Dawn in Falun arrived without fanfare, which seemed wrong after the night’s theatrics. The sun rose over broken buildings and people with the same indifference it showed every morning, painting everything gold. As if that might help.

  Reyn sat on what had been the fountain’s edge, watching villagers sort through the wreckage of their lives. Her body had mostly healed itself during the night. Rage was efficient that way. Nevertheless, she had to admit to feeling a bit tired. Good Deeds lay across her lap, dried blood flaking off the blade despite her half-baked attempts to clean it.

  A toy wooden horse lay in the mud near her feet, one leg snapped off, painted smile still bright. She picked it up, turned it over. Someone had carved letters on the bottom that she couldn’t read. She tucked it into her pack with the other memories she carried. Another piece of her Pilgrimage. Another piece for her braids.

  Saving an entire town from a spell, she thought with a smile. That’s surely a Good Deed.

  ?That belonged to my nephew.?

  Reyn looked up. A woman stood nearby, hollow-eyed and still wearing her festival dress, now torn and stained with things best not examined closely.

  Reyn met the woman’s eyes. ?Is he among the deceased??

  ?No, he’s well and alive. His parents, though.? The woman shrugged, a gesture that carried the weight of everything she couldn’t say. ?They were among the... what did your wizard call it? Suggested? Killed each other fighting over who got to grab you first. Little Tomás saw the whole thing.?

  ?I’m sorry.?

  ?Don’t be.? The woman’s laugh had edges. ?Boy's fifteen already. You know what my sister said when the spell lost its grasp? Right before she saw my brother-in-law’s body? She said she’d been happy. First time in years, she said. No worries about the harvest, about money, about Tomás growing up strange. Just… happy.?

  Reyn had no answer for that. The wooden horse felt heavier in her pack. ?I’m glad she’s alive.?

  The woman huffed. ?I’m not sure she shares the feeling.?

  Across the square, Venn sat propped against a wall while Randulph checked her over with the fussy concern of someone who understood exactly how close they’d come to dying. The healer’s face had a grey pallor after given too much of herself away, but she was conscious, which was more than they’d hoped for an hour ago.

  ?Forty-seven dead,? Randulph said when Reyn approached. ?Most killed by other Suggested, surprisingly enough.?

  Reyn raised an eyebrow. After all, she had worked quite hard to avoid killing them. ?Why is that surprising??

  ?I don’t know. I’m trying to make sense of it.? He rubbed his eyes, red-rimmed and shadowed. ?Patch’s spell is unique. This shouldn’t be possible. It’s not that powerful, but just the sheer amount and time…?

  ?He had help,? Venn said quietly. Her voice rasped like she’d been screaming, though Reyn hadn’t heard her make a sound during the spell-breaking. ?I could feel it when we pushed back. Something dark.?

  ?We'll put an end to it,? Reyn said.

  ?Whatever it is,? Randulph said as he nodded, ?it had to be stopped. Can’t have Patch go about and shame the school of Suggestion with this infernal racket.?

  The boy from two nights ago, who’d told them about the mill, appeared around a corner, supporting a woman who looked like she’d aged a decade overnight. His mother from the looks of it, alive but hollow, staring at nothing while he guided her steps. He saw Reyn and stopped.

  ?My uncle’s dead,? he said. Not accusingly, just… informing. ?The spell lost its hold, and he tried to stop them from burning the bakery. He was pushed into the fire. My aunt. His own wife pushed him.?

  The corner of his lips moved. ?I’m not even sure if she was still bound by the magic.?

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  Reyn stood, uncertain whether to approach. In Bormecia, death and sorrow was met with a distanced respect. ?Your mother—?

  ?Doesn’t remember much. Just as well, right?? He adjusted his grip on his mother’s arm. ?We’re leaving to relatives in Westkeep. Not much left here anyway.?

  He started to turn away, then looked back. ?You saved them. Us. Me. No one else could, you know. Now I wonder if they should’ve been saved.?

  Before Reyn could answer, he was gone, leading his broken mother away from their broken town. Reyn stood there, confused.

  ?You did the right thing, Bormecian.?

  Saren stood at the square’s entrance, lance planted in the ground like a claim marker, armor still splattered with evidence of the night’s work. In daylight, without the chaos of battle, he looked older than Reyn had first thought. The scar across his face wasn’t his only one, just the most visible.

  ?Did I?? Reyn asked as she looked around at the grim looks they received. ?They don’t seem all too happy.?

  Saren pulled his lance free, earth crumbling where the point had pierced stone. ?You think too much for a Barbarian.?

