"I almost had it," Yara protested. "I just need-"

"You didn't think you were going to pick it all up in one afternoon, were you?" Weber turned towards her, raising an amused eyebrow. "Most won't master shapeshifting until they're nearly Journeymen. Now off you go, shoo. I have work to do."

-----

"You got any jobs that need doing?"

The sign hanging above the entrance to the seedy tavern she’d found in the Altmarkt district had just been a mess of incomprehensible symbols to Yara, but the name of the establishment didn’t really matter to her.

The barkeep glanced at her over the counter, sizing her up, before shaking his head. “Nah, lass. We've got plenty o' hands already.”

"Nothing that needs lifting or carrying? I can pull my weight."

"I'm sure you can," he replied in a tone that said nothing of the sort. "But food and drink is only for coin."

Yara sighed in frustration. Humans and their ridiculous little systems. It had been so much easier out in the edges of the Drakwald, where she could simply barter with meat and furs. She’d been looking forward to exploring the city and seeing if all of its taverns were as glum as the Split Veil, after finally finding a couple of free hours from the Guild, but none of the ones she'd found thus far had been amenable to a trade of services.

Her hand drifted over the pouch at her belt she kept her hoard in, and for a couple of seconds she considered just paying for a drink. Just a single silver coin would more than cover the evening. But every time the thought came to her, she would think of the voice that would be forever missed from the chorus of Khrauchir. She would think of the coin, her treasure, in the barkeep's greasy, spill-stained hands, and her fingers would curl closed, recalling the claws they were meant to be.

"Fine, I'll just go somewhere-"

“I’ll pay,” another voice cut in as someone stepped up next to Yara, dropping several silver coins on the counter. She made a half-step turn, positioning herself to watch the newcomer and the barkeep at the same time.

It was a woman dressed in long blue robes, not as tall as Yara but closer than most. Human facial features tended to blend together for her, but she would guess the woman was only a few years older than the appearance of her human guise. And while she had been too engrossed in the argument to hear it as she approached, the woman was surrounded by a gentle but unearthly song, the hum of wind on a hilltop, laced with an edge of static.

"As long as I get paid, I don't care," the barkeep said with a shrug of his shoulders, lifting a pair of tankards from behind the table and filling them up from a barrel.

"Don't look so shocked, my dear," the woman smiled as she turned towards Yara. "It wouldn't do to have an Apprentice of the Guild reduced to begging, no?"

"I was handling it." Yara scowled.

"I'm sure you did, but this is far more convenient, wouldn't you agree?" The woman tilted her head, as the barkeep slammed a pair of foaming tankards on the counter. "Now, shall we sit down, or would you rather continue this conversation in front of everyone?"

Yara grunted in affirmation, grabbing one of the drinks before stalking off to one of the quieter corners of the tavern, sitting down in an unoccupied alcove. The woman seemed to practically glide into the seat opposite from her, a sort of unnatural weightlessness to her movements.

"Now. What do you want from me?"

"My, is that how you speak to your superiors?" Her relatively plain robes suggested she was probably a Journeyman Wizard, technically making her a rank higher than Yara, but she was past caring.

"Do you expect me to bow and scrape?" she replied bluntly. "I get to do enough of that at the Guild."

"From what I've heard, certain people would disagree with that assessment." She smiled. "But no, what I would expect is perhaps, ah, a thank you?"

Yara ground her teeth for a moment. "Fine. Thanks. For the drink."

"Not going to say 'I owe you one'?"

"Don't push your luck," Yara retorted. "I would have kept looking for a tavern in need of manual labour."

"I don't doubt it," she smiled. “Janna Eberhauer, Journeywoman Wizard of the Celestial Order.”

“Yara Trueclaw. Apprentice. Amber,” she supplied tersely. “But I suppose you already knew that.”

“As a matter of fact I did not, save for the last part,” Eberhauer responded. “I saw you at the Guild, working for one of the Perpetuals.”

"So you decided to stalk me when I went out into the city?" Yara asked pointedly.

“I make a habit of acquainting myself with characters of interest, whenever such personages join the Guild. There are few problems in life that cannot be solved by knowing the right people.”

“And you believe me to be one of these people?”

“I am an Astromancer. The tangles of fate are mine to read, and they hang heavy over you,” she shrugged her shoulders. “The bonfire that is your presence in the Aethyr was hard to miss, as well.”

"Mmhm." Yara didn't really understand what she was talking about, but it seemed plausible enough. A dragon was still a dragon, in human form or otherwise.

"And during my last patrol with the City Watch, I could not help but overhear rumours that Herla Heiwardt's pet Ogre got his head bashed in by some wild forest witch."

"How did you know-" Yara startled, nearly jumping from her seat before catching herself, but it was too late.

“I didn’t, not for sure, until just now,” Eberhauer smiled in a self-satisfied manner, and only an effort of self-control held Yara back from her first instinct of punching it off her face. She forced herself to sit back down, the song churning under her skin as she exerted her will to keep her composure.

“The Guild. Do they know?”

“A few of them might suspect it, if they have their ears to the rumour mills on the streets,” Eberhauer carried on glibly, the self-assured smile never leaving her face. “But most prefer to focus on their studies, and certainly none of them have enough evidence to make an accusation against an Apprentice claimed and vouched for by a senior Magister of the Guild.”

Which meant that she didn’t have enough evidence to accuse Yara. Which meant this was a roundabout way of saying Eberhauer didn’t intend to blackmail her.

“And Heiwardt?”

“Worried she’ll come after you? I wouldn’t be, she’s going to have her hands full with others muscling in on her turf now that she’s down an Ogre.” She took a long sip from her tankard. “But if she survives those, best watch your back. You’ve made an enemy in Middenheim.”

“If she’s dumb enough to try again, she won’t live long enough for a third attempt.”

“Ha! I knew I liked you for a reason.” Eberhauer took a long sip from her tankard. "Still, I'd leave that as a last resort. I don’t know how it is in the Drakwald, but in the city bodies turning up tends to attract the wrong kind of attention."

“You seem to know a lot about the city, for someone who claims that wizards prefer to focus on their studies.”

“I keep apprised of matters that go on in my home.”

Yara paused. Where had she heard that before-

“Your Master taught me that," Eberhauer interrupted her thoughts.

And therein lay the question. Did Gregor know? And if so, why hadn’t he said anything?

…Or was he counting on her attempts to conceal it from him being a better deterrent against seeking out trouble in the future?

She voiced none of those thoughts, however.

“You know him?”

“Of course, there’s few wizards in Middenheim who don’t. He’s been a fixture at the Guild for the last twenty years. Everyone knows it should be him in charge of the Amber branch, but he's left it to Weber so he can disappear into the Drakwald for months on end. It's such a shame."

"He doesn't go out there to have fun."

Yara was surprised by the vehemence in her own voice. Where had that come from?

"Oh, for a certain, but he could be accomplishing so much more in the city. He's one of the few Amber Wizards who actually care."

"Care about what?"

"The people of the Empire, and how they see us. Most shamans, most wizards, prefer to pretend society's this… thing, set apart from us. Like we can just live our lives in our towers and caves and libraries, ignoring the rest of humanity whenever it's convenient, until the next Everchosen comes kicking."

Yara made a hmm-ing noise like she understood what that was.

"But Martak, he has vision. He sees the big picture, that we can't just ignore the society around us. That we have to understand it, and it has to understand us. Which is why it's such a shame he doesn't act on it."

"And I suppose you are going to?"

Yara wasn't stupid, she knew Eberhauer was leading the conversation towards something. But a part of her… was just glad to have someone to talk to.

"I am. Because in a couple of decades, I am going to be running the Guild.”

“Did the stars tell you that?” Yara raised an eyebrow.

“No, just a statement of fact,” Eberhauer replied in a self-assured tone.

“Ambitious.”

“Are you not?” She inclined her head lightly. “Don’t tell me you’ve got all that power and just plan on not doing anything big with it?”

“What I’m planning on, is making it to Magister so I can get the likes of Priesner and Weber off my back. Then I might give a thought to what to do next."

“Ah, the wild and free spirit of Ghur.” Eberhauer shook her head in amusement. “Well, if you’re looking for some excitement in the city, you could try volunteering to work with the City Watch. High Wizard Helseher has been making a push to ingratiate the Guild with the Midden Marshalls, and they're always looking for wizards to accompany patrols. All you need is a developed Witchsight, though they don't usually mind a helping hand either."

"And there are many wizards in the Guild who would be grateful for someone else to take on such an onerous task so that they might return to their studies, no?" Yara pointed out. "Gratefulness that would be quite valuable for someone planning on making a bid for leadership one day?"

"That is… indeed one benefit.”

"Anyway, my encounters with the City Watch so far haven’t given me the greatest of impressions."

"Nothing of the criminal sort, I hope?"

"Tried to toll me with a fake tax."

"Ah, yes. Depressingly common, these days. But you see my point, then. Such things will never be fixed if all the Empire's wizards just hide away, only showing up when there's trouble."

"It seems to me like most of the Empire wants it to remain that way," Yara retorted.

Eberhauer laughed again, shaking her head. "You remind me of my sister, studying at the Bright College in Altdorf. You would have made an excellent Pyromancer, I think."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was.” Eberhauer smiled. ”If you'd like a piece of advice I've heard from her, the best way to deal with instructors breathing down your neck is to prove them wrong and show them what you’ve got. Spite is a wonderfully potent form of motivation.”

On that, Yara could not help but to agree.

-----

Magister Yanni Weber watched the junior Apprentices follow her into the Hohain, the tall figure of Yara Trueclaw easily recognizable among them, navigating the roots and underbrush with practiced ease.

Even against the backdrop of the Ghur blowing through the menhir circle her presence was visible to Weber's Witchsight, like a raging bonfire amidst the candles that were the rest of the Apprentices. She had never seen anything quite like it, save perhaps among the few elven wizards she'd been forced to face, on and off the battlefield. In a couple of years she would be a real force to be reckoned with, if she made it that far.

The girl cast a defiant glare in Weber's direction as she settled down, probably still smarting from the rebuke she'd given her four days ago. The Perpetuals reported similar issues with her attitude at the Guild. It was a paradox she'd become all too acquainted with over the years of managing the Amber Order's affairs in Middenheim: those with the greatest affinity for the Bestial Wind were often also the least suited to the discipline demanded by the Imperial Colleges.

Still, they would all learn, in due time. Gregor had indulged the girl too much, and allowed her to develop an overinflated sense of her abilities and place in the world. They would need to work on that.

Raw talent was nothing wíthout will and experience behind it.

"Today, you will continue to attempt to commune with the spirits and deepen your understanding of Ghur, in preparation for one day assuming your first animal form." She surveyed the gathered Apprentices before her, making sure each of them was listening and understood what she was saying. "You should know the drill by now. Any questions before you begin?"

“No smoke this time?”

“No,” Weber answered Trueclaw’s question with a smile. “The herbs are a useful tool, but I will not have you grow reliant on them.”

The only reply she got was a non-committal grunt. Weber was of half a mind to discipline her for the disrespect, but she had already slumped down against a nearby tree, closing her eyes. At least the girl had initiative, unlike some.

Weiskopf and the others needed more instruction, their connection to Ghur not as developed as Trueclaw's. In truth, she suspected the other Apprentices were intimidated by the girl, her power obvious even to their newly-developed witchsight. That would not do: the girl had a big enough of a head already.

In fact, she was so busy with the others she didn’t pay attention to the shift in the Winds around Trueclaw until she heard the Magick chanting coming from her direction. The very same words she’d used, four days ago. As she turned Weber saw the flicker around the girl with her Witchsight, an ethereal wisp of feathered wings and rending talons, followed by her form beginning to glow with amber light, rapidly warping and twisting.

A moment later, where Trueclaw had just stood, a large golden eagle with magnificent brown and white plumage was perched on the tree branch, staring back at her with glowing eyes of amber.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6 High Temple of Sigmar

Notes:

This Chapter was originally going to be combined with the next one, but it got so long that I decided to split it up for pacing purposes. Chapter 7 should hopefully be a little quicker, I already have parts of it written down.

Also, I have some art! Just a little something I got drawn to help visualize what Yara looks like.

“One week,” Yanni Weber mumbled under her breath, shaking her head in amazement. “One week to master Beast Form. If you hadn’t already claimed her as an Apprentice I would take her on myself.”

“I told you she was talented,” Gregor Martak replied, leaning against the stone walls of her office. “In power and skill, she is already a Journeyman, and truthfully most of the way to Magister. She just needs knowledge and experience.”

“She even turned back to human without assistance,” Weber carried on. “That’s not just talent, it is genius. Nobody's heard of something like that since Van Horstmann, or that boy the Golds took on straight as a Magister, no Apprenticeship or Journeying."

"Balthasar Gelt."

"Right. In a couple of years, Trueclaw will be an asset beyond price for the Amber College."

“An asset for Middenland,” Gregor corrected her sharply. “For the Empire.”

Something in his tone made her pause.

“The dreams have been bothering you again?”

“They never stopped,” Gregor sighed, crossing his arms. “Same thing every time. Death and destruction. Sometimes for me, sometimes… everyone. Men, women and children slaughtered like cattle, entire cities torched by the fires of hell, the whole of the Empire swept away by a tide of death that descends from the north.”

“You still haven’t told anyone about them?”

“And tell them what?” Gregor asked rhetorically, re-treading the well-worn argument. “Everyone knows that a new Everchosen will eventually arise from the Chaos Wastes to bring war upon the Old World. The only question is when, and to that I have no answers to give.”

“Don't you? ‘The blade that sheds blue blood seeks thine own’.”

“So now we’re taking the Dooming seriously?” Gregor growled in frustration. “It is superstition, nothing more. There are millions of people across the Old World whose doom is foretold by the Morrites, yet fails to come true.”

