After about an hour of mind-numbing boredom Nimael brings me a meal well above and beyond what I asked for, which explains why it took him so long to return. It’s a large silver bowl(Almost a cauldron, really) that smells of the sea and has a thick, creamy broth with chunks of some red fish, purple potatoes, and golden carrots floating throughout. It shimmers in the waning sunlight as a moon comes over the horizon.

  I look at him with a bit of confusion, “Why did you make me something so involved? This looks great, but I don’t really deserve anything this special done for me. I’m no different than anyone else in the ward.” The discrepancy leaves me feeling just a little bit guarded, though overall my mood is still light after talking to Serafina. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. I’m just confused.”

  He places the dish on the bedside table and gives me a patient smile. “I was, uh, asked to watch out for you like I would one of my own siblings and this dish is something I used to make for my younger sister, so it seemed right.”

  I raise my eyebrow, “Who asked you to give me special treatment?” Despite my best efforts, I struggle to keep some acidic skepticism out of my voice.

  “Well, nobody, uh, asked for special treatment, alright? I take care of anyone in my care this way when I can, and, um, I was chosen for that reason I imagine.” He looks away towards the door.

  “Nyssa, why are you giving this guy the third degree for bringing a meal to you?” I berate myself internally, trying to shove those mistrustful feelings down. “Look, Nimael, I’m sorry for being so harsh. It’s been a rough patch lately.” I try to give a reassuring smile but can feel it come out more coldly than I intended. He, however, doesn’t seem to notice or react to it.

  “You can call me Nim, if you prefer.” He proffers me a bowl. “And it’s alright. I wasn’t on shift when you came in but I heard about it. I don’t take it personally.” After I take the bowl, he ladles some soup into it, “It’s Moonscale Chowder,” he starts, with a bit of warm light in his eyes, clearly remembering something wistfully. “It’s made with a Moonscale tuna and simmered in a broth of cream, leeks, and coastal mushrooms and herbs. Then the veggies are added, which can really be just about anything!”

  His voice comes across far more confidently as he goes on and on about the dish losing some of the faltering pauses he had before, “We had potatoes and carrots handy, so I used them to bulk it out so it’d be as filling as possible for you.” He pauses, thinking, “Oh right, and the bread. It’s made with the same spices as the dish, so it complements it well. I like to eat the bread last to soak up all of the remaining chowder!” He beams at me.

  I find myself unable to muster up my usual walls in the face of his positivity. “Must be why you were requested for me, huh?” As he rambles, I try to make small comments here and there when the opportunity presents itself. In a brief lull, I interject, “Hey, so I was curious who wanted you to take care of me, though.” I remind him with as warm a tone as I can muster.

  “Oh, right, uh, sorry.” His tic comes back almost instantly and I fight back some annoyance, “Dame Serafina requested me specifically, and then Lan requested that you be watched over extra carefully. They seemed real worried, ya know?”

  “Lan and Serafina make sense, but not May?” I catch myself thinking back to the dream and then remember the way I snapped at May and frown. “Is May around?”

  He notices my face change and makes a dismissive gesture with an uncomfortable smile. “May? She was here for the first few days, but she got called away the other day for family matters. Sounded important, too. Dame Serafina delivered the letter herself during one of her visits.”

  I nod absently, “So she was here. Why? Probably curious about the rest of the story; I did tell her that I’d let her know…” I look up at him with a smile, “I appreciate the answers, really. The chowder is really good, too. I can see why your family likes it so well.” I gesture to the now largely gone meal, only just realizing how much I ate and how fast and feel more than a little embarrassed. “But I think I need to be thinking about laying down. Doing all of this nothing has been really exhausting!” I try to force some humor into my voice and he gives a chuckle as he picks up the dish to take it away.

  “I’ll leave you to all of the nothing you have to do.” He says warmly and starts to leave.

  I’m struck with a thought, “Hey, Nimae- Nim, how old is your younger sister anyways?” He doesn’t look a day older than me, so it was a question burning at the back of my head and this seems a more sly way to ask.

  “Huh? Oh, she’s a year or two older than you, I think. Why?”

  “I was just curious. Was wondering if this was a stew you made for a little sister or just a younger sister.” I said with as coy a smile I could muster.

  He smiles and gives me a final wave. “You’re a good bit older than you seem, Nim.” I think and make a mental note to ask Lan if they know one another someday. But, that curiosity settled, my belly full, and darkness falling outside my window, I decide it’s a good time for sleep. Good, restful sleep. Not magically induced torpor. Nearly as soon as I make the decision, I drift off to sleep.

  The night passes and my sleep is ultimately tumultuous. I keep feeling Garrick’s presence being cut short by something I can barely understand and I repeatedly wake up, only to fall back asleep into more of the dream. I arrive somewhere unfamiliar but find Garrick fighting against someone, being forced back, and eventually tackled. In that moment, I try to run forward but I’m not fast enough and the thing drives its right arm into Garricks chest.

