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Chapter 1: The Serpent's Dust

The first sign of the Serpent's Sickness was always the cough.

Leon Falk had heard it echoing through Haven's stone streets for months now—that dry, rasping hack that preceded the scaling rash and the inevitable transformation into living stone. He kept to the shadows of the lower district, amber eyes scanning the crowd for easy marks while studiously avoiding the notice of the city guard. The half-elf's lean frame moved with predatory grace between the market stalls, his tawny hair catching what little sunlight managed to penetrate Haven's perpetual haze of despair and smoke from the crematoriums that burned day and night.

At twenty-three, Leon had already learned that survival in a dying city meant staying mobile, staying sharp, and never getting too attached to anyone or anything. Well, almost anything. His gaze lingered appreciatively on a well-dressed merchant's wife as she bent over a fruit vendor's stall, her dress pulling tight across curves that would have inspired poetry if Leon had been the poetic type. Unfortunately, her husband looked like he could bench press a cart horse, so Leon filed the view away for later fantasies and kept moving.

Most people gave him a wide berth when they bothered to notice him at all—something about his mixed heritage and the way his hand never strayed far from his sword hilt made them nervous. The pointed ears marked him as having elven blood, but his build was too stocky, too human for their comfort. Neither fish nor fowl, as his dear departed mother used to say. Good. Nervous people were predictable people, and predictable people kept their coin purses in obvious places.

"Still picking pockets in a plague city, brother?"

The voice rumbled from behind him like distant thunder rolling over mountains. Leon didn't turn around—he'd recognize that gravelly tone anywhere, had been hearing it since childhood when it was slightly higher pitched but no less threatening. His half-brother Bora emerged from the crowd like a mountain that had decided to go for a walk, his orcish heritage evident in his massive frame, pronounced tusks, and the way smaller humans instinctively cleared a path before him.

Where Leon was all lean muscle and quick reflexes, built for speed and precision strikes, Bora was pure intimidating bulk. Nearly seven feet of scarred green-grey skin stretched over muscles that could crush stone, arms thick as tree trunks, and a face that had clearly been introduced to violence early and often. A massive shield was strapped to his back alongside a war hammer that most men couldn't lift with both hands.

"Someone's got to keep the family tradition alive," Leon replied with a crooked grin that had charmed its way out of more trouble than his sword ever had. "Besides, desperate rich folk are surprisingly careless with their coin purses. Fear makes people stupid."

Bora's perpetual scowl deepened, carving deeper lines into his weathered features, but Leon caught the hint of affection behind his half-brother's intimidating exterior. They'd been watching each other's backs since childhood, when their shared human father had abandoned them both to the streets of Haven's poorest district. Different mothers, same bastard bloodline, and a bond forged in the crucible of survival.

The half-orc's small, dark eyes—like chips of obsidian set in a cliff face—surveyed the crowd with the professional paranoia of someone who'd spent too many years expecting trouble from every direction. "Got work," he said, crossing his massive arms across his chest in a gesture that made his already impressive bulk seem even more threatening. "Real work, not your pickpocket games."

"I'm listening." Leon leaned against a stone pillar, adopting the casual pose he'd perfected over years of street dealings. Close enough to conversation, far enough from commitment.

"Army's putting together an expedition. Need fighters, and they're not asking too many questions about backgrounds or breeding." Bora's expression grew serious, which on his face looked like the calm before a particularly violent storm. "Heading into Fanewick to steal some magic flower that might cure the Sickness."

Leon's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. Fanewick was suicide—everyone with half a brain knew that. The twisted wilderness beyond Haven's eastern borders had swallowed entire companies of soldiers without a trace, leaving behind only empty armor and tales of trees that walked like men and spirits that drove travelers mad with whispered promises. Maps of the region were decorated with warnings in three languages and artistic depictions of skulls.

But if the army was desperate enough to march into those cursed woods... well, desperation created opportunities for those clever enough to seize them.

"Pay?"

"Enough to get us out of this dying city when it's done, assuming we live through it." Bora's expression grew even more serious, if such a thing were possible. "But staying here's just slower dying. Saw the Morrison family turned to stone yesterday, right there in their bakery. Little Sara was still holding her doll."

Leon nodded slowly, his amber eyes scanning the crowd around them. Half the faces he saw bore the telltale signs of early-stage Serpent's Sickness—the slight cough, the faint scaling around the eyes, the way they moved like they were already carrying the weight of stone in their bones. At least in Fanewick, death would come with a sword in his hand rather than dust in his lungs.

"When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow at dawn. Muster point is the great courtyard near the academy." Bora hesitated, which was unusual for him. The big man wasn't given to uncertainty. "There's something else. They're not just taking soldiers. Mages, scholars, even some holy types. This isn't a simple raid, Leon. This is... something bigger."

Before Leon could respond, a disturbance near the market's central fountain caught his attention with the magnetic pull of potential entertainment. A small crowd had gathered around a figure kneeling beside an elderly man who'd collapsed on the cobblestones. The figure wore the pristine white and gold robes of Haven's temple district, marking them as one of the Seraph—the divine warriors who served the city's pantheon of increasingly distant gods.