“Those untold millions have not foretold a Chaos invasion,” Weber countered. “In the annals of the dwarves, the sword of the second Everchosen is named as the Slayer of Kings. You, of all people, should know better than to dismiss the coincidence.”

“And once more, we circle back to the question. What would you have me do? How shall I convince anyone of the validity of my visions, without being burned at stake? When I can’t even say from whence they came? I am no Celestial Wizard. I wield the power of Ghur, not the vagaries of Azyr.”

He shook his head.

“No. All I can do, all any of us can do, is strengthen the Empire for what is to come.”

-----

The dusty stone chamber in the cellar of the guildhouse was lit only by candles, the walls lined with bookcases and closets. Most of the floorspace was taken by rows upon rows of writing pulpits, as well as strange rotating tables that could hold multiple books and allowed the reader to swap between them as needed.

Dozens of scribes in black robes toiled there, the presence of so many Perpetuals and their dampening amulets in close proximity making Yara's teeth ache. The smell of parchment and ink was nearly overpowering to her, dust and tiny feather pieces from their quills floating through the air irritating her nose.

Feeling miserable, she sat by a desk tucked away in the corner of the chamber, glancing between the book she’d propped open to the left of her, and the half-filled parchment in front of her. To her right sat a pot of ink and a quill, surrounded by black stains.

With a growl of frustration she grabbed the writing tool and dipped it in ink before resuming her work, awkwardly attempting to copy the symbols from the book into the parchment. Understanding their meaning had presented little true challenge: it was simply a matter of memorization and matching the letters to sounds she already knew.

No, the hard part was producing more. The quill sat stiffly in her grip as it glided over the sheet, attempting to follow the shapes of infernal human symbols, bending, curling and curving in ways that made no sense. Ink spilled, the gentle twists and coils turning harsh and angular as the letters began to melt into one another, becoming one enormous, undecipherable maze.

By the time she presented her finished work, she already knew where things were going to go. A dragon's claws were not meant for such delicate work.

"This is… well, it's completely illegible," the Perpetual said, turning the sheet over in his hands.

Head Scribe Karl Weishaupt, as he’d been introduced to her, was a small, balding, mousey-looking man dressed in thick black robes, a circular piece of some sort of translucent material that Yara had yet to figure out the significance of over his left eye.

"I'm sorry, but you are going to need to start from the beginning again. Do not be discouraged, however, only repetition can beget mastery."

Weishaupt was less irritating than Priesner, offering understanding and advice, but this did little to improve Yara's mood.

Before she could grumble a response however, there was a commotion among the other scribes, and as Yara turned her head she saw Gregor making his way across the chamber towards them, his huge form forcing the scribes to shy out of his way.

"Belay that," the Magister told the Perpetual. “Something has come up. I’ll be taking Yara for the rest of the day.”

Yara bristled at the turn of phrase, as if she was a mule to be led around, but the promise of escape from the hell of ink and paper dust held her tongue.

"Certainly, my lord," Weishaupt bowed his head immediately. "But I must ask you to consider that her handwriting will never improve if she does not practise."

He presented him with Yara's worksheet, but Gregor barely glanced at it as he set it aside.

"Can she read, Weishaupt?"

"She can," the Head Scribe conceded. "But-"

"Then that is good enough," he cut him off. "We of the Amber Order rarely publish research papers. Writing can come later, but for now, we have work to do."

He turned on his heel, gesturing for her to follow as he marched out of the scribing chambers.

"You got the face down," Gregor noted neutrally, his staff clanking against the stone floor as they walked the empty corridor. "But you made yourself too tall by an inch again."

Yara rolled her eyes at him.

"Not like anyone's going to notice."

"Perhaps not this one time. But if it keeps happening…"

Yara simply grunted dismissively.

"That was a risky thing, what you did, showing off like that," Gregor pressed. "If you hadn't been able to roll back just the human transformation, but reverted to your true form instead, there would have been more questions than we could have answered."

"But I was. I don't see the problem."

“But what if you didn’t?”

"But I did."

Gregor threw his hands up in exasperation, but let the matter go.

"So, what's the occasion?" Yara changed the topic as they came to the grand hall of the guildhouse, heading towards the main doors. "You said something came up."

"A squire of the Order of the Reiksguard came by the Guild, asking for an Amber Wizard at the Temple of Sigmar. None of the others know the right spells, and I thought you could use the break," he explained, before pausing, a note of amusement entering his voice. "Who knows, you might even learn something."

Ah, so they were just going to pretend like she knew what those words meant.

"The Reiksguard are a knightly order sworn to the Emperor, his own little private army,” Gregor explained as they emerged into the city streets. “They rarely come to Middenheim, but Reiksmarshall Helborg is here to confer with Graf Todbringer on military matters."

“So they’re like the White Wolves, but for Sigmar?”

“Hm? No, they are officially secular.”

Yara gave him a blank look.

“It means… non-religious. Unaffiliated with any of the Gods.”

“Right. So why are we going to the Temple of Sigmar then?”

“I said officially secular. Just like they officially eschew provincial ties, but, well, only one of them is in the name,” Gregor scoffed. “Sigmar was born in Reikland, and it is where the center of the cult lies. Sigmarite faith has long been synonymous with Reiklander ambition.”

“Kind of like Middenland is synonymous with Ulric?”

“Hrm," Gregor seemed unhappy with the comparison, but let the matter go. "The Reiksguard have no Chapterhouse in Middenheim, so Helborg and his guard are guests of the Cult of Sigmar."

"So why are you helping them?"

"The Reiklanders might not know the business end of an axe from the shaft, but they are still men of the Empire," Gregor shook his head, sounding vaguely offended. "My duty is to the Empire, not just Middenland. And besides, it never hurts to rub it in a little."

-----

The High Temple of Sigmar in Middenheim was not an unimpressive building, all towering stone walls and imposing gargoyles. It seemed that the Sigmarites had spared no expense in showing off their wealth and power in the heartland of their chief rivals.

Alas, it seemed that rather than impress or awe the locals, the display seemed to have instead incensed them, if the mob of angry people surrounding the building were any indication. A sea of red faces from all walks of life united by anger and outrage, the main unifying factor that she could pick out being that most wore their hair and beards long and wild.

There was little coherency to the roaring of the crowd, just a wall of noise from which Yara could pick out individual words, but she got the gist of it. They were angry, angry that Todbringer had lost the election, angry that Sigmar's cult had three votes to Ulric's one, angry that the Reiksguard were in their city, angry that the Sigmarites hid in their temple rather than face them head on… in truth it seemed there was very little they weren't angry about.

At the front of the crowd, several people were being held up on the shoulders of others so that they could daub crude wolfshead icons on the walls of the temple in blue and white paint. As Yara watched, a patrol of uniformed Watchmen passed down the street, paying little heed to the scene as they went by.

“Are they going to try to stop us from getting to the Temple?"

“Stop us?” Gregor smiled knowingly. "If they try… just do what comes naturally."

Yara paused. Was he really…? Yes, he was.

Well then. She sure wasn't going to ask twice.

At first the mob gave them little trouble, focused as they were on the Temple, and Gregor's bulk combined with Yara's strength allowed them to push their way through the crowd. As they began to near the front of the pack, however, they began to respond to the intruders in their midst, a group of angry-looking men and women blocking their path.

"Hey!" the leader of the group barked at them, a squat bear of a man with a wild, red beard and clothes that looked like he butchered animals for a living. From what Yara could smell that didn't seem too far off. "Where do you think you're going?"

"What's it to you?" Yara said, sizing him up. He was a good few inches shorter than her, but much broader, his hands calloused and scarred. An iron icon hung from his neck, depicting a snarling wolfshead. "Going to try to stop us?"

"Yeah, I think I just might," the man growled.

“Go on then,” Yara said, spreading her arms. “Give it your best shot.”

There was a spark of apprehension in the man’s eye at the brazen display before him, a worm of doubt that there might be a reason why somebody half his weight was goading him on like this. But while Gregor might harp on Yara’s understanding of human nature, this she knew full well:

Challenge the leader before his pack, and he cannot afford to back down.

Meaty hands balled into fists, and with a roar the man surged forward, intent on bulldozing through any defence she might put up with sheer strength and inertia.

Instead, Yara caught the fist with ease, and laid the man on the ground with a single punch, his back meeting the cobblestone with a hefty thump.

She watched the others for signs that any of them wanted to have a go, but instead they seemed to regard her with newfound respect, nodding to each other as they hauled their friend back up and on his feet.

"Hell of a right hook you've got there," he mumbled, swaying drunkenly. "You kill that wolf with your own two hands?"

He pointed a thumb towards Yara's fur cloak.

"Yeah," she replied, unsure as to the direction the confrontation had taken.

Nodding in approval, the man turned around, one steadying hand still on his friend’s shoulder as he waved the others off.

“Let ‘em through! They’ve gots business with the Sigmarites.”

A moment later they were through, ascending the marble stairs towards the main doors.

"What was that about?" Yara asked aloud, confusion momentarily overriding her pride.

“By tradition, followers of Ulric may only wear the pelt of a wolf they've killed themself," Gregor explained.

"And they… let us in just based on that?"

“It is the Ulrican Creed. Never shy away from a challenge, but if beaten in a fair contest of arms by a fellow Ulrican of equal standing, the weaker must yield. Might engenders right.”

...Huh. She could learn to like these Ulricans.

The doors of the High Temple were three times the height of a tall man, cast from bronze and inlaid with enough silver that Yara felt the tenseness of the encounter with the mob leave her behind.

They were, naturally, locked tight, pieces of rotten vegetables marring the beautiful metalwork.

Gregor stepped up to the doors, knocking on the metal thrice in quick succession, then stepped back to wait for a response. After a moment of waiting and hearing none, he banged his fist against the door, producing impressive booming echoes.

“Begone, Ulrican savages!” a voice carried through the thick metal. “Almighty Sigmar curse you heathens!”

“Does the Cult of Sigmar make a habit of wasting the Wizards’ Guild’s time?!” Gregor roared back. “If the High Capitulary wishes to retain our services in the future, he would do well not to have us summoned without reason!”

There was a short pause, and then a series of clicking sounds as several locks were undone. With a squeal of metal hinges a small crack appeared between the doors, a pale face cautiously peering out.

“My apologies,” the young man blinked at the two of them, glancing past them towards the mob. “Come in, quickly, before the Ulricans notice the doors are open!”

Gregor rolled his eyes but obliged, gesturing for Yara to follow. A squad of armed guards shooed them inside, their postures tense and their hands on their weapons. The antechamber of the High Temple was as grandiose as the rest of the building, large frescoes lining the walls and the arched ceiling.

“We thought they were going to break down the doors,” the man who'd ushered them in said as the doors were closed again, a number of heavy locks and chains sealing it shut.

He turned towards them, a robed young man who unlike every other human Yara had seen so far, was completely hairless.

Was that a thing humans did? She’d always thought the little tuft of fur on top of their heads was for attracting mates, like the plumage of a peacock. Certainly she couldn’t think of any other use for it.

But this person had none. Was it a birth defect, or had he suffered an accident of some sort?

“Helmut Hönigsmann, Senior Acolyte of the High Temple, at your service.”

Ah, he was still talking.

“Gregor Martak, Magister-Shaman," Gregor grunted. "This is my Apprentice, Yara Trueclaw.”

"Good, good. I hope that those savages outside didn't give you too much trouble? It's been a pandemonium out here ever since… well, since the election really."

"We made do."

"Excellent,” Hönigsmann nodded. “I'd hoped that the Reiksmarshall's presence would quiet them down, but what can you expect out of Ulrican heathens?"

“I am here to do a job,” Gregor growled, pulling out a small steel wolfshead talisman that had been hidden beneath his shirt. “But take the Lord of Winter’s name in vain again, and I may have to rethink that.”

The priest shied back, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Of course,” he breathed out. "...Of course. My apologies. If you would follow me, we can get this over with."

Despite the apologetic tone of his words, Hönigsmann kept shooting Gregor dirty looks as he led them through the temple. Yara glimpsed ostentatious altars and rows upon rows of pews through arched doorways as they walked past, and heard enough gold and silver to make the small bag she was carrying on her hip feel more and more inadequate.

It seemed that these Cults that the humans placed such importance upon had made quite well for themselves. Such opulence and wealth, simply... given away? Yara would never understand humans and their silly little gods.

Hönigsmann took them to a side area of the temple building, the decoration growing less ostentatious as they moved away from the places of worship and towards where people lived. There were libraries, dormitories, kitchens, lecture halls… clearly these Sigmarites were not too keen on depending on the Ulricans for services.

Yara heard the horses before she saw them, as the dragonsong was flooded with the subdued yet strong notes she'd come to associate with the equines the humans used for transportation to compensate for their weak legs.

The temple stables were sizable, lined with rows of stalls filled with horses that were being attended to by a cadre of stablehands. Hönigsmann ignored them all, taking Yara and Gregor to a far corner of the stable area, where the sounds of an ongoing argument could be heard.

"I will not have it!" a tall, armoured man with an enormous mustache exclaimed. “It is witchcraft!”

"Sir Wesker, be reasonable." The other man was another priest, clad in robes like Hönigsmann's but significantly more ostentatious, golden thread woven amongst the black fabric. "There is no other way."

Hönigsmann stepped forward, bowing to the other priest as he addressed him.

"Father Hertricht, the wizards have arrived."

“Ah, good,” the man nodded, scarcely casting a glance in their direction as he seamlessly carried on the argument. “So, what shall it be? Is the dishonour of failure greater than that of associating with sanctioned wizards?”

“Ulricans,” Wesker sneered, as his gaze fell upon Gregor’s talisman and Yara’s cloak. “It’s not just witches you would have me treat with, but Ulrican witches.”

“You may observe that you are in Middenheim,” Hertricht snapped at the taller man. “Of course they are bloody Ulricans, you couldn’t throw a stick five feet down the street without hitting one.”

"All the more reason not to trust them!"