  I scream. I fail to call my essence. I wake up. I spend a half hour trying to fall back asleep.

  Each time I wake, I am feeling more and more distressed. Eventually, mercifully, morning comes, though I'm breathing hard when it does. Each dream felt more vivid than the last. But once I’m fully awake, I jump out of bed, seeing myself in the rooms mirror. I’m drenched in sweat, and my ward gown is clinging to me, hugging my body in an uncomfortably sticky manner. So, I make sure the curtain is closed, taking the gown off and replacing it with a simple cloth shirt and pants and slipping on my boots.

  I step out into the greater ward area and see a handful of the menders look my way with a variety of expressions ranging from concerned to happy to disapproving. The highest ranking among them, an elven woman who I catch looking at my horns as she approaches. “Hey, how are you feeling? Wanting to go for a walk?” She asks with some concern in her voice.

  “Yeah, I want to get out and see Garrick before he leaves for the day.”

  “Would you like someone to accompany you?” She casts a glance over to one of the other menders to prepare.

  “No, thanks. I’ll be back before long. Just want to see him off and then I’ll return to my current posting.” I try to give a smile and it seems to ease her worry. “I promise, I’m doing a lot better today. No need to worry.”

  “Very well, just be careful, and don’t be afraid to ask for help if you should start to feel dizzy or weak. You’re mostly recovered, but it’ll be another day or two before your essentia levels have returned to normal after the treatments.”

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  I nod and head out of the ward and into the bright hallway to start making my way towards the place I’m most likely to find Garrick this early in the morning — the mess hall. Everything hurts as I begin to walk, reminding me that I’ve spent quite a while laid up in bed. The menders would have been making a point of working my muscles in the intervening days, but there was always a recovery period anyways where you work back up to your normal strength.

  After passing by a handful of people speaking in hushed tones as I pass, I decide to take the outdoor path. Less people to interact with that way and a jog would do me good even if it takes a little longer. I make it to an exterior door and push through, making nothing-platitudes to others as I pass by them. The air is refreshingly cold, but after a deep breath I feel a nice calm replace some of the stress of my poor nights’ sleep. On the exhale, I step forward and after a few strides I feel the soreness in my legs breaking down with each step as I speed up. Every bounce freeing me a little bit more from my bedbound prison.

  The juxtaposition of the warm sun coming across the plains, the chill breeze and cooler air, and the growing looseness of my body is empowering, so I speed up little by little. Before long I reach a solid run and feel Ignia building up in my body, concentrating on my legs and arms as always. I would normally run every morning and every evening, but it’s been a couple weeks now since I’ve been able to — even before the medical treatment I’d been traveling on that expedition for days, unable to really stretch my legs. “Watcher's Eye, who needs life essence and weeks mending? I just need to run.”

  I eventually slow to a stop outside the mess — a squat building that was recently extended from one side of the keep to accommodate the growing numbers of this Order branch. Wisps of smoke pour from several chimneys towards the rear and the walls of reinforced glass that frame the entire building give a nice view in or out, broken up only by the occasional support beam. Within there’s near a hundred people split between the food line and sitting in the arranged circular tables. Each table can comfortably sit eight people and has the vague oblong shape of The Watchers eye when viewed from above.

  I push inwards, scanning the crowd for the man who should stick out like a sore thumb — by a combination of everyone giving him space or simply being the largest and most powerfully scowling person in any room he’s in. After a brief look I see no sign of him so I walk over to a nearby table with some of the younger order recruits, “Hey, quick question,”

  All of them snap their eyes to me with recognition and look me up and down. “Oh! Ya’! What can we do to ‘elp Myssa! Errr Miss Nyssa!” The young man stammers, acting embarrassed as the others stare at him trying to hold back laughter at his faux pas.

  I give him a neutral look but quickly give in to a softer smile. These recruits deserve none of my ire and all always treat me fairly well, “I’ve been out of commission for a little while and was trying to catch the slayer before he headed out on assignment. You seen him around…?” I focus on the self-assigned speaker — I think his name is… “… Marcis?”

  “Oh you’re lookin’ for Garrick? He was jus’ here!” He beams at me with warm blue eyes, “You jus’ miss’dim! ‘E was workin’ his way to the fron’ gate last I saw’im!”

  “How long ago was that?” I ask, trying to push aside a little impatience. I don't want to treat these people like others treat me. It would leave me no better.

  “Oh, ah’bout maybe five minutes? Was walkin’ like ‘e ‘ad a place ta’ be, too.” The young man scratches his face thoughtfully, “Somethin’ up?”

  “Was he armed and armored?” He nods, “Thanks, Marcis, I’ve gotta go before he gets away. I owe you one.” As I turn, I swear he starts to blush, but I push that thought away as I make for the door. His friends who had been quiet up until that point burst out laughing and I heard them ribbing him over some crush or another. Hitting the walkway outside, I decide to put some effort in this time. Garrick isn’t exactly “fast” typically. More of a “looming threat” type of person, so I’m not too worried about catching up as long as Marcis was right about timing.