But this wasn't one of the comfortable priests who ministered to the wealthy districts from behind marble walls and stained glass windows. This Seraph had the bearing of someone who'd seen real combat, muscles defined by training rather than ceremony, and hands that knew the weight of weapons as well as prayer books.

More intriguingly—and Leon was always interested in intriguing women—she was clearly of Infernis heritage. Crimson skin caught the afternoon light like polished leather, elegant horns curved back from her temples in graceful spirals, and eyes like chips of volcanic glass surveyed the crowd with sharp intelligence. Her figure, revealed by the practical cut of her traveling robes rather than hidden by ceremonial draping, was the kind that would make artists weep and common men stupid with desire.

Leon felt his pulse quicken as she leaned over her patient, the movement causing her robes to stretch in ways that outlined curves that belonged in sculptures or fevered dreams. Focus, he told himself sternly. Professional appreciation was one thing, but getting distracted by a pretty face—even one attached to a body that could make angels fall—was a good way to end up dead or worse.

She was kneeling beside an old man who'd collapsed, her hands glowing with soft golden light as she channeled healing magic into his frail form. The crowd watched with a mixture of hope and suspicion—in Haven's current climate of fear and paranoia, an Infernis doing anything in public was either very brave or very stupid. Demon-blood, even the diluted kind, made people nervous on the best of days. These were decidedly not the best of days.

"Easy now, grandfather," she was saying in a voice like warm honey poured over steel, helping the old man sit upright against the fountain's edge. "The fever's broken, but you'll need rest and clean water. And real food, not the swill they're selling in the markets."

"Bless you, Lady Ember," the old man wheezed, his voice carrying the gratitude of someone who'd been prepared to die alone in the street. "Don't know what we'd do without folk like you."

Lady Ember. Leon filed the name away for future reference as she helped the man to his feet and sent him on his way with a small blessing and what looked like a few coins from her own purse. Several other people approached once they saw her success—some seeking healing for minor ailments, others just wanting a kind word from someone who still believed in helping rather than hoarding.

She attended to each supplicant with patient grace, never asking for payment though most left small offerings anyway. A professional healer who actually seemed to care about healing rather than profit. Either she was genuinely altruistic, which was rare enough to be suspicious, or she was playing a very long con. Either way, she was interesting.

"Trouble," Bora muttered, following Leon's gaze with the unerring instinct of someone who'd spent years watching his brother evaluate women. "That kind of compassion gets people killed in times like these. And that kind of woman gets you killed any time."

Leon didn't answer, too busy studying the Seraph's movements with professional interest. There was definite strength in her slender frame, the kind that came from years of training with both divine magic and martial weapons. More interesting still was the way she carried herself—confident without arrogance, aware of her surroundings without seeming paranoid. A survivor, like them, but one who'd chosen to use her skills to help others rather than merely endure.

When the crowd finally began to disperse, Lady Ember started packing her healing supplies into a worn leather satchel that had seen considerable use. Leon found himself walking toward her before he'd consciously made the decision, Bora's disapproving grunt rumbling behind him like a landslide in slow motion.

As he approached, Leon got a better look at her face and felt his breath catch slightly. Beautiful didn't begin to cover it—she was stunning in an otherworldly way that made mortal concerns seem petty and temporary. But there was something else, something that made his experienced eye linger. Strength of spirit that seemed to burn just beneath her crimson skin, intelligence that evaluated everything around her with sharp precision, and a trace of sadness that spoke of losses that had carved deep marks on her soul.

"Dangerous work, healing strangers," Leon said as he came within conversational distance, his voice pitched to carry just enough confidence to be interesting without crossing into arrogance. "Especially for someone with your... distinctive heritage."

Lady Ember looked up at him with those molten glass eyes, and Leon felt an unexpected jolt of attraction that had nothing to do with her admittedly spectacular figure and everything to do with the way she met his gaze without flinching. No fear, no automatic deference to his weapons or his reputation. Just calm assessment of a potential threat who might be something more.

"Dangerous times call for dangerous work," she replied evenly, her voice carrying the kind of controlled warmth that could soothe the dying or command troops with equal effectiveness. "Though I don't believe we've been introduced. And before you ask, the answer is usually no, but occasionally maybe, depending on the question and who's asking."

Leon blinked, thrown off his usual rhythm by her directness. Most people—especially those with something to hide—danced around conversations like diplomats at a peace treaty. This woman cut straight to the heart of things with surgical precision.

"Leon Falk," he said, offering a slight bow that acknowledged her station without groveling. "And the mountain of suppressed violence behind me is my brother Bora. We're not here to cause trouble or waste your time with poor attempts at charm."

"Good," she said with a smile that was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "Because I've heard them all, and they weren't worth much the first time. What do you want, Leon Falk?"

Straight to the point. He could respect that, even admire it. "Word is the army's recruiting for an expedition to Fanewick. Skilled healers would probably be welcome, especially ones with combat training."