"Well then, Sir Wesker, I suppose you have three choices before you," Hertricht snapped at the taller man. “You might, should you be so inclined, explain to the Reiksmarshall why his honour guard will be one knight short. Alternatively, you could procure a warhorse trained to the Reiksguard’s standards, at your own expense, before tomorrow morning. Or you could let the wizards do their work, as Magnus the Pious decreed they shall.”

Again the appeal to Magnus, and with such reverence in his tone. Yet, from what she’d been told he had lived two centuries ago, meaning no human alive would have met anyone who’d been alive in his time. How could one man instill such adoration?

"What is it that you actually need us to do?" Gregor butted in, as Wesker huffed and puffed, trying to come up with a response. Hertricht turned to the Shaman, somehow managing to look down his nose at him despite being a full head shorter.

“Sir Wesker is a knight of the honourable Order of the Reiksguard, here to accompany Reiksmarshall Helborg on his visit to Middenheim," the priest explained. "While the Reiksmarshall conferred with Graf Todbringer, he bade his escort remain here at the High Temple and cause no trouble, but Sir Wesker took it upon himself to attempt to disperse the crowds outside.”

"It is abominable that such an affront to Sigmar is allowed to persist," the knight scoffed. "Would that more loyal sons of the Empire had taken action, we might have solved the issue already."

"A brawl is what they want," Hertricht retorted, clearly retreading a well-worn argument. "Whenever we've tried, the mob has only grown larger, not smaller."

"That just means you haven't tried hard enough."

"Enough," Gregor growled. "We are not here to settle that dispute, so get to the point."

"Hrm. Yes, quite." Hertricht turned towards the stall behind them, gesturing for Yara and Gregor to follow as he approached it. "Sir Wesker's ill-advised attempt at controlling the riots was not without casualties."

At the back of the stall lay a huge destrier, its brown fur bulging with hard muscle. The warhorse seemed well taken care of, its mane combed and a wilt bearing a black-red symbol of skull and cross draped over its back. But the most immediately striking detail about it was the way its left foreleg was bent to the side at an unnatural angle, resembling a snapped tree branch held together only by a thin strip of bark. The stablehands had managed to staunch the bleeding and clean the wound, but Yara could see from the splinters of bone sticking out from the fur that the horse would never walk again.

Not without the use of magic.

"I see what the problem is." Gregor nodded. "I can fix this without too much trouble."

“The Cult of Sigmar would like to see this resolved forthwith,” Herticht nodded.

Meaning that they didn’t want any embarrassing complications with the Reiksmarshall’s visit.

All eyes turned expectantly towards Wesker. The knight held their gazes defiantly, until a pitiful groan from the direction of the stall drew his attention, the horse struggling in a doomed attempt to stand, before collapsing with a whimper of pain.

"Fine," he snapped out, turning on his heel and striding away. "Do it and begone by the time I return."

"Charmed." Gregor noted, much to Yara's confusion. But there was no time to ponder on his odd word choice, as the Shaman turned towards her.

"Shall we get to work?"

-----

The priests, having no more desire to follow the wizards' work than the knight, had left them to their own devices, and so Yara found herself watching as Gregor approached the injured destrier.

He moved with slow, deliberate steps, not coming at it in a straight line and avoiding direct eye contact, making soothing clicking noises with his tongue. When he got close he slowly lowered himself to the hay-covered floor, sitting down against the back wall of the stall. He continued to murmur to it in a low voice, letting it get used to his presence. After a moment, the horse let out a small whinny, reaching over to nuzzle his open hand.

"It's important that she is docile for this. The feeling of magic running through your body, knitting your flesh back together, is enough to unsettle grown men who understand what is happening."

"It did not unsettle me," Yara felt the need to point out.

"Aye. You're a bit of a special case."

"Have you no spell to pacify her with?" Yara asked.

"I do, aye, and I might just do that if we were in a hurry. But drawing upon magic is always risky, and it might wear off before I'm done with her," he shook his head. "That's an important lesson for every wizard to learn, when not to use magic. Some things are best done the old-fashioned way."

"Hrm."

Gregor knelt by the horse, running his hand along its flank, before turning his gaze to the broken foreleg, careful not to touch it.

"The Jade Order, rightly renowned for their skills of healing, work the Wind of Life into supercharging the body’s natural healing processes, tapping into the innate will for all living beings to grow and be whole. The Hierophants of the Light Order meanwhile use Hysh to expel illness and injury from the body, and I’ve heard that the Amethyst Wizards can sap the life force of their foes to reinforce their own. Even the Pyromancers are able fashion their flames to sear wounds shut, to allow new growth to spring from the ashes, although their methods always leave behind scars.”

He turned towards Yara, an unreadable look on his face.

“We of the Amber Order use a different method. Do you remember when I used it on our way to Middenheim?”

Yara thought back to the battle against the Beastmen, and how Gregor had healed her wounds in the aftermath. She had been too preoccupied to fully concentrate on what he'd been doing, but…

"You reached into it with Ghur, and then… tugged? I… don't know the words to describe it."

Yara felt the burn of humiliation at the admission of weakness rise to the fore, but Gregor only nodded in approval.

“The name of the spell is Beast Made Well. It reaches through the strands of Ghur that resonate with all beasts, but instead of harnessing the echoes they leave in the Wind, I call upon the animal's own soul. The spirit knows the shape of its vessel, and so it is made whole.”

"So you… shift it into a healthy version of itself?"

"A bit of an oversimplification, but yes," Gregor smiled without showing teeth. "Now watch."

He rifled through the bags and pouches he always carried on him, settling on a tiny, intricately woven stripe of hair, the origin of which Yara could not place. It smelled like a horse… but not quite.

"Pegasus hair, sourced from the Imperial Zoo. They've come to owe the Amber Order quite a number of favours, over the years."

"I've never seen you use something other than your staff before."

"The staff is… multipurpose. A sledgehammer, for when you lack the right key. Or have no time to rifle through your collection in the middle of combat. Pegasus hair might be a little overkill for the task at hand, but the right reagent can make all the difference in a pinch, and I'd rather not embarrass the Guild in front of the Sigmarites."

He began to mutter in a low tone, using the strangely-flowing language of Magick. Each word enmeshed itself into the dragonsong, forming into a complex lattice that filtered the flow of magic, shaping it into specific notes and tones.

The strands of the spell reached into the horse, tugging and pulling. An amber glow surrounded the injured leg, and Yara could feel the destrier suck in a deep breath before letting out a distressed whinny. Gregor's eyes widened as the horse began to try to stand, but he was in the middle of chanting his spell,

Making a split-second decision, Yara threw herself against the horse and wrapped her arms around its broad chest, forcing it back down. Her arms burned with strain as she rolled it on its back, trying to avoid its flailing hooves as she did her best to keep it from gaining the leverage to apply its strength. Even so it was a losing battle, surprise and positioning at best bought her a couple of seconds before the hulking warhorse simply overpowered her, a dragon in human form or not. Strands of amber light were pulling at the wounds on its leg, but the process would not complete in time.

So instead, Yara took in a deep breath, drawing upon the dragonsong. This was no careful application of flowing words that the humans had taught her, but pure instinctual imposition of will.

She roared her intent into the song and it leapt to obey, blasting outward in a wave. As it struck the warhorse, midway to rolling on to its feet, the destrier was struck dumb, eyes flying wide in terror. It froze, pinned to the spot by her gaze, its small mind overcome with the knowledge that it lay helpless before an apex predator it had no hope of escaping. The only possible response was to lay utterly still, and hope it passed you by.

And so, Gregor finished the spell without so much as a twitch of movement from the horse, even as the broken limb was wrenched into its proper position and the splinters of bone were pulled back into place, layers of skin and fur knitting over the wounds.

Only then did Yara relinquish her will upon it, allowing it to cautiously roll on to its hooves, testing its healed leg. As she did so, she became aware of the fact that every other living being in the stables besides the two of them relaxed at once, horses returning to chewing on their feed and stablehands resuming their work.

"Hell of a spell, that," Gregor noted. "Same one that you used in Grehelshalft?"

"Yes," Yara said flatly. "I developed it to help with hunting. Panic the prey into exposing themselves, or terrify them into staying put."

"Most people start with little tricks of light and sound," Gregor grumbled with exasperation.

-----

A few minutes later they were on their way again, leaving the High Temple behind.

If the priests had had any thoughts about how the stablehands went about their duties with shaking hands, careful to cast stares in Yara’s direction only when they thought she wouldn’t see them, they hadn’t voiced them.

“Is this the kind of work wizards do in the city?” Yara asked.

“Aye. Not always such high profile clients, but aye. Most wizards are open to hire if you have enough coin. We of the Amber Order don't work for money, the Emperor's stipend covers our incidental needs, but the Golds in particular have made moneygrubbing into an art form."

”Hm. The first priest, Hönigsmann. Why did he assume you followed Sigmar?”

“Sigmarites like to think everyone who isn’t shouting his allegiance to another god is one of them,” Gregor grunted. “Besides, since it was Sigmar who outlawed magic and Magnus, a Sigmarite, who undid that ban, the official position of the Cult is that all wizards should be on their hands and knees thanking him for giving us a chance.”

"Hm. Well they'll be disappointed on my account then."

Gregor barked a genuine laugh, before shaking his head. "Take the rest of the day off, I think that's quite enough for today. The sun is already getting low anyway.".

They parted ways, Gregor returning to the Guild while Yara made her way to the Split Veil. After enjoying a heavy dinner, she retired upstairs to her room.

Rather than making use of her bed as it was intended for, she dropped down to her hands and knees, before slipping beneath the frame. Nestled among the furs and blankets she'd piled there, her back against the wall, she curled protectively around her hoard, holding the bag tight against her chest.

It was no proper lair, but it would do for now.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7 Fangs

Yara was dragged back to awareness by the sound of footsteps. That, in and of itself, was no real cause for alarm, her hearing was easily acute enough to pick up people walking the corridor outside her door, and she'd learned to tune it out.

No, what had her instantly drawn to full wakefulness was the fact that the footsteps were not coming from outside the room.

Cracking open her eyes, Yara saw flickers of candlelight from the corridor beyond, framing the unlocked door left ajar. A pair of black-booted feet were approaching the bed, steps light enough that a normal human might never have heard it coming.

Yara couldn't see anything more than that, and she dared not move a muscle lest she give herself away as the intruder approached her bed. There was something unnatural about their movements, something predatory that made her spine tingle.

A low hiss pierced through the air as they reached her bed, and presumably discovered her absence.

"Where is it?" The voice was distinctly female, but affected with an odd reverb to it. It was tinted with anger, and was followed moments later by something sharp shearing through the hay mattress, spilling its contents to the floor. Another frustrated hiss sounded out, and after a moment of consideration the pair of boots turned on their heel, walking back towards the door.

Before it slipped out Yara got a slightly better look at the intruder, for what little it was worth, a slim, black-clad figure with a cloak thrown over its head. It disappeared into the corridor beyond, leaving her alone once more.

Slowly, carefully, Yara extracted herself from under the bed, keeping her steps movements featherlight and silent. Her door had been left open, a scraping noise coming from the corridor beyond.

She drew her axe from her belt, feeling the familiar shape of the wood. Loosening her fingers, she let the killing weight of the axehead draw the handle down her grip, giving her more length to work with.

In the weeks that she'd lived in the Split Veil, Yara had long since mapped out where to step to avoid creaking floorboards. For all the faults of the human body, it was certainly stealthier than the one she had been born with.

Stalking forward like a predatory cat on the prowl, she crept into the corridor and finally got her first good look at the intruder. Dressed in blacks and dark greys, a hood was drawn over her head while the rest of her skin was covered under practical cloth and leather. Slight build matched the feminine tilt of her voice, but otherwise it was impossible to make out any identifying elements. A sheathed rapier sat at her hip, presumably the source of the cuts in her mattress.

The stranger was crouched by a nearby door, fiddling with the lock. She seemed not to have noticed Yara, giving her the element of surprise. Hunter's instinct to take advantage of the opportunity while it lasted won out, and Yara pounced forward, gripping her axe with two hands as she raised it for an overhead strike.

“There you are.”

Pivoting on her heel faster than what should have been possible, the stranger drew her rapier and lashed out at Yara all in one smooth, lightning-quick movement. The only thing that saved her was that the stranger had expected her first blow to rip the axe from Yara’s fingers and leave her open for the second, killing stroke into her throat.

She had not been counting on Yara's strength, however, allowing her to maintain her hold on the weapon and awkwardly bat away the follow-up strike with the shaft. Gripping the axe two-handed she stepped forward into an overhead blow, but the rapier blade hooked under the axehead and steered the strike away.

"Ah, I should have expected you would not be so easy to kill," the stranger said. "I could taste the power in your blood."

Taste? Blood?

"You should really be more careful about spilling such valuable essence everywhere, you never know who might sample it,” the stranger continued with an amused tone of voice, tilting her head to the side. “It took some time until I could get the spare key from the proprietor’s safe, but it'll soon be worth it.”

…The trail of blood leading to her room after her fight with the Ogre.

The blood that had disappeared overnight.

Yara felt her grip on her axe slacken, the weight of the weapon growing heavy in her hands.

The stranger grinned with predatory delight, exposing its fanged teeth, and Yara felt her fingers go numb, her breath coming in quick, short bursts, her heart thumping in her chest.

She took an uncertain step back, ice flooding through her veins, prickling across her spine. The creature in front of her stepped forward, a hungry smile in its eyes.

Window at the end of the corridor. Too far, never make it.

It leapt at her, rapier lancing forward towards Yara's vital organs. Some primal force thumped in the back of her brain.

Fight or flight, but nowhere to go. So FIGHT.

She reacted on instinct, stepping back and lashing out with her weapon. The creature flicked its wrist, snaking the rapier past the axe, but the movement robbed most of the blow’s strength, and so the blade merely made a shallow cut across her shoulder.

