Jackson couldn't get the miner—the mage—from yesterday out of his mind. That sickly yellow Tincture remained engraved in his mind like a parasite, worming around and draining his attention. The silver-haired boy hadn't said much after he drew Jackson's attention to the man, simply telling the group to be careful as he wandered off. Jackson still had no idea what to think about the man. On one hand, he still hated his guts, which was natural considering the circumstances of their first meeting. However, Jackson was now aware of another potential threat. He wasn't sure that made his day any better, but he figured it was good to at least know. First the Cruthru in the woods, and now this? It made him more than uneasy, like he could feel something looming over Baypost. Something malicious.

  Elquire sat to his right, paying diligent attention in Mr. Landy's class as per usual. It didn't seem like the events of yesterday had affected him in the slightest. Jackson didn't know if he was just unbothered, really good at hiding his unease, or something else entirely, but then again, he never found Elquire easy to read. They were learning some more advanced sword techniques, Mr. Landy demonstrating with immense precision and finesse. Jackson knew he was a mage, but he couldn't place what type. He only really knew about Shapers and Egos, not about the other categorizations a mage could fall into. Of those he knew, Landy best fit the description of an Ego, but it was likely he was one of the others. Landy had taken an interest in Jackson and Elquire's regular sparring during his lessons, making it a point for Jackson to use his magic when fighting against his friend every now and then.

  Skill with a sword can make you formidable, skill with strategy can make you insurmountable. It was something Landy liked to repeat to his students, a reminder that combat was just as much about the brain as it was the blade. Jackson understood the concept—it applied solidly to how he tried to use his magics—but Elquire was the embodiment of that philosophy. He was precise and ordered, but not predictable. He was firm, but adaptable if the situation called for it. He never had wasted movements, and he abused any openings with such monstrous certainty that Jackson could rarely ever keep up, even with use of magic. He was like a different person when he held a sword. Or rather, he was a perfectly configured version of himself, with every aspect that made him an efficient swordsman cranked up to eleven and everything else turned down to naught. For the moment, he was his regular self, making meticulous notations in the margins of his notebook with quickly drawn yet accurate sketches of the poses and strikes Landy would demonstrate.

  Mr. Landy dismissed the class early, stating that he had business to attend to near the mines for the rest of the day, allowing Jackson and Elquire to make their way to the cafeteria and grab some food before everyone else could arrive. It allowed the two a few minutes of solace before they would be relentlessly talked at by Ellion. Louise may join them sometime later, but she rarely showed up in the Academy's extravagant dining hall, in part probably to avoid her chatterbox of a brother. Elquire and Jackson talked about this and that for a while, not paying much attention as others began to filter in and grab their food, chatting and laughing as they went. Ellion never arrived, probably off annoying Louise or causing general mischief. A clumsy mage stepped past the pair as they talked, accidentally spilling some brown liquid onto Elquire's pristine white button-up.

  "O-oh, I-I'm so sorry m-mister!" the mage said, his voice squeaky and high-pitched. His head was covered with his mage's hood, but Jackson could see the lower half of his face, a worried expression plastered across it.

  "I-It is quite alright," Elquire began, looking down at his shirt with annoyance as the bell rang, signalling the need to return to class.

  The mage furiously nodded his head before wandering off down into the corridor to return to class.

  "Go on ahead, Jackson," Elquire continued. "I will acquire a change of clothes. Do not let me keep you from your studies."

  Jackson nodded. Yet, his paranoia was still high, and he knew he'd feel better if he was near Elquire. It wouldn't be much, but if that Cruthru was around, the extra protection Elquire could provide was a comfort. He went with Elquire anyway, the latter making no attempt to properly dissuade him. They walked down the corridor, heading for the office of Cealta Croi since the nurse was bound to have a spare shirt lying around. That's when he saw something.

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  It was subtle—very hard to spot—but Jackson's Tincture Sight may have helped him perceive it. The candles that plastered the walls of the main keep cast an equal amount of shadows. A small patch of those shadows was lagging. Ever so slightly, they flickered just behind the rest of the shadows. There was a blob of lag in the corridor, positioned in the direction they were headed. Jackson placed his hand in front of Elquire.