Something flickered in Lady Ember's expression—surprise, perhaps, or calculation. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied his face with the intensity of someone reading a particularly complex magical text. "And what makes you think I'd be interested in such a venture? Assuming, of course, that such a venture actually exists and isn't just tavern gossip and wishful thinking."

"Because you're out here healing plague victims for free instead of safe behind temple walls," Leon replied, gesturing at the fountain where traces of her magic still lingered in the air like the scent of sunrise. "Either you're a saint, which seems unlikely given your heritage, or you understand that sometimes the only way forward is through the kind of danger that makes reasonable people turn around and go home."

She studied him for a long moment, taking in his mixed heritage, his worn but well-maintained weapons, the way he held himself like a coiled spring ready to explode into violence at a moment's notice. When she spoke again, her voice held a note of amused respect that made something warm unfurl in his chest.

"Ember Dawnbringer," she said, extending a hand that was surprisingly calloused for temple nobility. "And you're right—I am interested. The Sickness has claimed too many good people. If there's a chance to end it, to actually accomplish something meaningful instead of just treating symptoms..."

Leon took her offered hand, noting that her skin was warm—almost feverishly so—and caught a hint of sulfur and cinnamon in her scent. Definitely Infernis heritage, though diluted enough that she could pass for exotic human in poor lighting. "Even if it means marching into the most dangerous wilderness on the continent? The kind of place where entire companies disappear and the trees themselves want you dead?"

"Especially then." Her smile was sharp as a blade and twice as beautiful. "The gods help those who help themselves, Mr. Falk. And sometimes helping yourself means walking through fire to reach the other side."

Bora made a sound that might have been amusement or indigestion—with him, it was often hard to tell. "Fire," he rumbled in his gravelly voice. "Should have known we'd end up following a demon into hell."

"Half-demon," Ember corrected mildly, her tone suggesting she'd had this conversation many times before. "And technically, if we're being precise about metaphysical geography, we'd be going the opposite direction. Fanewick is more associated with primal nature spirits than infernal powers. Completely different magical paradigm."

"Wonderful," Leon muttered, though he couldn't quite suppress his grin. "Demons, spirits, and cursed forests. What could possibly go wrong with this plan?"

But even as he spoke the words, he found himself looking forward to the challenge with the kind of anticipation that had gotten him into more trouble than he cared to remember. Life in Haven had grown stagnant, predictable in its desperation. Every day was the same slow slide toward stone and silence. At least in Fanewick, death would come with some variety, some chance to prove himself against odds that would make epic ballads out of survivors.

And if he happened to spend that time in the company of a beautiful woman whose every movement made his blood run faster... well, there were worse ways to die than distracted by feminine perfection.

As they talked, making tentative plans to meet at the muster point and discussing the practical aspects of wilderness survival, none of them noticed the figure watching from the shadows of a nearby alley. The dracona's scaled features were set in an expression of intense concentration, as if memorizing every detail of their conversation and filing it away for future reference.

Flintsplint Ashscale had been tracking the expedition's formation for weeks, not as a spy—though he could understand why someone might make that assumption—but as a scholar desperate to understand the magical catastrophe unfolding across the known world. The corruption spreading through his own body was merely one symptom of a much larger disruption in the fundamental order of reality. His scales, once a uniform bronze-gold, now showed patches of sickly green spreading from his extremities toward his vital organs like some kind of mystical gangrene.

If his calculations were correct—and they usually were, much to his occasional regret—Haven's plan to steal the Reaping Eye would make everything infinitely worse. The magical resonance cascade alone would probably shatter the carefully maintained balance that kept the Witherwild contained to Fanewick proper. Within a year, maybe less, the corruption would spread across the entire continent like a green plague that devoured civilization itself.

But first, he needed to get closer to the expedition's decision-makers. These three looked like precisely the kind of chaos agents that might create the opportunities he needed to gather data, test theories, and hopefully find a solution before his own transformation became irreversible.

The scholar in him was fascinated by what they might discover in Fanewick's twisted heart. The rapidly changing parts of his anatomy—the patches of bark-like scaling, the way his left eye occasionally saw spectrums of light that didn't officially exist, the dreams where he could taste colors and hear the screaming of stones—were simply terrified.

Tomorrow would bring them all together on the road to destiny or damnation. Probably both, if his experience with human nature was any guide.

He retreated deeper into the shadows, already composing the first entries in what might become the definitive scholarly work on magical ecosystem collapse. Assuming anyone survived to read it, of course.

Dawn came grey and bitter to Haven's great courtyard, where nearly three hundred souls had gathered for what many suspected would be a one-way journey into the green hell that waited beyond civilization's borders. Leon Falk stood with his half-brother at the edge of the assembly, amber eyes cataloging faces and estimating odds of survival with the dispassionate efficiency of a professional gambler.

The courtyard itself was a testament to Haven's former glory—massive granite blocks fitted together with mathematical precision, decorated with carved reliefs depicting the city's greatest victories over the forces of chaos and darkness. Ironic, really, considering they were about to march directly into both. Towering statues of ancient heroes looked down upon the assembled expedition with expressions of noble determination that seemed increasingly naive in the morning's harsh light.