Laughing, it darted back like a serpent and thrust forward again, far faster than Yara could swing her axe, forcing her to grab it by both ends and desperately try to ward off the incoming blade, but it was to no avail.

Toying MOCKING preying on her-

The thin sword slipped right past Yara's guard and pierced into her flesh, cutting a gash across her flank. She held back a yell of pain, unwilling to give it the satisfaction. If the creature had been more thorough it might have pushed the advantage and killed her then and there, but Yara heard a gasping shudder escape its lips as her blood was spilled. It staggered back, as though mesmerized by the rich, crimson liquid dripping down the length of the steel blade. With desperate, feral hunger in its eyes it brought the rapier to its lips, lapping up the blood with abandon.

“Such richness! Such power!” it crowed, its entire body shuddering with delight. “I don’t know what you are, but I will string your body from my lair and drain every last morsel of vitae from it.”

Again the rapier came for her like the fangs of a viper, probing at her, and Yara only barely managed to block the thrust.

Get off get AWAY-

Yara swung wildly, trying to create distance between them, but the creature simply stepped past the blow and stabbed at her shoulder. Were Yara not tougher than anything wearing human form had a right to be, it would have been enough to end the fight right there-

As it was, it was merely painful. Painful enough to send Yara stumbling backward, her mind reeling.

Weapon useless fight with CLAWS-

The creature expected another wild swing, but instead Yara barrelled into it, shoulder-checking it into the wall hard enough to draw splinters from the wood. The rapier cut a gash across her thigh in recompense, but now she was too close for the long weapon. Of course, there was no room to swing her axe either, but that didn’t stop Yara from clubbing the creature over the head with it, smashing the pommel into its skull. She grabbed it by the face and shoved her fingers into its eyes, before ramming its head against the wall several times in quick succession.

Only it hardly seemed to mind, dropping the rapier to the floor and seizing the axe by the head, arresting its motion as Yara brought it down again. For a moment they matched strengths, struggling for dominance, until the wooden shaft splintered and broke, snapping in two.

The axehead clattered to the floor, discarded as the creature’s fingers curled into sharp claws, raking across Yara’s side.

As the pain flooded her mind, the primeval will to live overtook all else.

Luckily for Yara, a dragon’s first instinct was to attack any threat presented to it, punching the creature in the stomach hard enough to crack bone. Unnaturally tough though it may have been, it was too light to simply soak up the blow, sent reeling backwards. That gave Yara the opportunity to crack her elbow into the back of its head, and then grab its neck under her arm before ramming it into the wall.

Keep up the pressure. Kill or be killed.

She shifted her grip and kneed the creature in the stomach before elbowing it again, this time in the kidneys. She wasn't sure if these things had organs to damage, but it was worth a try.

A foot lashed out, kicking hers out from under her, breaking her grip. It twisted out of her hold, punched her in the face, and then opened its mouth yawning wide, elongated canines gleaming in the candlelight as it went to tear out Yara’s throat.

Just as it was about to do so, however, something small and fast slammed into its face, jerking its neck backward.

Glancing behind herself, Yara saw a stout figure in a green cloak, a long golden beard spilling down to its knees. It was the dwarven rat catcher, Olfkinsson, a sling in hand. Even as Yara watched, he spun the loop of cord around his hand, flinging another rock at the creature, knocking it back and away from her.

The dwarf drew in a huge breath of air, his barrel-like chest expanding, before bellowing a warcry.

"KHAZUKAN KAZAKIT-HA!"

At his feet, the tiny ratter dog that followed him around launched forward in a frenzy of barking, before sinking its teeth into the creature's ankle.

Yara stumbled away, her mind still reeling from the near-death experience, as another stone impacted the abomination in the face.

It snarled in frustration and kicked the dog off its ankle, sending it flying against the wall where it slumped with a whimper, before turning on its heel and darting down the corridor, pausing only to pick up the discarded rapier from the floor. Before Yara's very eyes, it dissolved into black smoke, disappearing into the darkness.

She collapsed against the wall, her breaths coming in shuddering rasps. All around there were sounds of footsteps and shouted questions, as patrons and staff alike were awoken by the dwarf’s bellow.

“By Grungni’s beard, manling,” Olfkinsson said, crouching by the side of his dog, as he glanced at the pool of blood at Yara’s feet. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

“I-I need to-” She rose to her feet unsteadily, holding her side, as she stumbled towards the door of her room. “I need t-to go-”

Yara wasn't entirely sure how she ended up back under her bed, the sequence of events little more than a blurry haze in her mind. Nonetheless there she was, curled tight with her back pressed against the sturdy wooden wall, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

She was distantly aware that there were noises coming from outside the room, beyond the door, but they might as well have been in a different reality to her.

She had almost died.

She had almost died.

She had almost died.

She had almost died, torn open and drunk dry by a- one of the- a creature of-

Yara clenched her teeth together so hard she thought they might shatter. Her breaths came in quick and raspy.

And she hadn’t even- the very first thing she should’ve done when she realized what that… thing was, should have been to assume her true form and destroy it utterly, no matter the destruction she would unleash, no matter that it would reveal the truth of her existence. But it hadn’t even occurred to her.

It. Hadn’t. Even. Occurred. To. Her.

Even now, even though a part of her wanted to do it just to reassure herself that she still could, she didn’t. She felt the magic, she heard the dragonsong bound to her very bones. All it would take was a small nudge to unravel the spell. But she didn’t.

She felt pathetic.

But here she was nonetheless, her thoughts running away from her like a rabbit she couldn’t quite catch. She kept circling back to that moment, that instant before death.

She had almost died.

Strong, heavy footsteps echoed outside the room, tracing a familiar gait. Gregor. How long had she been here?

The Magister stopped before the door, knocking his staff against it. A moment later, after receiving no response, he pushed it open and stepped inside, closing it after him.

He said nothing, but instead of walking over to the bed like she expected, he simply walked over to the far side of the room and sat down, leaning his back against the wall. From his position, Yara could see him but he couldn’t see her, as he dug out his pipe and stuffed some leaves in, before lighting it with a spark of flame.

He said nothing. He was just there. A presence.

Slowly, gradually, the smell of smoke filled the room, but still Gregor said nothing, simply puffing out his pipe at regular intervals.

Little by little, Yara’s breathing evened out, her heart rate slowing to normal levels.

But even so, Gregor said nothing.

He was simply there.

Eventually, Yara uncoiled herself and slipped out from under the bed. The Amber Wizard still didn’t look at her, completely at ease as he puffed away with his pipe.

“I suppose they want to hear what happened,” she grunted.

“They do,” he nodded slowly.

“Then let’s go.”

-----

‘They’ turned out to be a hulking man clad in mixed leather and plate armour, his enormous brown beard reaching down to his chest, and his long hair pulled into braids. He was the tallest human Yara had ever seen, a full head taller than themselves and with at least half a foot over even Gregor.

From his neck hung an elaborate wolfshead icon of pure silver, and strapped to a belt running across his chest were a number of throwing axes, the ends of their wooden shafts sharpened to a stabbing point.

Gregor had introduced him as Brother-Watcher Karl Hanisch of the Order of the Brothers of the Book. Better known as a Witch-Hunter of Ulric.

“And that is when Herr Olfkinsson arrived, correct?” the man asked, leaning forward to put his elbows on the table. He had commandeered one of the meeting rooms of the Split Veil for the purpose of the interrogation.

“Yes, like I already told you,” Yara said, folding her arms across her chest. It was still the early hours of the morning, but it seemed like the interrogation would go on forever.

"Now, when I interviewed him earlier, Herr Olfkinsson told me that he heard signs of struggle and came to investigate them. If you were fighting for your life in an inn surrounded by hundreds of sleeping people, why did you not call out for help?”

Yara stared blankly at him, until Gregor, sitting on the chair beside her, coughed into his hand.

“It did not occur to me.”

Hanisch sighed deeply, muttering something about wizards under his breath as he leaned back.

“And what happened then?”

“It got away. Turned into smoke.”

“Really now," he said, raising an eyebrow.

“I know what I saw,” Yara spoke through clenched teeth. “It was a-”

Her voice did not waver as she spoke.

"-a Vampire."

It did not.

“So you say,” Hanisch replied with infuriating calmness. “And how do you know what a Vampire is?”

“...I’ve heard about them.”

“Mmm-hmm,” the Witch Hunter hummed, leaning forward. “Let me tell you, I have fought and killed Vampires in my time, and I have seen them tear apart armoured knights with their bare hands. I simply find it hard to believe a girl your age would be able to fistfight one and live to tell the tale.”

Yara hissed at him, the hairs at the back of her neck bristling, but before she could do anything else Gregor put a hand on her shoulder, leaning forward to look at the Witch Hunter.

“Yara is my apprentice, and a prodigy at using magic to enhance herself. If you do not believe her, believe me when I say I have no doubt she could have accomplished what she has told us.”

Hanisch sighed. “Very well. If you are vouching for her, I am willing to believe you. But that still leaves me with precious little to work with. You don’t have any better description to give me than ‘pale-skinned woman in dark clothing’?”

“...No,” Yara bit out. Better than to admit that all humans looked the same to her.

“I see. I will inform the rest of my order to keep an eye out for any other sightings in the future.”

“That’s it?!” Yara exploded. “You have a- one of those things in your city, and that’s it?”

“I do not answer to you, girl,” Kroemer growled. “Even if I believe you, which I do only because of your master’s long service to the city, my superiors would laugh me out of the room if I suggested to them that we start a city-wide manhunt with Cults almost ready to go to war with one another and the Ulric-damned Reiksmarshall visiting, all on the word of some cocky Apprentice Wizard with a fantastical tale about fighting Vampires.”

"And here I thought Ulricans were supposed to be all about direct action," Yara threw back, crossing her arms again.

"Aye.” He glared at her coldly. “And that means I am not going to sit here wringing my hands, promising something that won’t happen.” The hulking Middenheimer got up from his seat, the belt of axes clicking softly against one another. “And now, unless you have something to add, we are done here.”

“Well, that could have gone better,” Gregor sighed as the door slammed shut behind the Witch Hunter. “So, I’m guessing the Vampire coming after you wasn’t a coincidence?”

“It was after my blood,” Yara admitted. “It said it found it...”

She trailed off, unable to continue the sentence.

Gregor looked up at her in alarm. “Does sh- it know?”

“I don’t think so. But it knows something is off.”

“Alright. We’ll… talk about what we’re going to do about it in the morning,” Gregor said, rubbing his eyes. “Although there’s just one more thing I’d like to know. How do you know what a Vampire is?”

Yara paused at the door, glancing back at Gregor, before looking away.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8 Debt

"No."

Yara glared at the shopkeeper, but the burly man behind the desk refused to be intimidated by her.

"But-"

"I've already told you no two times. Third time it's going to be my boot in your ass if you keep wasting my time. I work for coin, not favours, not promises, not squirrel furs, none of the horse-trading that you forest people get up to. So if you're not going to buy anything, get the hell out of my shop before I throw you out."

The hairs on the back of Yara's neck stood on end, and her shoulders hunched up in response to the threat.

But… if she beat him up and just took what she wanted, he would probably call for the Middenheim watch for something, and then she'd have to leave the city.

Pfah. Humans and their ridiculous systems.

"Fine," Yara growled, picking up the sack containing the pieces of her shattered axe and stalking out of the weapon shop.

Gregor waited outside, his expression infuriatingly inscrutable.

"I take it that they were not receptive to your proposal?"

"I need a weapon," Yara bit out. "If- when we find that… thing, I am not going to fight it with my bare fists. And I assume you don't want me to resort to that."

Gregor grimaced, running his hand through his beard. "Very well."

He reached into the depths of his cloak, removed a small sheath from his belt, and tossed it to Yara. She caught the leather scabbard and pulled out a small knife, the kind she'd seen hunters use to skin their prey.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Yara asked, turning the blade over in her palm. It was smaller than one of her teeth.

"I know it's not… ideal, but I don't exactly have anything better to give you right now," he said with a sigh. "Proper weapons cost money, and all of my discretionary funds went to keeping you fed and housed. The Amber Order is not exactly overflowing with money."

"But…" Yara trailed off, her objection dying in her throat, dejectedly shoving the knife back into its sheath and tying it onto her belt.

Gregor winced as he saw the look on Yara's face, sucking in a deep breath. "I'll… teach you some combat magic as soon as we get the chance."

"I'll hold you to that," Yara muttered. "I'll be needing it soon, when we put an end to that thing."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up. It's like Halsnicht said, there's only so much that the Witch Hunters can do."

"You misunderstand me. I am going to find it," Yara declared.

"...And how are you planning on doing that?"

"I have an idea."

-----

The Silvershine was built into the basement of a building housing several workshops and stores, a stone stairway descending to the door from street level.

Yara was forced to duck her way through the doorframe, though at least once through she could stand up mostly straight, with her hair brushing up against the ceiling. Glass lamps mounted on the walls illuminated the room, but they were lit only dimly, giving the tavern a darker and seedier atmosphere.

A dour-looking dwarf attended the bar, washing tankards and pouring out ale from barrels. Above the countertop, hanging from the ceiling on a metal hook, was a reptilian skull that Yara did her best to ignore.

Much of the tavern's floorspace was taken up by rectangular tables spread out across its length, each surrounded by four low stools. About half of the seats in totality were occupied, the clientele quietly nursing their drinks on their lonesomes or in small groups.

The target of her attention numbered among the former: a green-cloaked, gold-bearded dwarf sitting alone, glaring at a half-empty mug of ale.

Yara sat down opposite to him, having to angle her legs awkwardly to fit them under the low-standing table.

"Olfkinsson."

"Trueclaw," he rumbled, his expression unreadable beneath his beard. "Why are you here?"

"Last night. When you… when that thing attacked, your dog took a bite out of its pants. I'm hoping he got away with a piece of cloth, something with its scent on it."

"And you want it… why?" he asked, slurring his words a little.

"So that I can track it down and kill it."

