Richard
Richard
More precisely, he had learned of it on the road to Kardi.
After Aslan and his party gathered Itar's remains for burial and took measures to ensure they could not be dug up, the sky had long since darkened to black.
The rain had stopped, and gray clouds scudded across the black vault above, but the moon was so bright that the forest—littered with uprooted trees—held an eerie luminescence.
Had the moon been clouded over, or had the terrain offered no trail to follow, they would have chosen to rest in a hut even if the walls were full of holes. The full moon overhead spilled its light onto the earth.
One could never be certain.
The Executioner might have acted with greater caution and summoned reinforcements. He might have conveyed everything to the War God in his dying moments.
He might even now be dispatching troops, coveting the techniques Richard possessed.
So Aslan chose to move instead of rest.
Even though Richard was little more than a casualty himself, and Ereta, Rumel, and Tiyamal were utterly spent.
There was a city called Erastide not far from the forest. Better to reach it quickly and rest there. That was his reasoning.
What followed, then, was inevitable.
An inevitability they had prepared for in its own fashion.
"Aslan."
A tender voice. When Aslan turned his head, the woman walking behind him with an axe slung across her back smiled faintly, her face drawn with exhaustion.
"Haven't we come far enough? If we could just rest a little..."
Instead of answering, Aslan lifted his gaze to the sky and surveyed their surroundings.
They stood at the edge of the woods, where the moonlight could no longer fully penetrate. A breeze heavy with the scent of grass blew in from the broad plains beyond. The party stood there.
To anyone unfamiliar with the tracking prowess of the Warrior Monks, this might indeed seem safe.
But considering that Warrior Monks were the opponents Aslan had fought most over twelve years, his response was anything but excessive.
That he had fought them more than any other foe meant they had found him time after time, despite his skill at disguise and concealment.
Viewed in that light, leaving the area was no more than due diligence.
Given that Itar's corpse lay here, and everyone except the Master of Magic was present.
At the very least, he had to make sure no one could guess where Itar's body might be.
Aslan wrestled with how to explain all of this, then looked at his exhausted companions and kept his mouth shut.
"Lord Aslan, truly, a brief rest might..."
"This old man is fine, but these youngsters look worn down. I rather think a rest would do them good."
Rumel and Tiyamal, respectively. Aslan glanced at Richard, unconscious and strapped to Tiyamal's back, and let out a low sound.
Resting in the city sounded fine in theory, but in practice it was difficult.
The city was not exactly close, and they would have to cross open fields where stealth was impossible.
Both rushing ahead and pausing to rest were valid courses. Aslan agonized.
"I'm fine. But my eyes do feel a bit gritty. The others look tired too, don't they?"
Angie shot a sidelong glance at Ereta, who had blurted it out, cold sweat beading on her face.
Angie was right. It had been over twenty-four hours since the party had last rested.
The battle with the Executioner had dragged on. It had begun in the morning and lasted all day; now they were reaching the early hours of dawn.
Aside from Aslan, whose fighting spirit warded off fatigue, Angie, whose high Health stat meant she barely felt exhaustion, and Fay, an Elf with no need for rest, every other companion looked utterly drained.
'If we force-march in this state and get spotted by a Warrior Monk, no one will be able to fight at full strength.'
The moon hung high, scattering light, but if he used magic like Dark Fog well enough, he could deceive any watchers and buy time to rest.
"Fine. We'll rest for a bit. No fires. A few hours, then we move again."
"Then... does that mean food is..."
"Dried rations, I'm afraid."
"It can't be..."
Rumel lamented, while Aslan opened the pack of dried rations and began distributing them to her and the others.
She stared at the faint smile that ghosted across Aslan's lips as though mesmerized, yet her face was steeped in disappointment.
Wearing just that expression, she leaned on her spear like a staff and reached for the pressed cake of dried fruit and meat—
"Huh?"
Along with her startled voice, Aslan's Luck flared.
A chill crawled up his spine. No sound, no glint, no presence. Yet Aslan knew, on pure instinct.
Whether it was Luck or experience was hard to unravel.