Most of the soldiers were regulars from Haven's army—disciplined fighters in well-maintained chainmail and tabards bearing the city's golden eagle. They stood in neat formations, checking equipment with the methodical precision of men who'd spent their careers defending walls rather than venturing beyond them. Leon could see the uncertainty in their faces, the way they kept glancing toward the city's eastern gate where the road disappeared into wilderness.

But scattered throughout the crowd were others—mercenaries with mismatched armor and hungry eyes, scholars clutching leather satchels like lifelines, and a surprising number of holy warriors whose presence suggested the temples were taking this expedition more seriously than their public pronouncements indicated.

"Quite the collection of desperate fools," Bora muttered, adjusting the massive shield strapped to his back with the unconscious gesture of a man who'd carried weapons longer than most people had been breathing. Despite his words, the half-orc's stance was protective, already positioning himself to watch Leon's flanks with the instinctive awareness that had kept them both alive through fifteen years of increasingly dangerous situations.

Leon nodded, but his attention was drawn to Ember Dawnbringer as she approached through the crowd like a ship cutting through troubled waters. The Infernis Seraph had traded her simple temple robes for practical traveling gear—supple leather armor that accommodated her wings without restricting movement, sturdy boots that had clearly seen serious use, and a sword at her hip that looked well-balanced for both ceremonial duties and actual combat.

The change in attire did nothing to diminish her otherworldly beauty—if anything, it enhanced it by revealing the warrior's strength beneath the healer's compassion. Her crimson skin seemed to glow with inner fire in the morning light, and the way she moved spoke of years spent training with weapons as well as prayers. Leon found his gaze lingering on the curve of her hips as she navigated between supply wagons, the leather of her armor pulling tight in ways that made his blood run faster.

Focus, he reminded himself sternly. Though really, what was the point of marching off to probable death if you couldn't appreciate the view along the way?

"Gentlemen," she said by way of greeting, her voice carrying easily despite the courtyard's chaos of shouted orders and clanking equipment. "Ready for our scenic tour of the most dangerous wilderness on the continent?"

"Born ready," Leon replied with the crooked grin that had charmed its way out of more trouble than his sword ever had. "Question is whether the wilderness is ready for us. Though honestly, if it gets a look at you in that armor, it might just surrender out of pure aesthetic appreciation."

Ember raised an eyebrow at his comment, but Leon caught the slight smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Falk. Unfortunately, 'everywhere' in this case includes a forest full of things that want to eat us."

"Could be worse," Bora rumbled, his gravelly voice carrying the philosophical acceptance of someone who'd long ago made peace with violent death. "Could be a forest full of things that want to bore us to death with poetry."

Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of someone Leon definitely hadn't expected to see—a Firbolg woman nearly as tall as Bora, but where the half-orc was all brutal angles and accumulated scars, she moved with the fluid grace of wind through ancient trees. Her bovine features were set in an expression of profound sadness that seemed to emanate from her very soul, and wildflowers bloomed in her footsteps only to wither moments later, as if her presence brought both life and death in equal measure.

She was, Leon had to admit, magnificent in a way that had nothing to do with conventional human beauty and everything to do with primal forces given feminine form. Her height meant he had an excellent view of her chest, which the practical cut of her traveling robes did nothing to conceal. The Firbolg clearly valued function over modesty, and Leon was professionally obligated to appreciate the results.

"Forgive the intrusion," she said in accented Common, her voice carrying the musical quality typical of her people—like wind chimes made of silver bells and distant thunder. "I am Meadowsong of the Singing Grove, and I believe we are to travel together into my homeland."

Leon's hand instinctively moved toward his sword hilt, a reaction trained into him by years of expecting betrayal from every possible direction. Fanewick natives weren't supposed to be part of this expedition—they were the enemy, weren't they? The mysterious forest dwellers who'd been keeping Haven from the cure they desperately needed?

But something in the Firbolg's demeanor stayed his hand. This wasn't a spy or saboteur plotting treachery behind sorrowful eyes. This was someone carrying grief as heavy as the morning mist that clung to the courtyard's stones, someone who'd lost more than she could bear and was still trying to find a way to save what remained.

"Your homeland," Ember said carefully, her healer's instincts clearly picking up on the same undercurrents of pain that Leon had noticed. "Then you know what we'll be facing out there. The spirits, the corrupted creatures, the way the very land itself seems to want intruders dead."

"Better than any of you," Meadowsong replied, her large brown eyes—like pools of forest shadow—fixing on each of them in turn with uncomfortable intensity. "I know the spirits we will anger, the ancient compacts we will break, the price that will be paid in blood and sorrow." She paused, studying their faces with the careful attention of someone reading the future in tea leaves. "I also know that if I do not guide you, if I do not try to find another way, far more will die than if I do nothing."

"Noble of you," Leon said, not bothering to hide his suspicion even as he fought to keep his eyes focused on her face rather than the way her robes fell across curves that belonged in fertility goddess sculptures. "But why should we trust someone whose people we're about to rob? Seems like a conflict of interest."