"Straight to the point," Olfkinsson grunted, and Yara could smell the alcohol on his breath. "I can respect that. Aye, I have it. And you can take it. On one condition."

"Name it."

"When you find that bakgit bastard, I want to be there."

"Why?"

The dwarf said nothing. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, well-worn book, laying it onto the table. With careful movements he opened the book, leafing through the pages until he reached the latest entry, filled with angry, angular runes.

"...I can't read this."

Human writing was bad enough, but dwarves? She had no desire to learn their language.

Olfkinsson looked up at her, blinked, and then started reading.

"In the year of our Ancestors seven-thousand and twenty-six, on the twenty-third day of Durgzet, a loyal companion was laid to rest. The ratter-dog Ruti, whose forebearers have served dwarfkind for seventeen generations, was put down after his back was broken by an unknown assailant in the Split Veil inn. Let it be recorded that I, Grunmin Olfkinsson, hereby declare a Grudge against this attacker, and I will not be satisfied until it is paid for in blood. Even if it takes my dying breath, vengeance will be mine."

Yara felt a cold chill run through her spine.

She… hadn't realized that the dog had surely perished from being kicked into a wall by… something strong enough to wrestle with her.

"The enemy we hunt is a…" Yara swallowed, forcing the words out. "A vampire. Are you sure you want to-"

"You doubt my resolve?!" Olfkinsson roared, slamming his fist onto the table. "Umgi, zangunaz, elgi, dumi, it's all the same to me. I'd kill the dark gods themselves if they stood between me and vengeance!"

"Not at all," Yara said slowly. "I just… it doesn't matter. I agree to your terms."

Olfkinsson opened his mouth to say something, but a deep, gruff voice from behind Yara interrupted him.

"What's a manling doing here?"

She slid her chair sideways, turning half around to look at the newcomer. A large, extremely muscular dwarf clad only in trousers, his tattooed upper body left bare, while a bright-orange mohawk jutted out of his scalp.

Yara bared her teeth in a snarl, and only an effort of conscious control prevented her from audibly hissing at the dwarf.

"What's it to you?"

"'What's it to you', the manling asks," the dwarf guffawed in a mocking tone. "Do you not realize where you are? Your kind isn't welcome here."

He gestured around himself, at the rest of the room.

It occurred to Yara then that all of the staff were dwarfs. As were the other customers. In fact, Yara was the only non-dwarf in the entire tavern.

"That so?" Yara asked, raising her voice as she looked over at the barkeep.

"Anyone is welcome," the dour-looking dwarf grunted. "So long as they are a paying customer, that is."

"Same thing," the orange-haired dwarf said dismissively. "No human has the stomach for dwarven brews."

"Kugnin, there's no need for this-" Olfkinsson started, but the other dwarf cut him off.

"You can shut your mouth too, Umgdawi. You're lucky Snorif lets you lot through the door, given how high you've racked your tab."

Yara drummed her fingers on the table. An idea was starting to form in the forefront of her mind. An idea that she liked.

"You want to bet on that?"

"Huh?" Kugnin did a double-take, whirling about on her.

"Do. You. Want. To. Bet. On. That," Yara drawled, enunciating each word as though talking to a simpleton. "In fact I'll do one better, I am going to drink you under the table. Loser pays the other's tab."

"Oh-ho!" Kugnin guffawed again. "You're out of your mind, manling, but I won't say no to free ale. Snorif! Open a barrel of your strongest, and then get your bouncer ready to toss this Umgi's unconscious body out the door when we are done."

A moment later Kugnin had pulled himself a stool between Yara and Olfkinsson, who seemed to be looking at the two of them in turn, squinting suspiciously. The barkeep, Snorif, had demanded proof that Yara could, in fact, pay for herself if she lost, but one look at her hoard had shut him up, and he had brought out a monstrously large barrel from the tavern's basement, adorned with more strange dwarven runes followed by six cross-shapes. More than a few of the tavern's patrons were watching the strange contest, as the barkeep stood watch to

"You should feel honoured, manling," Kugnin sneered at her. "Even though you won't get more than a single mug down, at least you'll pass out with the taste of Bugman's on your lips."

"I hear a lot of talking, and not a lot of drinking."

"I was just giving you a chance to savour the experience," he retorted. "But if you'd rather get this over with quickly, on your head it be."

Kugnin lifted his tankard to his lips, and Yara mirrored the motion, letting the frothing liquid pour down her throat.

It truly was the best ale she had ever drunk, tingling on her tongue, leaving behind an aftertaste that almost felt unreal. Once again, Yara couldn't help but shake her head at what her kin missed out on in their mountain lairs.

She could even taste the alcohol, stronger than any spirit distilled by men. Yet, taste was all she experienced. She did not so much as feel a buzz as she finished the tankard and handed it to Snorif for refilling.

Kugnin glared at her as they downed the second round, and the third, and she neither felt nor looked any worse for the wear.

Olfkinsson was openly gaping at her now, and the other patrons were muttering to each other.

Even in the rural backwoods of Middenland, Yara had heard tales of the legendary constitution of the dwarfs. Truly, the idea of one of them being outdrunk by a human was laughable.

Unfortunately for Kugnin, Yara was not and had never been human.

"She must be cheating somehow," Kugnin complained to Snorif, his cheeks reddening. "No human could-"

"Are you questioning my integrity as referee?" The barkeeper asked pointedly. "I've had my eye on her, every drop has gone down her throat. Maybe you should up your game, Slayer."

"Or maybe your tongue shouldn't make oaths your throat can't live up to," Olfkinsson noted wryly, clearly enjoying Kugnin's discomfort.

Yara said nothing.

She didn't need to.

"Bah!" Kugnin exclaimed, his cheeks reddening as he grabbed his tankard back from Snorif poured a hefty helping of ale down his throat. "It doesn't matter. Cheating or not, no manling is going to outdrink Kugnin Mountainhewer!"

"You say that, but here I am. Doing just that." She took her own tankard and drained it empty in one long sitting. "I think you're making a lot of noise for someone supposedly confident in their own abilities."

"I don't give a rat's ass what you think, Umgi," Kugnin exclaimed, spittle flying from his mouth. "Your kind are pests, squatting on top of the works of your betters. You act as though your entire city wasn't built on foundations of dwarven stone. Grazhyakh Grungni ananu bezek dawi!"

Snorif and Olfkinsson shot the Slayer dirty looks, and many of the spectators began mumbling amongst one another. While Yara had no idea what he'd said she could guess it wasn't anything polite.

She leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table.

"You want to talk about pests? You?" she replied, heat creeping into her voice. "What do they call you, with the orange hair and beards? Slayers?"

Yara glanced at Olfkinsson, who nodded hesitantly.

"Right. Slayers. You lot are nothing but a pain in everyone else's asses. You stick your noses in everyone else's business, and you stir up trouble where there is none. You just roam the land picking fights and-"

Yara bit her tongue to keep herself from saying anything more. The ale was having an effect, and it had managed to creep up on her. She needed to watch her words.

"You'd better hold your tongue, if you want to keep it," Kugnin growled, his beard trembling with rage. "Do you know who I am? I am Kugnin Mountainhewer, Dragonslayer."

He pointed up at the skull mounted over the bar, before tapping the axe sitting at his belt

"I killed that drakk with my own two hands."

Yara finally forced herself to look up. The skull was the size of a man's torso, with its long reptilian jaws filled with finger-sized teeth and short, genty-curved horns sticking out of the back.

"I applaud your bravery in slaughtering a child."

"What?! What are you babbling about, manling?"

"That skull is too small to be anything more than an infant. Two or three decades, at most."

"And how would you know that?"

"I am a Shaman of the Amber Order. It is my business to know."

"A damned Nalgrazi! I knew you were cheating!" Kugnin exclaimed, turning to Snorif. "The bet is off."

"I told you, I've had my eye on her," the other dwarf said, audibly grinding his teeth. "She's made no hand motions, muttered no spells. And besides, you set no conditions against it. So either forfeit, pick up your mug and start drinking, or be named unbaraki."

Kugnin recoiled as though slapped, his eyes darting between Snorif and Yara, before snatching his tankard with renewed vigour and fury.

And for the next few rounds, he did start to make a comeback, pounding down tankard after tankard in quick succession. But in the end, the ale was simply too strong, and he only a mortal.

Little by little his face turned redder and redder, his words becoming less and less comprehensible

"I canssh- I can shtill-!" Kugnin slurred, before finally collapsing, falling onto the floor in a heap.

A moment later, Snorif had retrieved the now-empty barrel, and a pair of dwarfs had picked up Kugnin's unconscious form and thrown it over their shoulders, carrying him away.

She pushed herself off the table, hopping onto her feet. "Bring that rag to the Split Veil tomorrow morning at first light, and we will begin."

The dwarf nodded seriously, thumping his fist against his chest.

"You didn't have to do that, lass," he said quietly.

"I know I didn't," Yara said. "But I wanted to."

Yara made her way to the counter, where Snorif was cleaning several tankards with a washcloth.

I needed to get myself drunk enough to do what comes next.

"Your tab is paid, manling," Snorif said dourly. "What more do you want?"

"Not mine," Yara grunted. "His. Olfkinsson. How much does he owe you?"

Snorif gave her a number. She reached into her belt, taking out the pouch containing her hoard and setting it on the counter.

Yara stared at the pouch for a long moment.

Then, with careful, deliberate movements, she undid the strings holding it shut, and pulled out a single golden coin.

She ran her fingers over the well-worn metal, feeling every contour and scratch.

Nine hundred and ninety-seven thousandths pure. Minted in some place called Nuln, two hundred and twenty-seven years ago. It had passed through eight hundred and forty-nine owners before a trader in Schoninghagen had exchanged it to her for deer pelts. It had been in her possession for one hundred and ninety-six days, fourteen hours and fifteen seconds.

Sixteen seconds.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

There was a tremor in Yara's hand as she pushed the coin over the counter towards Snorif.

Then, she pulled out another coin. Minted in Erengrad. Looted from a greenskin warband. Eighteen years.

A silver coin from Marienburg, reward for killing a bear that had been menacing Fassberg. Three hundred and one days.

Copper from Carroburg, winnings from an armwrestling contest in Grehelshalft. Nineteen days.

Each coin felt like it had the weight of a boulder as she laid them on the counter one by one.

Each coin was like ripping out one of her own scales.

Each coin was a note in the song that she would never hear again.

Snorif waited patiently until Yara had counted the exact amount of money he had quoted, before sweeping them off the counter into his waiting palm.

"I owe him a debt. Tell him that it is repaid."

The dwarf nodded solemnly as Yara turned around and stalked out of the tavern, trying to ignore the pain in her chest.

Notes:

Khazalid terminology:

Bakgit: A face in need of punching.

Drakk: Dragon

Dumi: Daemon

Grazhyakh Grungni ananu bezek dawi: “The Tower of Grungni will one day be returned to the dwarfs.”

Elgi: Elf (derogatory, “Feeble”)

Nalgrazi: Wizard (derogatory, “Soul-Gambler”)

Umgi: Human (derogatory, “Shoddily made”)

Umgdawi: Dwarf who primarily lives amongst and deals with humans (derogatory, “A dwarf that is like a human”)

Unbaraki: Oathbreaker (dire insult)

Zangunaz: Vampire

Chapter 9: Chapter 9 Hunt

"I don't like this place," Yara said, as they descended the spiralling stairs into the depths below the Guildhouse.

"Hmm? I didn't take you for one to be disturbed by enclosed spaces," Gregor said as he inserted a heavy metal key into the sturdy-looking metal door at the bottom of the staircase.

"It is the song," Yara said slowly, trying to pick the right words. "It is… wrong. It has no tune, just… vibration. It makes my teeth ache."

"That is because the walls are lined with lead," Gregor explained as he slotted his torch into the metal brazier mounted on the wall, illuminating the sizable room they had arrived at. "It repels magic, not as well as obsidian, but it is substantially easier to get a hold of. To me, it is like a… blank smell. It overpowers all of the scents of magic, yet it itself smells like nothing."

"Why have we come here?" Yara asked, trying to ignore the unpleasant feeling, only some of which came from the song. It was still dark outside, and though Yara was usually an early riser, after yesterday she was still feeling a little groggy.

"I thought you wanted to start learning combat magic as quickly as possible?" Gregor asked pointedly. "Chambers like this are where such things are taught, to contain any possible mishaps."

"I won't make one."

"You will, eventually. Everyone does."

"I'm different."

"No."

"No?"

"No," Gregor repeated himself, his tone level and firm. "I will not teach you a single spell if you are going to act that flippant about using them. We wizards deal with the raw, chaotic energies of the Aethyr. To presume that you will never make a mistake is an attitude that can, has and will lead to destruction, or worse. I have seen it with my own two eyes."

A deafening, sullen silence descended between them as Yara crossed her arms, glaring at Gregor.

Neither of them budged as seconds turned to minutes, then tens of minutes.

"...There may be external circumstances which cause me to lose control of the song," Yara eventually ground out.

"I'll take it," Gregor sighed, massaging his temples. "Here." He tossed Yara a bone - cattle femur - inscribed with letters, much like the one he'd shown her on the doors of the Guildhouse when they had first arrived in Middenheim.

"I can't read this," Yara said. "I can make out the letters, but this is just gibberish."

"That is because it is not written in Reikspiel, but Magick, or Lingua Praestantia as it is also known. But you need not understand it, so long as you can pronounce the incantation."

"I don't know what any of those words mean either," Yara bit out in frustration.

"Reikspiel is the language we are speaking right now. Magick is the simplified form of Eltharin, the tongue spoken by elves. To cast magic is to impose your intent upon the raw stuff of magic, and so it is necessary that your incantation is very precise in its meaning."

"And the elves are the most precise in their manner of speaking? Why not just use their language?"