  ?You think too little for a Dragoon.?

  That almost got a smile. Almost. ?Thinking doesn’t change what needed doing. Those people were weapons aimed at innocents. You stopped them and spared them.?

  ?By traumatizing the survivors.?

  ?By giving them choice. Messy, painful, chaotic choice, but choice nonetheless.? He shouldered his lance, the movement practiced and economical. ?That’s what your kind never understood. Choice isn’t always the answer. It’s a source of chaos.?

  ?Sounds like something you’d read in a book.?

  ?Perhaps I did.? This time he did smile, barely. ?Your deeds created chaos, Bormecian. They have to live with what they've done. It was the right thing to do, but order and peace doesn’t always follow the same path. However unjust, the Crimson Hand created order through Suggestion. Perfect, peaceful order. Look at them now, now that they are free.?

  Reyn raised an eyebrow. ?You’re saying I did them wrong by doing the right thing? That they would be better off dead??

  ?They would’ve known peace.?

  He turned to leave, then paused. ?I commend your act of goodness, Bormecian, but be careful of the chaos you leave in its trail. The world needs order and people to sustain it.?

  ?You’re not coming with us?? Reyn asked, relieved and disappointed at the same time. ?A Dragoon such as yourself would be of much use in the hunt for the Hand.?

  ?I have my own hunt. My sorcerer is a threat to all, not only Vaelen.? He looked back at Falun’s survivors picking through rubble. ?This was a distraction. Educational, but a distraction.?

  Reyn tilted her head. ?Educational??

  ?Bormecians are not as simple as I thought.?

  Before Reyn could respond, he was walking away, each step pronounciated as if they showed the ground who was in charge. Within minutes, he’d vanished down the road, another legend dissolved into morning mist.

  ?Friendly fellow,? Randulph muttered. ?Very inspirational. I feel better already.?

  Reyn shrugged.

  A handful of villagers approached, led by the baker whose shop had become their final stand. Half his face showed burns, already treated but still angry red.

  ?You’re leaving,? he said. Not a question.

  ?Yes,? Reyn said.

  ?Good.? He didn’t sound angry, just tired. ?We’re grateful, understand. Grateful to be free. But…?

  ?You’re not,? Venn finished from her wall.

  The baker nodded. ?Something like that. The town needs to heal. Hard to do that with reminders walking around.?

  They gathered what little they had: Reyn’s pack with its growing collection of memories, Randulph’s scorched robes and salvaged books, Venn leaning heavily on a walking stick someone had donated. Turnip appeared from wherever he’d been feeding, muzzle suspiciously red, and claimed his spot on Reyn’s shoulder.

  At the town’s edge, a small group had assembled just to make sure they left. The woman whose sister had died stood among them, holding little Tomás’s remaining toys. She raised a hand, not quite a wave, not quite a farewell.

  Reyn touched the wooden horse through her pack’s leather. It felt wrong to hold it, but a trinket had to hold meaning.

  The town is free from the Hand, she thought with a smile. They might not be happy about it, but freedom surely had to cost something, didn't it?

  The road stretched ahead, winding toward the river crossing that would take them closer to Crownport, closer to Patch and Kael and whatever ?grander? plans they had. Behind them, Falun began the long work of deciding what kind of town it wanted to be now that it had the choice. It would most probably turn toward music again, once the town was rebuilt.

  ?How’s your leg?? Reyn asked Venn as they walked.

  ?Terrible. But I can walk, slowly.?

  ?Thank the gods,? Randulph said.

  ?And your magic?? Reyn asked, ignoring him.

  ?Empty, I think? Like a well that’s been drained. It’ll fill again, but slowly.?

  They walked in silence for a while, each processing the night in their own way. The sun climbed higher, warming the road and bringing out the scent of wild flowers that didn’t care about human tragedies.

  ?We did the right thing,? Randulph said eventually, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. ?They were enslaved. We freed them.?

  ?We gave them back their pain,? Venn said. ?Some would call that cruelty.?

  Reyn adjusted Good Deeds across her back. ?Maybe you’re both right. Maybe that’s the problem.?

  Turnip chittered something that sounded like agreement, or hunger, or possibly both.

  The river appeared in the distance, a silver ribbon that made Reyn’s stomach clench despite the calm morning. She could already hear it, that constant moving water sound that reminded her of… water. She hated water. Water was for drinking. And bathing, when shallow enough. Ground was for travelling.

  But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today was just walking, three some-might-say heroes and some-might-say idiots, and a demon rabbit, carrying the weight of good intentions and their consequences down a road that led toward more choices with a high chance of disputable answers.