Meadowsong's expression grew even sadder, which Leon would have thought impossible. "Because, warrior of the mixed blood, I have already seen in dreams and visions what happens when the Shepherd of Seasons loses both her eyes. The corruption spreads beyond all boundaries, consuming everything in its path until nothing remains but endless, mindless growth." She gestured at the withered flowers around her feet. "The sickness in your city is nothing compared to what is coming. Your people's desperation may doom us all, but doing nothing certainly will."

Before anyone could respond to this ominous pronouncement, a new voice cut through the morning air with scholarly precision and barely contained excitement.

"Actually, the Firbolg is quite correct from a theoretical standpoint. The magical resonance patterns suggest a cascade failure across multiple thaumic layers, with potentially catastrophic implications for continental stability."

They turned to see a Dracona approaching with the slightly distracted gait of someone whose mind spent more time in abstract concepts than physical reality. He was smaller than most of his kind—probably favoring mental pursuits over the physical prowess that many dragon-descendants preferred—but Leon immediately noticed something deeply unsettling about his appearance.

The Dracona's scales, which should have been a uniform bronze or gold, showed patches of sickly green spreading from his extremities toward his core like some kind of mystical gangrene. His left eye occasionally flicked through spectrums of color that human vision wasn't equipped to process, and when he moved, small flowers bloomed and died in his footprints.

"Flintsplint Ashscale," the scholar introduced himself with a formal bow that managed to be both respectful and slightly awkward, as if he'd learned proper etiquette from books rather than practice. "War Wizard of the Third Circle, though my colleagues would probably dispute the 'war' part given my preference for theoretical research over practical application of destructive magics."

His golden eyes—when they weren't shifting through impossible colors—fixed on Meadowsong with the intense interest of someone who'd found a particularly fascinating specimen. "Your people's connection to natural magical flows makes you far more sensitive to systemic disruptions than most humanoid species. Absolutely fascinating from a theoretical perspective. I don't suppose you'd consent to some comparative thaumic readings once we're underway? For scholarly purposes, of course."

"You're sick," Ember observed bluntly, her healer's training making the symptoms obvious to her professional eye. "That discoloration spreading through your scales—it's not natural, is it? And the way reality seems to bend slightly around you suggests magical corruption at the cellular level."

Flintsplint's expression brightened with the enthusiasm of someone finally finding others who understood the magnitude of what was happening. "Oh, quite right! Absolutely correct diagnosis. The corruption began manifesting approximately six months ago, shortly after the first major disruptions in Fanewick's seasonal patterns became apparent to long-range divination specialists."

He pulled a small notebook from his robes and flipped through pages covered with incomprehensible diagrams and mathematical formulas. "Most intriguing from a theoretical standpoint, though I admit the practical implications are somewhat concerning. The transformation appears to be accelerating as we approach the source of the disturbance."

"Somewhat concerning?" Leon stared at the obviously diseased dragon-man with the kind of fascination usually reserved for disasters in progress. "You're rotting from the inside out with magical plague, and you call it 'somewhat concerning'?"

"Well, yes. The progression models suggest I have perhaps another eight to ten months before the transformation becomes irreversible, assuming current rates of corruption spread." Flintsplint tilted his head in a remarkably reptilian gesture, completely missing the horror on his companions' faces. "Plenty of time to gather comprehensive data on the phenomenon and hopefully identify a cure or at least a treatment protocol. Academic curiosity only goes so far, after all."

Bora made a noise that sounded like rocks grinding together in an avalanche. "So let me understand this correctly. We have a traitor," he pointed at Meadowsong, "a demon," his finger swung to Ember, "and a diseased lizard who thinks he's got months to live." He looked at Flintsplint with dark amusement. "This expedition gets better by the minute."

"I am not a traitor," Meadowsong said quietly, but her voice carried the kind of contained power that made the air itself seem to listen. "I seek to save both our peoples from a fate worse than mere death."

"Half-demon," Ember corrected automatically, though her tone suggested she was more amused than offended. "And technically, I'm here representing the temples' official interests, so I'm basically clergy with sharp pointy objects."

"And I'm not precisely a lizard from a taxonomical standpoint," Flintsplint added helpfully, making more notes in his book. "Dragon-descended humanoids are technically more mammalian than reptilian in terms of metabolic processes and reproductive biology, despite superficial scaling and certain behavioral tendencies toward hoarding knowledge rather than gold."

Leon looked around at his impromptu companions and felt a familiar sensation in his gut—the same feeling he'd gotten before every successful heist, every narrow escape from city guards, every moment when chaos aligned just right to create opportunity where others saw only disaster.

This collection of misfits shouldn't work together. They had conflicting goals, dangerous secrets, potentially terminal magical diseases, and enough personal baggage to sink a warship. Meadowsong was probably nursing some kind of tragic backstory that would complicate everything at the worst possible moment. Ember was beautiful enough to distract him at precisely the wrong time—and he was already having trouble keeping his eyes off her ass when she walked. Flintsplint was literally dying of magical corruption and seemed to think this was just another research opportunity.

Which was exactly why it might work.