"They can be the most specific, when they so choose, precisely detailing concepts that Reikspiel has no words for. But because their language is so complex, even the tiniest shift in pronunciation can entirely change the meaning of a word. The elves claim that no human has ever achieved full fluency in Eltharin, though I am of a mind to say that they would say so even if one had, because that is how the elves are. But it cannot be denied that fully mastering their tongue takes decades - hardly a trifle for an elf, but us mortals do not have that kind of time."

"I am not mortal."

"You are supposed to be pretending to be human," Gregor bit out. "And besides, do you plan on taking twenty years to study Eltharin? No?"

Yara said nothing.

"That is why High Loremaster Teclis created Magick when he took on human apprentices during the Great War, to help us with casting our magics without requiring an impractically long education. Most importantly, it is simplified enough that you can use it even if you don't fully understand what the words mean, without the risk of putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable being the difference between doom and hope. "

"What is a syllable?"

"You ask a lot of questions that are not particularly relevant at the moment," Gregor said, starting to sound frustrated. "What is relevant is that the bone you are holding has the incantation for casting Hunter's Spear, a simple combat spell used by many Amber Wizards. It summons am aethyric spear attuned for hunting beasts."

"We are hunting a vampire," Yara said slowly. "It is no beast."

"That is so. But I can attest that the spell is not ineffective against the undead. And for you it has another advantage: the force with which it strikes depends on how hard you throw it."

"And I could throw it hard indeed," Yara mused. "Very well."

For the next several hours the two of them worked in the magically insulated basement of the Wizard's Guild, working on the spell.

As she had surmised from her lessons with Weber, the incantations were not strictly necessary - but they made it much easier, if slower, to cast the spell.

But even with the right words, even once Gregor was satisfied her pronunciation was correct, the dragonsong refused to bend to her. Gregor told her to concentrate on visualizing using the spear to hunt in order to manifest it, but no matter how hard she tried, there was no progress.

"This isn't working."

"Do not feel discouraged. Most students do not learn new spells in the span of a single lesson."

"I am not… discouraged," Yara grunted from between clenched teeth. "I said this isn't working."

She paused for a moment, thinking of how to best put it to words.

"You want me to think about hunting. But I do not hunt with a spear. I hunt with my bare claws."

Gregor was silent for a long moment, watching her.

"I was afraid of that. Very well. Let us try something else then."

-----

"This is fantastic," Yara said, flexing the curved talons that had replaced the useless, flat human claws she had before. "Why didn't you start with this?"

Gregor looked pained for a moment.

"It's because of… do you know what a mutant is?"

"You mean the goat-men? Of course I know about them, we fought them not long after we first met."

Had his mental faculties degraded so much? She didn't think humans aged that fast, but she'd never spent more than a week or two in the same place so she wasn't entirely sure.

"Mmm, it is true that Beastmen are a type of mutant, but… well, it's a spectrum."

Yara gave him a flat look.

"It means that there are many different kinds of mutant, with varying degrees of mutation. Some are like the Beastmen, so corrupt you can hardly even see the resemblance to humanity, while some might only have an additional toe or a small little horn that's easily hidden if they wear their hair long. Yet, both of their souls have been touched by the Dark Gods, all the same. It is not something that anyone enjoys, but a mutant is a mutant, and must be put to death, lest the corruption spread."

"I see. The sick member must be driven from the pack, or else the whole pack will die."

"Exactly," Gregor nodded, satisfied that she took him seriously. "Now, any wizard must deal with the danger of the uneducated mistaking their magics for witchcraft and daemonology, but for us of the Amber Order, we must also weigh the risk of being mistaken for a mutant. Especially when using a partial transformation spell like Claws of Fury."

"So I shouldn't use it?" Yara asked, allowing the dragonsong to dissipate, her claws returning to normal.

"I'm saying you need to be careful when using them in front of others. If it's a matter of life or death by all means, better to deal with the Witch Hunters than Father Morr, but it should be a last resort as long as someone can see you."

-----

The first rays of the morning sun had barely begun to peak over the mountains when Yara and Gregor emerged from the depths of the Guild's basement and onto the busy streets of Middenheim, choked with people going about their business. Bakers advertised fresh bread, criers waved around bundles of paper yelling something about news, vendors set up their stalls and put their produce out for display.

Olfkinsson's squat form was sat on the steps of the guildhouse, the wizards giving the surly-looking dwarf a wide berth. He perked up slightly as he spotted Yara, though there was a tiredness in his deep-set eyes that told her that he had not slept a moment last night.

"I've brought the rag," he muttered sullenly, shoving a piece of cloth towards Yara. "So, how's this going to work?"

"I have cast a spell that will allow Yara and I to track the scent," Gregor said, as Yara took a sniff of the rag before giving it to him.

Allow him to track the scent, Yara refrained from commenting. She needed no such help.

"Won't the trail have gone cold? It's been a full day and a night since the attack, with thousands of manlings stomping their smelly feet across it."

"It has," Gregor nodded. "But a vampire denied blood is not a patient one. It won't lay low for long. And when it goes hunting again, it will be making new trails."

"So we'll be hunting for a pebble on a mountainside," the dwarf grumbled. "Very well then, let's get on with it."

Yara took the lead, striding forward with purpose while Gregor and Olfkinsson plodded up behind her. She could tell from the soft jingle of metal that the dwarf was wearing a chain shirt under his clothing, and a short axe was clasped at his belt alongside his sling.

Despite her eagerness, she quickly realized she had no idea where to go. The smell of the city, of people, was so overpowering that it disorientated her whenever she tried to concentrate on the creature's scent.

The three of them ended up wandering across the city largely at random, occasionally detouring into dark alleys or taverns where the creature might be more likely to lurk, though they were quickly chased out of the latter when the barkeepers saw that they had no intention of purchasing drinks.

Everywhere they went, they saw signs of impending or active violence. The crowd in front of the High Temple of Sigmar was, if anything, even larger than the one Yara had seen two days ago, and fistfights or the aftermaths of such were a common sight in the streets. As they walked through the Grafplatz past the Elector-Count's palace (Gregor identifying each building for Yara's benefit) it did not escape her attention that the windows of the Imperial Embassy were shattered, like somebody had thrown a rock through them.

Though her pelt and Gregor's wolf-talisman kept them from being entangled in the unrest, more than once Yara witnessed mobs of angry men stopping people on the street, presenting them with a simple question: Ulric or Sigmar? Those who answered the former were let go, the latter savagely beaten. The only time she saw humans openly wearing hammer-pendants was when they were escorted by armed men, moving in groups.

And throughout it all, they caught not even a whiff of the creature.

Though she was too stubborn to admit to the others, over the course of the day it became begrudgingly obvious to Yara that the only way that they would catch the creature's scent was by stumbling on it by pure luck, before it disappeared beneath the muck of tens of thousands of people doing their business.

There was a word for that, and it was not one that she enjoyed applying to herself.

Desperate.

But what else could they do? Nobody else would catch the creature for them, and she would not - could not sit still and do nothing.

Still, a sullen and miserable atmosphere settled over the group as they made their rounds through the city. As the sun neared the horizon, they came across a gloomy garden, black flowers and dark-leaved trees interspersed with small stone buildings. Everywhere that Yara looked, she saw icons of ravens, hooded figures, skulls, and scythes.

"What is this place?"

"Never seen a graveyard before, lass?" Olfkinsson asked-

"Yara is new to Middenheim," Gregor said, cutting off Yara before she could snap at the dwarf. "This is Morrspark, the city's only burial ground. Since space is tight atop the Fauschlag, only the wealthiest and the most influential people can afford to pay for a spot here."

"Why would they do that?"

"What do you mean?" Gregor asked. "Do what?"

"Spend money on something that'll only happen after their deaths. It makes no sense."

"And why is that so?" Olfkinsson asked, his voice sharp. "Why should they not prepare for their deaths?"

"Why prepare for your death if you don't plan to die?"

"Everyone dies."

"I have no intention to."

"Are you saying that someone's death reflects a failure on their own part?"

Yara opened her mouth to speak, but Gregor cut in again.

"The youth often think themselves invulnerable," he said in a neutral tone.

Yara glowered at him, but couldn't say anything more in front of Olfkinsson. The dwarf let out a deep-chested harrumph, but said nothing more.

"What do they do with those who can't afford the Morrspark?" Yara eventually asked.

Gregor turned to point towards the back of the garden, where the mausoleums and trees suddenly ended - as did the entire mountain, wind howling over the sudden drop.

As Yara watched, a black-robed man was reciting something from a book while a crew of men worked to unload long, cloth-wrapped objects from a donkey-pulled wagon. Working in pairs they hauled them to the cliff, before hurling them over the edge.

"The Cliff of Sighs."

"They just… throw them down the mountainside?"

"Indeed," Gregor said. "Out of sight, out of mind."

"Manling foolishness," Olfkinsson grumbled. "The day they treat a dawi like that…"

"Won't they just pile up at the bottom of the mountain?"

"The Fauschlag is wider at the base, so they tend to… scatter across the mountainside. But yes, it is a real problem. It attracts all kinds of beasts."

"Stale flesh," Yara gagged, trying to dispel the mental image. "Yergh."

Olfkinsson gave her an odd look.

"Last winter a Griffon made its lair in the caverns along the side of the Fauschlag, feeding on the carrion. Todbringer wanted the Amber Order to tame it for his own uses, buta hunter hired by the spooked locals managed to bring it down before we could get to it, so nothing much came of it."

Yara frowned. Eagle-Lions were fearsome enemies - she had almost been killed by one when it tried to contest her kill, giving her the scar across her left cheek. She wasn't sure if she believed humans could have brought one down.

"Enough of this," Olfkinsson grunted. "We are wasting time. The sun is about to go down, and the zangunaz are said to prefer to move at night. That is when we will have our best chance of catching the monster."

"Their weakness to daylight is as unreliable as any other, like silver and hawthorn. Impossible to tell which ones have it and which ones do not. But yes, on the whole they prefer darkness, so we need to be on our guard."

As they left the Morrspark behind, Yara saw a group of men walking up the street towards them. Each of them wore a suit of elaborate metal armour, their faces concealed behind steel helmets, while spotted animal furs were thrown over their shoulders. Yara wondered how they managed to cope with the heat beneath all of that hide and metal, but they marched with purpose, hands on the hilts of their weapons, the crowds scattering before them.

"Those are the Knights Panther," Gregor whispered. "Graf Todbringer's men."

"What about the Knights of the White Wolf?"

"They serve the Ar-Ulric, who doesn't always get along with the Graf. The Knights Panther are secular, and swear oaths directly to the Elector-Count of Middenland."

Already, a large group of people were gathered to watch the knights, stopping whatever they were doing as the soldiers came to a halt at the middle of the intersection, halting the movement of wagons and horses. Their leader stepped forward, lifting the front of his helm up before unrolling a long, waxed scroll of text adorned with a large red seal and starting to read aloud in a booming voice.

"By the order of His Excellency Boris X Todbringer, Graf of Middenheim, Grand Duke of Middenland, Protector of the Drakwald, Warden of the Middle Mountains and Beloved of Ulric, a state of curfew is declared upon the city, until such a time that He deems otherwise. All citizens are instructed to stay indoors from sundown to sunrise, and anyone found in breach of this order without proper permits shall be thrown to the gaol."

With that, the leader of the knights rolled the declaration back again, tucked it away, and the knights began stomping off down another street, presumably to spread the word to another section of the city.

"Damn," Gregor muttered. "The tensions must be getting bad for the Graf to resort to imposing curfew."

"It's that damned southerner Reiksmarshall, he must have put him up to this," one of the nearby people spoke up, having overhead the wizard. "Ulric curse those Sigmarite bastards, coming into our city, messing up our lives!"

"Did you hear that a couple of days ago the Reiksguard tried to ride into the crowd near those ponces' cathedral? Our boys dragged 'im off his horse and showed 'im who rules this city, and the Sigmarites had to drag 'em both back inside."

"What do we even need that Reiklander boy Franz for? Let the north rule itself, I say."

"The election was a complete farce anyway. It's a sigmarite conspiracy to keep an Ulrican from ever getting on the throne!"

Similar sentiments echoed throughout the crowd, but Yara only ground her teeth in frustration.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10 Prey

"Getting a permit would take us longer than the curfew is going to be in effect," Gregor said for the hundredth time that evening, nursing his mug of ale while Yara paced on the common floor of the Split Veil. "Which of course is the point. The Reiksmarshall is leaving in three days, after which things should settle down again."

Yara let out a low growl, spooking a few of the nearby patrons. The inn was booked to the max, with everyone scrambling to find a place to stay for the night.

After the announcement she had insisted they go to the Guild of Legalists to petition for a permit to stay outdoors after sundown, but it seemed like they had been the last people in Middenheim to be reached by the proclamation, and the streets were so choked with people they could not even get within sight of the building. While Yara had been fully willing to push through no matter how many bones got broken in the process, she had reluctantly yielded when Gregor had pointed out that causing a disturbance like that would almost certainly result in an automatic rejection of their appeal.

With the sun slipping beyond the horizon, there was little they could do except retire indoors. Olfkinsson had disappeared somewhere after extracting an iron promise to restart the search tomorrow morning at first light.

Yara paced restlessly, her hands opening and closing, her back arched, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end. Whenever somebody strayed too close to her she hissed at them, causing them to jerk away.

"Explain it to me," she finally said, turning to Gregor. "The conflict."

"Do you want the short version or the long version?" Gregor asked, leaning back on his stool.

"I know the short version. Ulricans are mad at Sigmarites because they lost an election, whatever that is."

Gregor nodded. "Remember when I told you that the Empire is like a pack of many different packs, with the Emperor leading them all?"

"Yes," Yara said, tilting her head at Gregor. "That was four weeks ago."