  "Something's wrong here, Elquire."

  Elquire simply nodded and drew his sword. Whilst Elquire may not have seen the distortion, Jackson had earned enough trust for the boy to believe him. After a few minutes of silence, a voice came from the patch.

  "Ah, Hells," it came. The voice was rough and slightly gravelly. It was hard to pinpoint an accent, but it had the characteristic draw typical from the villages of Western regions, maybe even the Wastes. It had gravitas, but the tone indicated disappointment that he'd been spotted. All of a sudden, the distortion stopped, and a man became visible.

  He was human, and a tan one at that. Bright green eyes stuck out against his blonde, shaggy hair. His jawline was sharp, and his grin was wide. He wasn't just tall—he looked strong as well, athletic and spry. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, tipped at an angle to cast shade over his face. The headpiece complemented the rest of his outfit: a bourbon Wilds coat that stretched from his shoulders to just below the knees, secured in place across his chest with a number of belts. He wore a half-buttoned shirt and loose brown trousers tucked into chunky black boots. Vials of something hung from a specially designed belt that stretched from his shoulder down to his hip, then around his waist, a bulging pouch or two situated closer to his hips.

  The man was familiar. The bottom half of his face belonged to the clumsy student from the cafeteria. This wasn't just bad luck—this was planned. Something else became visible to Jackson once the distortion dissipated. A sickly yellow Tincture, emanating a few inches from the man's skin. It was the same mage from yesterday. He had been watching, and now he was making his move.

  "What do you want?" Elquire questioned the man.

  "World peace," the man replied, his voice carrying a sincere sound that juxtaposed his clearly insincere body language. His hands went to his hips, and his chest puffed out.

  "I repeat," Elquire said more firmly, "what is your purpose here?"

  "Hells, kid, no need to be so serious. I'm just havin' fun."

  Elquire stayed silent, Jackson following his lead.

  "I'm here on business. I'm chasin' a rather lucrative gig, ya see?"

  "You're a mercenary?" Jackson chimed in, beginning to circulate magic through his body should he need to call upon it.

  "Of sorts. Commissions ain't too fond of that term. Not all commissions come lookin’ to kill fellas, ya dig?"

  "Then," Elquire pressed, "as I have asked time and time again—what is your purpose here?"

  "Don't worry, I ain't a killer. Least not today. And not if you fellas play nice."

  "And if we don't?" Jackson pondered.

  "Well, then I get to have fun. And boy, it's been a while since I got the go-ahead to cut loose a bit on the job."

  "You are outnumbered," Elquire said. "Whatever business you hope to accomplish here, you will not succeed."

  "What's it your teacher is always sayin'? Strategy maketh man, not the sword? Some fancy shizz like that?"

  "How do you—"

  "I did my homework. Ironically, this's probably the only time I've said that inside these walls and not been lyin’."

  "You say that," Jackson piped up, "but you're not doing a great job. We've spotted you twice. Hells, you're talking to us right now instead of just dealing with us. I don't think you can take us. I think you're bluffing." He meant those words, and it made him feel confident. There was no reason for a man to stop and chat after being found out. Any normal person would have sprung into action to cover their tracks, to salvage their mission. But not this guy. He had to be bluffing—some last-ditch attempt to walk away from this unscathed.

  "Let me assure you fellas," the man began, "I ain't stoppin' to chat 'cause I'm bluffin'. I've had a few setbacks, sure. But I'm one lucky commission. I can be as loud as I want so long as I succeed, which—to be clear—I will. I'm stoppin' for a chat 'cause you fellas deserve to know who killed you should I not get the chance to tell ya later."

  At that, Elquire and Jackson froze. They could tell the man wasn’t joking or bluffing. He was serious—deadly serious.

  "You know," he began again, "you can learn a lot from how a man carries himself. Things like if he's confident, if he's smart. You fellas—you're neither. You're idiots in every way that matters."

  "So?" Elquire asked, his voice stern and confrontational. "Are we to suppose you are something else?"

  "’Course you are," the man said, a spark settling in his eyes alight with energy. "I'm a Harbinger."