"Well," he said finally, unable to suppress his grin despite the circumstances, "at least we'll be memorable. Assuming anyone survives to remember us, of course."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Captain Thorne, the expedition's military commander. The grizzled veteran looked like he'd been carved from the same granite as the courtyard's walls—all sharp angles and weathered surfaces, with scars that spoke of decades spent keeping civilization's enemies at bay. He took one look at their unlikely group and his weathered face creased into what might have been amusement or indigestion.

"Let me guess," he said, consulting a list on a clipboard that had seen better decades. "Falk and Bora, melee specialists with questionable backgrounds but unquestionable skills. Dawnbringer, combat medic and divine representative. Meadowsong, wilderness guide and cultural liaison. Ashscale, strategic support and magical consultant."

He looked up from his papers with eyes that had seen too much and still kept looking. "Command's decided to assign you six as an independent reconnaissance unit. You'll scout ahead of the main force, identify threats, gather intelligence, and report back on terrain conditions and enemy capabilities."

"Six?" Leon looked around, counting only four companions plus himself. "I'm reasonably good at mathematics, Captain, but I only see five potential corpses here."

"Your archer should be along shortly," Thorne replied with the kind of smile that suggested he knew something they didn't. "Dracona female, expert marksman, recently transferred from the border scouts where she's spent the last three years keeping the eastern settlements from being overrun by things that officially don't exist."

He paused, studying their faces with professional assessment. "I'll be honest with you people—this assignment has what we in the military call a 'high casualty expectation.' You'll be first into unknown territory, first to encounter hostile forces, and last to receive support if things go completely to hell."

"So business as usual," Bora rumbled with the philosophical acceptance of someone who'd spent his entire adult life expecting violent death from multiple directions.

Thorne's grin was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "I like your attitude, big man. Try to keep it when the forest spirits start picking you off one by one and using your bones to decorate their territorial boundaries." He moved on to brief other units, leaving them to contemplate their assignment and their mortality in roughly equal measure.

"Well," Ember said after a moment of contemplative silence, "at least now we know why they put us together. We're expendable enough to take the risks the main force can't afford."

"Everyone's expendable in a war," Leon replied with pragmatic honesty, though his eyes lingered on the way morning light played across her crimson skin. "Question is whether we're expendable enough to take the kind of risks that turn desperate situations into tactical opportunities."

Meadowsong nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "In Fanewick, small groups move more safely than large ones. The spirits prefer to test individuals rather than armies. They... appreciate intimacy in their trials."

"Test them how?" Flintsplint asked, his scholarly curiosity clearly piqued enough to overcome any concerns about personal survival. He was already pulling out instruments and taking readings on the ambient magical field density.

"That," the Firbolg said with a sad smile that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, "you will learn soon enough. The forest has many ways of revealing what lies in mortal hearts. Not all of them are pleasant."

As if summoned by their conversation about completing their group, another Dracona approached through the crowd—this one unmistakably female, with the lean build and sharp eyes of someone who'd spent years watching horizons for threats that might or might not be there. Her scales were a deep emerald green, unmarked by the corruption affecting Flintsplint, and she carried a bow that looked like it had sent more than its share of enemies to whatever afterlife they'd earned.

Leon found himself studying the newcomer with professional interest that quickly shifted to personal appreciation. Like Ember, she was undeniably attractive in ways that made his blood run faster and his brain run slower. Something about the way Dracona features combined reptilian and humanoid characteristics created an exotic appeal he'd never quite understood but was always willing to explore.

Where Ember radiated warmth and compassion wrapped around a core of righteous steel, this newcomer seemed cooler, more calculating. She moved with the predatory grace of someone who'd learned that hesitation was often fatal, and her golden eyes missed nothing as they cataloged potential threats, escape routes, and tactical advantages.

A kindred spirit, perhaps. Someone who understood that survival required constant vigilance and a willingness to do whatever was necessary to see another dawn.

"Senna Quickarrow," she introduced herself with military precision, her voice carrying the slight rasp of someone who'd spent years breathing smoke from border fires and funeral pyres. "I'm told you need someone to watch your backs from a distance while you stumble through the wilderness getting yourselves killed in creative ways."

"Welcome to our merry band of misfits," Leon said, offering a slight bow that acknowledged her obvious competence while allowing him to get a better look at her figure. Professional assessment, of course. "Fair warning—we seem to specialize in impossible situations and poor decision-making. Also, our scholar is slowly transforming into something that probably shouldn't exist, and our guide is from the people we're supposed to be robbing."

Senna's golden eyes glinted with what might have been amusement or calculation. It was hard to tell with Dracona—their expressions were often as alien as their heritage. "Sounds like my kind of assignment. The boring ones never pay well enough to be worth the risk."

Leon felt something that might have been attraction or might have been professional respect. Either way, it was promising. "Practical woman. I like that in a potential corpse." He gestured toward the growing chaos of the expedition's final preparations. "So tell me, Senna Quickarrow, what terrible life choices brought you to volunteer for a suicide mission into the most cursed wilderness on the continent?"

"Same as everyone else, I'd imagine," she replied, adjusting the quiver at her hip with practiced efficiency. "Desperation, stupidity, and the faint hope that impossible odds might actually work out in our favor for once." Her reptilian features shifted into what might have been a smile. "Plus, someone needs to make sure you ground-pounders don't walk into obvious ambushes while you're busy staring at each other's assets."