"The Emperor is selected by an election, where the electors cast a vote for whichever candidate they believe is the most suited to the role," he explained. "There are eleven provinces in the Empire: Middenland, Reikland, Talabecland, Wissenland, Averland, Nordland, Ostermark, Stirland, Ostland, Hochland and Mootland. Used to be fourteen, but Drakwald and Solland were destroyed and Westerland rebelled. The ruler of every province, called an Elector-Count, gets one vote to decide who gets to be Emperor. Simple enough, right?"

Yara nodded slowly. It seemed overcomplicated compared to just letting the strongest call the shots and anyone who disliked it could either challenge them or leave, but she understood the basic principle well enough.

"The problem is that a long while ago the Cult of Sigmar bribed the Emperor at the time into giving them a vote as well. This meant that the Elector-Counts had to curry favour with them if they wanted to get elected, allowing them to amass wealth and power. The Cults of Ulric and Taal were furious, and Ulricans and Taalites across the Empire felt unrepresented. The last Ulrican Emperor was crowned almost one and a half thousand years ago, and to get there he had to-" Gregor said, before quickly cutting himself off. "Eh, it doesn't matter."

"The point is, that might seem a short time to you, but it's been seventy-five human generations since then. Seventy-five generations of Ulricans have been born and raised without an Emperor who gave a damn about them. That breeds resentment."

Gregor took a long inhalation from his pipe, before continuing.

"The Cult of Sigmar let the power get into their heads. Since the Grand Theogonist couldn't vote for himself, no matter how much he might wish to, he became the tiebreaker, the kingmaker, the one every candidate tried to court. Lavish gifts of gold and land, over time all of these and more made the Cult of Sigmar influential far beyond their single vote. They could bend undecided electors to vote for their chosen candidate, and it became clear that it was all but impossible to become Emperor without the Grand Theogonist's support. Which in turn put the Emperors in their debt, allowing them to demand concessions from resources to fund missionaries and cathedrals to additional freedoms and rights to proselytize anywhere they wished, exempt from laws and taxes. The Cults of Ulric and Taal were furious, as the power and influence of the Cult of Sigmar grew to eclipse them, converting their faithful to their own cause."

"Why didn't they fight back?" Yara asked. If they were unhappy with the situation, why not challenge it?

"They did. When Graf Siegfried received the majority vote in the election of 1547, the Grand Theogonist refused to honour the results and crowned his own favoured candidate as Emperor. Furious, Siegfried returned to Middenheim and declared himself Emperor, calling for all right-minded Ulricans to fight against the Sigmarite heathens. It was the bloodiest war in the history of the Empire, lasting for seven hundred and fifty years. More if you count the Taalites rising up in 1360."

Yara blinked. One thousand five hundred and forty-seven, add seven hundred and fifty… that makes two thousand three hundred.

"Didn't you say that the Colleges were founded two hundred years ago?"

"Indeed. The infighting only ended when Magnus of Nuln walked through the Sacred Flame of Ulric, and emerged unscathed, proving that it was the Snow King's will that the Empire fight together against Asavar Kul and his hordes. When the war was over, Magnus was crowned Emperor, promising to end the centuries of strife that had divided the Empire. He founded the Colleges of Magic, re-established the electoral system, and reformed the Cult of Sigmar, forbidding the Grand Theogonist from overtly influencing the election, and again emphasizing that the vote is supposed to be about who is the worthiest candidate, not political maneuvering. To mend the wounds of the civil war, he offered the Cult of Ulric an electoral vote, to ensure that Ulrican voices would be heard. Yet, Magnus was a Sigmarite himself. After giving the Ar-Ulric a vote, he then turned around and gave the Grand Theogonist two more."

Yara raised her eyebrow at the human. "Doesn't that just invalidate the Ulrican vote? If the Sigmarites have three votes and Ulricans one, it is the same as Sigmarites having two votes?"

"Yes," Gregor sighed. "That is indeed the core of the problem. We Ulricans agreed to rejoin the Empire, but Magnus made our votes worthless. The Grand Theogonist no longer needs to interfere with the elections, because with three votes whoever he supports will have an insurmountable advantage. And because of the millennia of Sigmarite favoritism, they have become majority across the Empire: Reikland, Wissenland, Averland, Stirland and Ostermark are majority Sigmarite, and though Ostland has historically been an Ulrican stronghold since the reunification the missionaries of Sigmar have managed to convert nearly all of Wolfenburg, the capital, into his worship. Only Middenland and Nordland remain staunch in their support of Ulric, and Talabecland and Hochland for Taal. Oh, the Snow King still has his supporters across the Empire, but the cities, the Elector-Counts, they belong to Sigmar. Many Ulricans feel betrayed by Magnus. They feel like they were tricked into becoming vassals to the southerners, and that Ulric's will was to fight alongside the Sigmarites but when the war was over, we should not have submitted to being ruled by them."

"And that led to the current troubles?"

"The pressure has been building up for a long time, but tensions really kicked off last year, when the Electors chose Karl Franz, a Reiklander whose only qualifications to sit on the throne were that his father was the previous Emperor and that he bows to the Hammer, over Boris Todbringer, an experienced statesman and famed leader of men. Nobody could pretend anymore that any of the candidate's qualities except his religion matter. That the new Emperor has, by all accounts, turned out to be quite competent in his job only infuriates the Ulricans all the more."

Yara was silent for a long while. She didn't quite… understand why the humans felt so strongly about their gods. But if she accepted that they did, she could more or less see the problem.

Two packs allied against a common enemy, but also rivals to each other. Fighting leads to the deaths of both, but not fighting means the weaker will eventually be absorbed.

"And what do you think?" she eventually asked, looking at Gregor.

"I think… that Ulric and Sigmar should not be exclusive to each other. Sigmar was an Ulrican in life, after all. The Hammer to hold the walls and the Wolf to venture beyond them and find the enemies of man in their own lairs. We should be able to have two war gods, or even three. But many others don't see it that way. Every year, there are fewer Ulricans and more Sigmarites. Every year, Ulric slips further into irrelevance. Already, there are Sigmarites that claim we don't need other gods but the Hammer. That we are heretics, that we are fools being deceived by daemons. Those voices are faint, for now, but who knows in a hundred years? In a few centuries there might not be Ulricans anymore. And thus the question remains: is preserving our faith worth tearing the Empire apart again?"

-----

As Gregor had predicted, every morning the streets around the Legalists' Guild were choked with people trying to get permits, and every nightfall they seemed to scarcely have shrunk. Even so, every so often somebody would emerge waving around their signed (and specific to their person) permit.

"It's a release valve," Gregor explained to her. "If the curfew was absolute, people would think the Graf a tyrant and riot. But if the legalists give out just enough permits to make people think there's a chance they can obtain one, they will focus on that instead. But they have no intention of actually allowing the vast majority of people to go outside during the night."

"Couldn't we just sneak outside?" Yara asked, crossing her arms.

"No," Gregor said sharply. "This is one thing I will not be party to. The whole city is a beehive on the verge of falling out of the tree. Ulric's Teeth, Yara, if we get caught it would start a riot. The Guild would have to answer to the Graf why two of its wizards are subverting his edicts at a time like this. It wouldn't be just us who pay the price."

"So your solution is to let that creature roam free?"

"It will be as constrained as we are," he retorted. "And it'll only be three days."

Yara ground her teeth, but once more she had no counterargument to him.

Three days of fruitless searching and three nights of agonizing waiting later, the day of the Reiksmarshall's departure finally arrived.

The sky was overcast with dark grey clouds as the three of them made their way through the streets of Middenheim, the mood sullen. Olfkinsson had drawn into himself, scarcely uttering more than a couple of words each day, ay, simply showing up at first and disappearing at sundown. Yara had little illusions that they would have any more success today than the preceding four days, but there was no other option than to keep trying.

However, as they left the Neumarkt district behind to start their now-customary rounds around the city, they found their path blocked by great crowds of people, blocking access to the main streets connecting the different districts of Middenheim. Yara could hear cheering and hollering coming from up ahead, as well as the sounds of music and horns.

"What is it now?" Yara snarled.

"Ah," Gregor said slowly. "The parade."

"StopusingwordsIdon'tunderstand."

"It's… soldiers walking up and down the streets. It's done to celebrate big events, like the Reiksmarshall's visit."

"Doesn't everyone in the city hate him?"

"Yes, but the Graf wants to project unity. Whatever he thinks of his electoral loss, he has taken it in stride."

Yara stared at him blankly. None of that made sense to her, but she understood what it meant.

Another delay.

Beside her, Olfkinsson sucked in a breath, before finding a stone street post and plopping himself down onto it, crossing his arms with a quiet huff.

"Go on, go watch the parade," Gregor said. "It's not as though the vampire will be hunting with this many people around, and you might even enjoy it. It is quite the spectacle."

"And you?"

"I'll find Yanni, she should be somewhere in the crowd," Gregor said, looking a little sheepish. "I should probably give the Guild an update on the situation."

Yara sighed, her shoulders slumping. She had no particular desire to see Magister Weber again, so watching the parade to pass the time seemed like her only option.

She pushed her way through the crowd until she got a decent view down into the main street. The top of the Fauschlag was not entirely level- the different districts were set upon smaller plateaus of varying size and elevation, the main streets running between and connecting them. It was down these streets that rows upon rows of soldiers marched in lockstep to the tune of drumbeats.

These were not the soldiers she was used to seeing in the rural villages, clad in little more than a leather cap and carrying a wooden spear. Ranks upon ranks of men marched in gleaming steel armour, white and blue feathers attached to their helmets. They bore weapons that were like spears but also had a spiked blade set parallel to the speartip, massive wave-bladed swords, and strange metal tubes ranging from small enough to be carried over the shoulder to ones big enough to be mounted on horse-drawn carriages.

Then there were the mounted horsemen- she recognized the Knights Panther with their strange fur cloaks and the helmetless Knights of the White Wolf with their long beards, wolfskins and black armour, but there was also a third group bearing red and white heraldry- she guessed these to be the Reiksguard she had heard so much about. In each group, there were also those who were mounted not upon horses, but larger beasts that resembled wingless Eagle-Lions, and Yara could feel their keen predatory minds all the way from where she was standing.

There were also wizards amongst the parade, sunken-eyed men withdrawn deep into the collars of their grey robes that emanated a near-deafening silence intersped with the sounds and calls of night birds, light-robed Magisters that more resembled the priests Yara had seen at the Temple of Sigmar, surrounded by a droning, low droning hum, and fiery-haired (in at least one case literally) men and women in red, angry drumbeats preceding them.

Though she wouldn't admit it to Gregor it was, if nothing else, a better show to watch than just sitting around like Olfkinsson.

For some time she just milled there amidst the crowd, watching the parade march by. Around her, the sullen and tense feeling of the city seemed to have abated for just a moment, as people cheered and hollered at the troops passing by. Everyone seemed to know somebody in the parade, and were trying to spot them as they went by.

"Trueclaw!"

Yara jolted in surprise as she heard a female voice call out the surname of her human guise, whirling about only to see nothing but the press of the crowd around her.

"Up here!"

She raised her eyes to see Janna Eberhauer, the Celestial Wizard she had encountered not long after coming to Middenheim, waving to her from a nearby balcony. A glance at the sign hanging over the entrance identified the building as the Singing Moon Inn. Janna was surrounded by a group of elaborately-dressed men and women, watching the parade from the balcony.

On the one claw, it didn't look like the kind of company Yara was used to. On the other… somebody wanted her around.

She pushed through the crowd towards the inn, getting a few dirty looks as she used her elbows to make room.

"Come on up!" Janna yelled down at her.

Yara glanced up, then took a short running start and kicked off the wall to grab a hold of the metal lantern-post extending from it, pulling herself up. Once she got her feet onto it she crouched down and jumped again, this time onto the railing of the balcony.

"You know," Janna said with an amused smile as Yara dropped down to the balcony itself. "I meant that you should go through the front door and take the stairs."

"Should've specified then."

"Quite impressive," a female voice spoke out from behind Janna. "Is this one of your… special friends?"

Janna laughed.

"Eva, this is Yara Trueclaw, Apprentice Shaman of the Amber Order. Yara, this is Eva Dietrich, the owner of this fine establishment and my good friend."

Eva was a tall woman, though not nearly a match for Yara, dressed in a red waistcoat and breeches, with long black hair and sharp eyes. But there was something familiar about her, something on the edge of her tongue.

There was a flash of recognition in Eva's eyes, and Yara felt sure she was onto something.

It was the scent. The scent they had been looking for.

It was the creature.

Blood-thief.

Vampire.

"My pleasure to make your acquaintance," it spoke, its voice honeyed and mocking.

The creature had her at every disadvantage. It was part of Janna's pack, whilst Yara was at best a casual contact. It was clearly well-versed in the conduct of Middenheim's upper society, while Yara was everything but. And it needed only play dumb to her accusations long enough to slip away, at which point it could shed its current identity like a skin, and Yara would never see it again.

So instead of saying anything, she pulled out the knife Gregor had given her, and stabbed herself in the palm.

"What the- What are you doing?!"

Janna erupted in shock, the others following suit, but the remainder of their words washed over Yara.

Yara had only eyes for the creature.

Though it was trying to, it could not avert its eyes from the crimson liquid dripping down Yara's hand, staring at it with unblinking eyes. Little by little its skin lost its lustre and colour, growing paler and paler by the moment. Its eyes turned bloodshot and bulged in their sockets even as it tried to rip itself away from the sight, to look anywhere else, but it could not. Its jaw clenched, pallid grey skin pulled taut over the skull, black, foul-smelling liquid dribbling down its chin as elongated fangs pushed out of its gums.

None of Janna's pack had noticed as the change overcame their 'friend', focused as they were on Yara. But they certainly noticed when the creature let out an ear-ringing screech and launched itself at her with inhuman speed - right into Yara's waiting fist.

Her knuckles connected into its jaw with a meaty thud, slamming it shut with such force that tooth-chips clattered onto the stone. She did not wait to see Janna's reaction, but instead grabbed the creature in a headlock and pinned it down, before stabbing Gregor's knife into its throat.