So skilled that even the exhausted Tiyamal failed to notice, and Fay—whose perception was always razor-sharp—sensed nothing either.
An assassin so adept that Rumel only registered the presence after her eyes had found it.
Aslan's body moved faster than thought. He opened the hand holding the dried rations, tilted his body slightly, and lifted his arm away from his flank.
Skrrk!
A half-beat later, a dagger grazed his side. The blade that scraped across the Dragon-king's scales was White Iron.
Black-coated White Iron.
The moment the startled party drew their weapons in unison, the dagger-wielding wrist twisted.
The shape of the blade was oddly familiar—a beast's fang. Aslan clamped his flank and forearm together before the arm could withdraw.
Seized. The trapped arm felt as though it had no muscle at all. But the strength it possessed was another matter. Aslan's feet left the ground. The intent was to throw him.
Aslan's eyes sharpened against that surging force, and he bore down with his body.
He shifted his hips, twisted his waist slightly, torqued his knees, hunched his shoulders, and finally drove the pressure into his wrist.
A weight far greater than his own mass, naturally transferred. The pinning technique of one who understood the structure of the human body perfectly. In the instant the assailant was pinned, another hand shot out clutching a dagger.
This one aimed for the eye. A blind spot, the left eye. Aslan knew by reflex that it was a probing thrust. He drew the restraining arm close to his body and spun.
He deliberately lifted his feet and threw his weight into the rotation.
The two figures tangled and rolled, and a moment later, someone lay stretched upon the ground.
One arm was pinned against a side, the other crushed beneath a knee.
The strength contained in that frame was extraordinary; every shudder made Aslan's whole body tremble. But she did not break free.
"Kh—!"
By the time the crash echoed and the assailant was subdued, barely a single breath had passed.
Subdued in the space of a breath.
The intruder swallowed her frustration in a voice too low for a woman, and Aslan finally had the leisure to study her features.
A figure draped in a black hood and clad in armor of black leather. A body sparse of muscle housed a fully mature woman.
"...I thought I recognized you."
Aslan knew at once who it was. He pulled the hood back with his free hand, revealing black animal ears.
Likely canine. They sat where human ears should be, making her black hair seem almost like a fur pelt.
Tiyamal, who had been poised to hurl a hand-axe, lowered it slightly and murmured at the sight.
"A Hybrid."
Hybrids. Beings born of union—willing or forced—between an Evil God's priest and a human. Neither fully human nor priest.
They bore inhuman traits upon their bodies and possessed strength surpassing that of ordinary humans.
Wretched creatures perpetually tormented by the temptation of the Evil Gods, most of them eventually falling to corruption.
Ereta let out a soft "Oh, my" at the ears.
"A Hybrid of the Self-Birthing Mother. Most get devoured by the parent-priest, so you rarely see one alive. She's managed well to survive."
Ereta delivered the horrifying fact as casually as ever. She had already drawn her large axe and was scanning the surroundings, wary of anyone else.
Her caution was well-placed. Aslan knew who this was, and he knew this woman did not work alone.
And that she usually kept to the shadows.
He looked down at the seething woman and spoke.
"It's been a while. Catherine."
The woman's name was Catherine. No surname.
She was a bodyguard to the royal family of the Kingdom of Bida and something akin to a personal attendant.
Considering which royal that was—someone Aslan had no great desire to meet—this encounter was not exactly pleasant.
But she was a known quantity. The reason for the ambush was obvious.
The question was why she was here. Just as Aslan was about to ask—
"...Catherine?"
An unexpected voice.
The voice of the man who had been unconscious on Tiyamal's back all this time.
Aslan only turned his head toward the speaker, and the man said,
"Why are you..."
A sleep-thick voice, trailing off as it tried to parse the situation. Aslan caught it: Richard recognized Catherine.
For a moment he wondered how, then remembered Richard was a noble.
A noble might well recognize a royal guard. Aslan was about to dismiss it as unremarkable when—
"Why do you think? Because I am here."
A woman's voice.
Not from beneath him. From in front.