Leon caught the pointed look she gave him and had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. Only slightly, though. A man had to have priorities, and appreciating feminine beauty was practically a civic duty in times like these.

"Speaking of assets," Ember said dryly, apparently having noticed the direction of Leon's attention, "perhaps we should focus on the kind that might actually keep us alive in hostile territory."

"Right," Leon said, forcing himself to adopt a more professional demeanor despite the abundant distractions. "Equipment, supplies, tactical planning. All very important. Absolutely crucial to mission success."

Bora made a sound that might have been laughter if it had come from anyone else. On him, it sounded like boulders having a disagreement. "Brother, you couldn't be professional if your life depended on it. Which it probably will."

"That's what you're for," Leon replied cheerfully. "You handle the professionalism, I'll handle the charm and tactical improvisation."

"What about the rest of us?" Flintsplint asked, looking up from a device that was making soft chiming sounds and glowing with colors that definitely weren't supposed to exist in nature. "I mean, from a team dynamics perspective, we should probably establish clear roles and responsibilities before venturing into hostile territory."

"Simple enough," Leon said, warming to the subject. "Bora handles anything that needs to be hit very hard with large objects. Ember keeps us from dying of various wounds, diseases, and spiritual afflictions. Senna kills things from a distance before they can kill us up close. Meadowsong keeps us from getting lost or accidentally offending any forest spirits. And you..." He paused, studying the corrupted scholar. "You figure out what's going wrong and hopefully how to fix it before we all die horribly."

"And what do you do?" Senna asked with pointed curiosity.

"I make it up as I go along and somehow keep us all alive through pure luck and desperate improvisation," Leon replied with complete honesty. "It's worked so far."

"Inspiring leadership," Ember observed, though her tone suggested more amusement than criticism. "I can see why they put you in charge."

"Nobody put me in charge," Leon protested. "I just started talking and everyone else started listening. There's a difference."

"Not really," Bora rumbled with the authority of someone who'd watched his brother stumble into leadership roles for years. "Leon's got a talent for making people follow him into stupid situations and somehow surviving them. Usually by making the situation even more stupid until it circles back around to brilliant."

As if to underscore his point, a commotion erupted near the supply wagons where a massive figure was having a heated discussion with several harried-looking quartermasters. The man—and it was definitely a man, though barely—stood nearly eight feet tall with shoulders that could have supported bridge construction and arms thick as tree trunks. His clothes were practical leather and rough-spun cloth designed for someone who worked with forge fires and heavy hammers.

"I don't care what your manifests say," the giant was saying in a voice that carried clearly across the courtyard despite not being raised in anger. "My tools stay with me, or you can find someone else to keep your weapons sharp and your armor intact when the forest spirits start testing their quality."

The lead quartermaster, a thin bureaucrat who looked like he'd never lifted anything heavier than a quill pen, gestured frantically at his papers. "But regulations clearly state that all equipment must be inventoried and distributed according to established protocols—"

"Stuff your protocols," the big man interrupted, not rudely but with the finality of someone who'd spent years dealing with bureaucratic nonsense. "I've been working metal since I was twelve years old. I know what I need to do my job, and I know what happens to armies whose gear fails at the wrong moment."

Captain Thorne appeared as if summoned by the disturbance, his authoritative presence immediately defusing the tension. "It's all right, Hendricks," he said to the quartermaster. "Master Ironfoot here has volunteered his services as our expedition smith. His equipment is essential to mission success."

The quartermaster looked ready to protest further, but a sharp look from Thorne silenced him more effectively than shouted orders. As the bureaucrat retreated with his papers and wounded dignity, the captain turned to address the assembled crowd with the kind of voice that had been shaped by decades of command.

"Listen up!" Thorne's voice cut through the morning air like a blade through silk. "We march within the hour. This isn't a pleasure jaunt through familiar countryside—we're entering hostile territory inhabited by creatures and spirits that would rather see us dead than successful."

He paused, letting his words sink in as he surveyed the faces before him. "Stay alert, follow orders, and look out for your fellow soldiers. The man next to you might be the only thing standing between you and a very unpleasant death, so I suggest you make friends quickly."

Leon glanced at his companions, noting the way they instinctively moved closer together as Thorne spoke. Already, without conscious decision, they were becoming a unit. Bora's massive presence anchored them, while Senna's sharp eyes watched their surroundings. Ember radiated calm competence, and Meadowsong's sad wisdom seemed to encompass them all like a protective shroud.

Even Flintsplint, despite his advancing corruption and scholarly distraction, was paying attention with the kind of focus that suggested he understood the gravity of their situation even if he processed it differently than the others.

"Final equipment check," Leon said quietly. "We've got maybe thirty minutes before we start the longest walk of our lives. Anything you need, speak up now."

"More arrows," Senna said immediately. "I can make some in the field if I have to, but I'd rather start with a full supply."

"Additional medical supplies," Ember added. "Especially antitoxins and general-purpose healing potions. I can handle most injuries with divine magic, but it's always good to have backup options."