  With a few bounds I build up to a run and make my way around the outside of the keeps outer walls, passing by more and more people heading towards the front in groups, most are geared for travel — itinerant groups being sent to investigate leads from the seers or reports, or heading off on routine patrols through nearby lands. I don’t bother looking through faces, Garrick will stand out. As I round the final bend into the area devoted to the “stables”, I take in the area.

  Absolutely abuzz with people this early in the day, skyglide carriages collecting people in groups of three and four to travel either to the limits of their coverage beyond the nearby cities walls or to take them into the city proper to work with the local military: The Emberguard of Kharbon. Some more traditional wagons are set up and being carried or pulled by the Orders preferred beasts of burden: huge stony creatures that look like a mountain landscape given form: earthbreaker behemoths.

  I scan the crowd but spot Garrick easily enough. Standing well over ten feet tall, bedecked in heavily spined armor that is absolutely coated in runic sigils in every color of the rainbow glinting from beneath a heavily armored cloak that is just as dark and runed as the plate itself. Poking upwards from his back is Bane: a broad, flat cleaver-bladed greatsword with one bladed edge and the other a series of jagged teeth. The sword gleams with a dull, shadowy sheen and is regularly pocked with complex runework above and beyond anything else used in the Order. He’s holding his plate helm in hand under one arm, which allows me to pick out his unkempt gray hair and beard, both rough-cut short enough to not interfere with his armor. Beneath that hair is a stony face that speaks its history with one glance. Countless scars from every kind of natural weapon imaginable after his long decades of service.

  I shout his name as he is trying to get into the skyglide — lurching heavily under his weight and sending up a keening whine as it tries to accommodate him — with his weapon giving him difficulty fitting into the compartment. He turns around and looks up and views me with the same face that Garrick looks at everything. Unamused and stoic, as though vaguely disapproving of everything before him. But as I get closer I see proof of that other side of Garrick that I don’t think anyone else gets to see. His flat line of a mouth twitches just so at the corners: a staggering display of emotion for him. He looks back at the skyglide, then at the line of Order personnel waiting for a ride, and after a moment of consideration, steps down off the steps, kicking up a cloud of dust, and stares at me approaching.

  Wasting no time, he unslings his weapon and stows it and his traveling pack inside the passenger compartment. I arrive shortly after, giving him a quick salute across my chest and he grimaces, “Nyss, please don’t salute me.” He makes an overt display of looking me up and down — overt being defined as “he moved his eyes a bit”, “You should be recovering. There’s nothing to worry about, I’ll handle it. You can rest.”

  Garrick speaks in clipped tones, always. Seldom does he ever end a sentiment with anything more expressive than a simple, bolded period. “I wanted to give you the information I had about the c-” He holds up a hand to stop me and shakes his head disapprovingly.

  “Serafina Blackthorn gave me your report and personal remarks. I am unfamiliar with this specific case, but I’m not remotely worried. It’s young and will pose no threat if it still lives.” He looks over at the line that is visibly growing impatient. “Get some rest, Nyss, you did well, better than most would have.” I feel whiplash at how quickly he changes from marking something for death and seamlessly into something he seldom does, complimenting me. I see that miniscule quirk of the mouth. “I’m proud, and we can talk more when I’m back. I’ll handle it.”

  His repeated usage of “it” isn’t surprising, but it makes me wonder if Serafina impressed upon him the potentially exceptional circumstances, “But Garrick, I just wanted to make sure you’re prepared, I’ve got a really bad feelin-”

  I trail off as I see him frown a little, “Nyss, I appreciate the concern, but you don’t need to worry. From the sounds of it, you probably finished the job, I’m just going to confirm it.” He turns, scowling at the now-growing crowd waiting for a ride who suddenly seem a bit more sedate afterwards, “But, I have to go,” I brace myself, knowing the coming words, “Every minute is a life, keep that in mind.” He places a heavy gauntleted hand onto my head with surprising gentleness and tousles my hair. The kindness belies his appearance and he speaks softly, “You did well. You kept your head down, and you kept on going. Get some rest.”

  With that, he turns and hauls himself into the skyglide with a certain finality. He casts a final scowl at the line. “Nyss.” He tilts his head at me and pulls the doors closed. With a ponderousness the vehicles typically wouldn't display, the Skyglide slugs into motion towards the switchbacks that lead down from the plateau the Order keep is on to begin the long journey to the city and lands below. I stand there watching for a minute, feeling conflicted. I’d been summarily brushed off, but also complimented more thoroughly than Garrick ever has before. I don’t really know how to think about it, but I just can’t shake that feeling in my gut — the feeling of something bad getting ready to happen.

  “You always told me to trust my gut, Garrick.” I muse as I turn to walk away from the line and towards the front gate of the keep, beginning to make plans, “Then I’ll trust my gut.”

  Just a heads up.

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