The instant Aslan lifted his head, a voice came from behind.
"Maria..."
Maria.
A familiar name following a familiar voice. Aslan raised his eyes to the speaker.
The woman was the very picture of nobility.
A kind face, her gently curved eyes evoking a cat's, and the beauty mark beneath one eye lent those feline eyes a bewitching quality no matter how demurely she held them.
Her hair was gold that paled toward the ends, and her eyes were a striking forest green.
She looked every inch the demure young lady, well-matched to her restrained, aristocratic attire.
But Aslan knew the woman before him was no such thing.
"Maria Auris Meland."
"It's been a long time."
Her tone was flat, nearly devoid of emotion. Aslan's gaze flicked between Maria and Richard. He released Catherine at the same moment.
The Hybrid scrambled from beneath him and placed herself between Aslan and her mistress. Aslan looked at the pair, then turned back to Richard with an expression of regret.
Seeing the understanding and pity in Aslan's eyes, Richard's face went pale as he managed a forced smile.
'Of all people, his fiancée is Maria.'
Aslan finally understood why Richard had blanched at the mention of his betrothed.
Maria Auris Meland. Princess of the Kingdom of Bida and owner of a trading company whose reach extended across the Northern Continent.
If she were simply a princess and merchant, he would have thought nothing of it. But she had been a memorable figure even in the game.
In Eternal Dominion, she was the source of most assassination contracts—a rarity.
A woman of neutral values, handing out contracts steeped in neither good nor evil, paying generous rewards.
And when the moment suited her, a black-hearted schemer who would stab you in the back without hesitation.
By the game's ending, her power base remained undiminished, seemingly untouched by the fall of Bida itself.
That was Maria Auris Meland.
'I assumed there was a connection, given the shared middle name, but...'
He had never imagined they were engaged.
Then again, knowing Maria's dark streak, the betrothal itself was likely tangled in some scheme.
'No harm in staying wary.'
Aslan kept his guard up. Unable to guess her objective, he judged it unwise to lower his defenses.
The only members fit to fight immediately were himself, Fay, and Angie.
The rest were too exhausted for proper combat. Suspecting reinforcements, Aslan wrapped his hand around the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his back—the one he had taken from the Executioner.
"What business brings you here?"
She would not have come all this way just to see her fiancé. She was here for some purpose tied to Richard or Itar.
Maybe the War God had hired her to do harm, or had hired her to pursue Aslan's party.
Either way, caution was warranted. Aslan focused his Luck, trying to sense his surroundings. The woman answered.
"Brother Richard. I came to see my beloved."
A lie. Aslan tilted the greatsword's hilt. A low, beastlike growl rumbled from the scabbard.
"Lies. Your real reason is something else. I know you don't move for such..."
Aslan spoke as he settled into a stance. Maria studied him quietly, then smiled.
She seemed to read his thought: Now that the lie is exposed, you'll show your true intent. Her tone was gentle but utterly flat.
"Of course, I have a pretext."
"A pretext?"
Not that coming to see Richard was a pretext—she had a pretext?
Aslan frowned, and Maria answered as if it were the most ordinary thing.
"Would the excuse that Kardi is under attack suffice?"
"...What?"
The question burst from Rumel.
She knew well how stout a fortress Kardi was. She was a noblewoman born and raised on lands not far from there.
Maria's eyes slid over Rumel, and the spear-wielder spoke, her dismay plain.
"Kardi is under attack? What do you mean... no, who would...?"
Maria kept her face expressionless at Rumel's outburst. Then she touched a finger to the corner of her lips and smiled.
That smile, and the atmosphere it carried, made Rumel clamp her mouth shut involuntarily. The woman slowly let the smile fade.
"One of the Cosmic Inevitability. The Poison-spitting Dragon."
The Poison-spitting Dragon. One facet of the Three Evil Gods. Aslan caught the implication of something left unsaid. Ereta drew a sharp breath, her face uneasy.
As though she sensed the approaching dread.
"More precisely, a Poison-spitting Dragon that has devoured another Cosmic Inevitability."
As expected, her premonition was dead on.