"I require access to a properly equipped alchemical kit," Flintsplint announced, looking up from his instruments. "The corruption is accelerating, and I need to prepare countermeasures before the transformation becomes irreversible. Also, I should probably warn you all that I've been having some rather disturbing dreams lately."

"What kind of dreams?" Meadowsong asked, her voice carrying genuine concern.

"The kind where I can taste colors and hear the screaming of stones," the scholar replied matter-of-factly. "Also, I keep dreaming about trees that walk like men and flowers that sing lullabies about death. I'm reasonably certain these are prophetic visions rather than simple psychological stress responses."

"Wonderful," Leon muttered. "Prophetic dreams of doom. Because this expedition wasn't ominous enough already."

"Actually," Flintsplint continued with scholarly enthusiasm, "the dreams might be quite useful from a tactical intelligence perspective. If they are indeed prophetic rather than hallucinatory, they could provide advance warning of threats we'll encounter in Fanewick."

"Or they could be the magical corruption driving you slowly insane," Ember pointed out with clinical detachment. "Chaos magic is notorious for causing psychological disturbances in its victims."

"True," the scholar acknowledged. "But insanity and prophecy have traditionally been closely linked throughout human history. Perhaps the corruption is simply opening my mind to information streams normally filtered out by rational thought processes."

Bora shook his head with the resignation of someone who'd spent years dealing with scholars and their theories. "Does it matter? Either way, the lizard's going crazy, and we're still marching into a forest that wants us dead."

"It matters," Meadowsong said softly, "because in Fanewick, the line between madness and wisdom is very thin. The spirits speak to those who are willing to listen, but not everyone survives the conversation."

Leon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. Every time Meadowsong spoke about her homeland, she made it sound worse than the previous description. At this rate, they'd discover that Fanewick was actually a gateway to every hell simultaneously, guarded by demons who collected souls for entertainment.

"Right," he said, forcing optimism into his voice. "Mad prophetic dreams, forest spirits with anger management issues, and magical corruption that might or might not be useful. Just another day in paradise."

The sound of horns echoing across the courtyard interrupted his attempt at morale building. Three long blasts that had been the signal for military movements since Haven was founded. Around them, the expedition began forming into marching order with the organized chaos that characterized any large military operation.

"Time to go," Ember said unnecessarily, though her voice carried steady confidence that helped anchor Leon's scattered thoughts.

As they gathered their gear and prepared to join the column forming at the courtyard's eastern edge, Leon took one last look at Haven's walls. Gray stone blocks fitted together with mathematical precision, decorated with carved eagles and heroic figures that seemed increasingly naive in the morning light. Behind those walls lay everything he'd ever known—the good, the bad, and the slowly dying.

Ahead lay Fanewick, where ancient spirits guarded secrets that might save or damn them all.

"Well," he said to no one in particular, "at least it can't be worse than staying here and turning into a statue."

"Don't say that," Bora rumbled with the superstitious dread of someone who'd seen too many confident predictions proven wrong by hostile reality. "You'll jinx us."

"I don't believe in jinxes," Leon replied cheerfully. "I believe in skill, luck, and the power of positive thinking."

"What about the power of negative thinking?" Senna asked as they fell into formation. "That's served me pretty well over the years."

"Also valid," Leon admitted. "Expect the worst, hope for something slightly better, and try not to die screaming. Words to live by."

As the expedition began its march toward the eastern gate, Leon found himself walking beside Ember, close enough to catch that intriguing scent of sulfur and cinnamon that seemed to follow her everywhere. Professional curiosity, he told himself. Purely tactical awareness of his companions' capabilities and...  nice assets.

"Stop staring at my ass, Leon," she said without turning around.

"I wasn't staring," he protested. "I was conducting a professional assessment of our tactical formation."

"Uh-huh. And what did your 'professional assessment' conclude?"

"That our tactical formation has excellent... structural integrity."

Ember's laugh was like silver bells with a hint of hellfire. "You're incorrigible."

"I prefer 'charmingly roguish,'" Leon replied. "It sounds more heroic in the ballads."

Behind them, Flintsplint was muttering to himself while taking readings on various instruments that clicked and hummed and occasionally emitted flashes of light in colors that definitely weren't supposed to exist. Senna moved with the fluid grace of a predator, her eyes constantly scanning their surroundings for potential threats. Meadowsong walked in contemplative silence, flowers blooming and dying in her footsteps as if nature itself couldn't decide whether to celebrate or mourn her presence.

And Bora simply endured, as he always had, ready to step between his brother and whatever dangers awaited them in the green hell ahead.

The gates of Haven opened before them like the jaws of some great beast, revealing the road that led east toward destiny or damnation. The expedition flowed through the opening like water through a broken dam, three hundred souls carrying the desperate hopes of a dying city into the unknown.

Leon Falk walked toward his fate with a spring in his step and appreciation for the feminine company, wondering what kind of ballad would eventually be written about their doomed venture. Probably a tragic one, if he was being honest. But at least it would be memorable.

Assuming anyone survived to remember it, of course.