It emitted a hoarse scream, air escaping through the hole in its neck, before bucking with such force that it managed to throw Yara off its back. Then, just as it had in the tavern, the creature's body dispersed into black mist that flowed over the railing of the balcony and over the crowds.

Janna said something, but the words did not register into Yara's conscious mind.

Her prey was getting away from her.

She roared into the dragonsong, shedding away pink skin and soft fingers for brown-white feathers and curved talons as she took to the air in the form of a golden eagle, her eyes locked to the black speck speeding through the air as she rapidly accelerated with heavy beats of her wings.

Distantly, she noted shouting and yelling all around her, ripples of shock and panic emanating through the crowds like waves, but all else was pushed to the back of her mind as she closed in on her target, swooping into a killing dive, talons extended- only to pass harmlessly through the black mist, having to desperately correct her course to avoid slamming into the crowds below.

Right.

Still, her attack had not done nothing. The black mist coiled around itself, convulsing as though a living being, its speed noticeably dropping.

An idea occurred to her.

Yara ascended once more, darting towards the dark cloud, but instead of slamming into it she braked at the last moment, beating her wings to transfer her momentum into a gust of wind. The mist rippled, pieces of it breaking off as it roiled and churned, trying to maintain its coherency. Yara repeated the maneuver, and then again, and again.

But when she came for her next approach, the mist began to coalesce, growing more solid and taking on a semi-humanoid aspect. Only a quick aerial maneuver honed with years of dodging manticore stingers saved her head from being taken off by a set of half-solid talons swinging through the air inches from her neck.

Yara pulled back, assessing the spectral figure, which quickly turned tail and continued its escape.

A thought came to her, and she sped after it, rapidly gaining speed.

If it was solid enough to attack her, it was solid enough to be attacked.

Yara reversed her previous transformation mid-air, slamming into the creature elbow-first and sending it spiralling down towards the ground. The two of them came down in the middle of the street, her landing only slightly cushioned by the creature's half-corporeal body between her and the solid stone, rolling to a stop a short distance away.

She groaned, struggling to pull the wind that had been knocked out of her back into her lungs - and then had to throw herself to the side to avoid being trampled by a panicking warhorse.

All around them the street was in utter chaos, as riders struggled to get their steeds under control, while everyone else was trying their best to stay out of their way.

Yara staggered to her feet, channelling the dragonsong into her hands, soft and flat fingernails turning into curved talons.

The creature was back on its feet as well, but Yara pounced on it before it could get its bearings, sinking her claws into its flesh. They fell back onto the flagstones in a heap, rolling on top of each other, jostling for a superior position. The creature was lightning-quick, kneeing Yara in the stomach in order to get on top of her, reaching for her throat, but that had been exactly her plan. With her back against the ground she braced her legs against the creature's chest and pushed, shoving it away - directly into the path of a stampeding warhorse, which reared into its hind legs in panic and smashed the creature with its iron-reinforced hooves.

It went flying across the street, rolling on the stones, leaving black stains as it went. Yara leapt on it again, raking her claws across its face in a spray of dark, tar-like blood. Even as it trashed under her, struggling to shield itself, one of her talons found itself in its eye, and Yara rammed it deep into the socket, more cold black sludge covering her hands.

Another inhuman, undulating cry emanated from the creature's ruined throat, and Yara wrapped her claws around its neck before slamming its head against the flagstones with all her strength. Then, she pulled it back up by its hair and brought it back down again.

Before she could smash the creature's head for a third time, she felt a shift in the dragonsong, a rapid, frantic note like the hammering of a heartbeat coming behind her. She spun around and roared into the song, halting the horse that had been about to trample her in its tracks, only the straps of his saddle saving the knight on its back from being tossed off with the sheer abruptness of the stop. He yelled something at her, but she ignored it, turning her attention back to the creature - and then her blood froze in her veins.

Baleful light was leaking out its one good eye, the song curdling and stuttering, the roar of dragons replaced with mournful, echoing cries.

Just like…

A ripple of blackness erupted from the creature, slamming into Yara, and her world erupted in pain, her vision fading to black.

When the darkness finally cleared, it was replaced by grey and white blankness, curling and spiralling.

Were those… clouds?

Yara blinked, clearing the last of the fog from her mind, forcing herself to sit up. Her body protested the movement, and a groan of pain escaped her lips, but she grit her teeth and powered through it. Around her, the street was littered with several corpses, horse and man alike. Of the creature, there was no sign.

No visible sign.

But she had the scent. She had a trail. She had her prey.

The thought lent strength to her limbs, and Yara rose to her feet, at first shaky but growing steadier by the moment as she staggered forwards, then walked, then ran. Her palm was radiating pulses of pain in tune with her heartbeat, but she pushed it out of her mind.

Around her, the parade was still in utter chaos, groups of soldiers and watchmen shouting and attempting to restore order, but to little avail. Many of them were attempting to make their way towards her at the center of the disturbance, but the press of crowds and panicking horses was such that they made little progress.

Yara, of course, had no such impediment. She roared into the dragonsong once more, sending men and animals alike fleeing, causing the crowds to part before her.

A man in the uniform of the City Watch tried to grab her, shouting something at Yara that she didn't care to process. She broke his hold with little effort, feeling something in his hand snap beneath her grip as she did so. She ignored the man's cry of pain as she shoved him away like a child, sending him tumbling onto the headstones.

She passed by several bodies - some had been trampled to death in the chaos, but one drew her eye - it was sitting in a rapidly-growing pool of blood, its throat torn open, as though something had taken a bite out of it.

Yara grimaced, forcing herself to push onward. Leaving the main street behind she followed the scent trail into a side alley, and it was there that she caught sight of her prey.

The creature was limping, though the helping of blood it had taken from the bystander seemed to have mended several of the wounds Yara had raked across its body. Wisps of smoke were trailing its form, but it seemed to have lost the ability to fully transform, or at the least exhausted itself fleeing from the parade grounds.

It heard Yara coming, of course - there was no concealing the sound of boots pounding on stone, whipping around to face her with inhuman speed, almost fast enough to catch her off guard. But the ironshod horseshoes had left their mark, and though the creature could shrug off almost any injury, broken bones were still broken bones.

Yara's knee slammed into its face, and the two of them tumbled onto the street once again. Her talons raked over the dead flesh, spraying yet more black ichor, but they were flesh wounds, of little consequence to the undead monster. She clawed at its throat, but the creature was protecting its neck with all of the fury and desperation of a cornered rat.

She had no means of inflicting a killing blow, not without a weapon, not without-

The train of thought was interrupted by another jolt of pain shooting up her hand, impossible to ignore any longer. The wound on her palm was still bleeding, and she could feel her hand going numb and tingly, the limb feeling heavier and weaker by the moment.

And the creature noticed it as well. In the brief lull in Yara's assault it seized the momentum, swiping its claws at her vulnerable side. She brought her hand up to protect herself, trying to arrest the blow with her forearm, but the impact jarred her hand so badly she couldn't stop herself from crying out in pain.

Taking advantage, the creature seized her hand in its grip, claws digging into her skin, and brought it to her face. Yara shivered with disgust as she felt the creature's cold tongue press against her palm, digging into the stabwound to tease out every morsel of blood it could.

The change was immediate - the creature's skin lost its deathly pallor, the flesh writhing as its numerous wounds began to mend over.

Yara staggered, feeling dizzy, but the creature refused to relinquish its grip on her, stabbing its fangs into her palm to draw fresh blood. She slammed her fist into the side of its head but the creature simply shrugged off the blow, hardly even reeling from the impact.

In a matter of seconds its destroyed eye was as good as new, and its ruined throat knit itself closed with a wet slurp.

"Much better," it breathed out, testing its regrown vocal cords. "No more tricks, no more playing around. I am going to drain you dry here and now."

Yara threw another wild punch at its face but it caught her with inhuman speed and strength, a cry escaping her lips as it bent her fist away.

But there was something else in the air, besides the dark rhythm and the scent of blood.

She smelled thunder.

The flash of light nearly blinded Yara as a brilliant arc of lightning struck the creature, hurling it from its feet. It landed on the ground in a heap, the smell of burning corpse-flesh filling the air.

Even so, it was not dead, merely wounded. It rolled onto its feet, glaring with hateful red eyes - not at Yara, but at the blue-robed figure descending from the skies, floating serenely through the air with no obvious means of propulsion, as though simply rendered weightless by some unseen force.

Janna Eberhauer kept her staff pointed at the creature, and Yara could hear the rhythm of distant, rolling thunder and howling winds emanating from her.

"All this time, Eva?"

"You would have made a fine daughter-in-darkness, Janna," the creature ground out. "But the Red Kiss cannot be rushed. I will have to start again, in some place far from here."

The vampire hissed, before bolting forward-not towards either of the wizards, but a set of metal bars set into the street, flowing through the gaps and down into the darkness beyond.

A moment of silence fell over the alley, broken up only by Yara's coughing as she rolled onto her feet.

"What in the name of all of the gods was that?" Janna glared at Yara as she floated down to street level.

"A vampire," Yara replied through clenched teeth, forcing her aching body to stand up.

"I noticed! I'm talking about you, you-" The Celestial Wizard seemed to be struggling for words. "Why would you do that?"

"What, was I supposed to just let it roam free?"

"Oh no you are not turning this back around on me. You could have warned me instead of stabbing your hand you fucking lunatic!"

"Would you have believed me?" Yara responded sullenly, tearing off a strip from the pant of her trousers.

"Well-" Janna hesitated, taken off-guard by her question. "Maybe not instantly, but I would have listened, at least!"

"At which point it tears your throat out," Yara rolled her eyes, tying the strip around her hand as a makeshift bandage. "The only thing telling you would have done is cost me the first hit."

"You didn't have to confront Eva in the middle of the parade! You could have called the Witch Hunters and cornered her later!"

"It recognized me," Yara said, walking over to the grate the creature had disappeared through. "By the time I got word to anyone it would have been long gone."

She crouched down and grabbed the metal bars, grunting with exertion as she started to slowly bend them apart.

"You cannot be serious," Janna said, looking at her with flat disbelief in her eyes.

Yara did not grace that with a response, merely continuing her efforts.

"Do you- do you even realize what you've done? The whole city is in chaos. Hundreds trampled to death already, let alone when the looting and rioting starts. And you- you think you can just keep going?"

Yara paused, looking up at the other woman in bafflement.

"What would stopping now accomplish? The cr- the vampire is getting away."

"You-"

Janna seemed to be at a loss for words, unable to muster a response.

A moment later, a rustle drew their attention to the entrance of the alley, as a massive brown wolf emerged from the main street, big enough to fit a man's head between its jaws. Its glowing amber eyes watched Yara with a familiar, relieved look. It was followed by a large brown and red deer ridden by a huge man in a blue and gray leather coat that Yara recognized as the Witch Hunter Hanisch, the one who had interviewed her after the creature's first attack.

The squat form of Olfkinsson leaped down from the wolf's shoulders and an instant later its shape began to twist and shrink, replaced by Gregor's feather-cloaked visage.

"Yara! Are you alright?"

Behind him, Hanisch swung off the back of the deer, which similarly transformed into the form of Magister Weber. Next to Yara, colour was rapidly leaving Janna's face.

"What in Ulric's name happened here?"

"I just got done explaining this to her," Yara ground out, yanking her head towards Janna. "I found the vampire, tried to kill it, didn't work, it ran away."

"You confronted it alone?" Gregor asked.

"I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE!" Yara yelled out in frustration. "It would have gotten away if I didn't!"

Why did nobody understand that?

"Where is the zangunaz now?" Olfkinsson asked, his eyes flicking towards the sewer grate Yara was trying to pry open.

Finally, someone concentrating on the real issue.

"Fled into the sewers."

He nodded matter-of-factly, stepping next to Yara and grabbing a hold of the metal bars, adding his strength to hers.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Weber asked. "Do you have the slightest idea how much trouble you're in?

"She has a point, Weber", Gregor said, looking at the other wizard. "What else was she supposed to do?"

"You have to be joking."

"Article Fifteen. All Magisters are required to exert themselves to seek out and counter such destructive and anti-Imperial machinations, practices, peoples, and creatures that are beyond the means of civil authorities and the Orders of the Witch Hunters to counter."

"But she's not a Magister!"

"You can make your cases on the finer legal details to the Graf and the Reiksmarshal," Hanisch growled, pulling a set of lead manacles from his belt. "I am taking you straight to them."

Olfkinsson perked up at that, glaring up at the Witch Hunter, his hand on his belt.

"I am grudgesworn to kill this vampire, and she oathed to aid me in this. Step between dawi and his vengeance at your peril."

"You can try," Yara snapped at Hanisch. "And your superiors can learn all about how a vampire was watching their big parade right under your noses. Or you can do your job and help catch the vampire that was your responsibility to begin with."

A shocked hush fell over the group at her words, and Hanisch turned to Gregor, his face flush with anger.

"Does your apprentice speak for you, Martak?"

"She does not," Gregor said slowly. "But I must wonder when my brothers in Ulric started to care more about political convenience than hunting the creatures that lurk in the darkness beyond His fires."

"I-"

Whatever the Witch hunter was about to say was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him.

"I believe I overheard you speaking of going after the vampire," Father Hertrich, the priest from the High Temple of Sigmar, said as he stepped forward, clad in formal robes. "I believe I may be of some assistance."

"This is no place for a man of the cloth," Hanisch snorted dismissively.

"You misunderstand me, Ulrican. I did not come here to ask for your permission."

Hertricht shrugged off his cloak, revealing the polished steel breastplate underneath, and the two-sided bronzed warhammer sitting at his belt.

"I came here to kill a befouled vampire."

"Whatever," Yara said impatiently, grunting with one last effort as she forced the bars of the sewer grate apart wide enough to pass through. "Stay here, help me, or try and stop me. I'm going."

Without waiting for a response, she dropped down into the darkness.