Jim the Groundskeeper [Original Fantasy]

[Metel_Pen]

Jim stared down at the empty duffle bag laying open across his bed. It looked wrong somehow. Too empty. Too expectant. Like it already knew it was about to drag him somewhere unpleasant. For a long moment he simply stood there scratching absentmindedly at his beard while the morning light spilled through the cabin window behind him.

Dust motes drifted lazily through the sunlight. The cabin was quiet. Peaceful. The sort of quiet that only existed when nobody was actively trying to kill anyone. It had been a long time since he'd packed for anything beyond academy duties. A very long time.

Truth be told, Jim wasn't entirely sure he remembered how anymore. Riordan had become home before he'd even noticed it happening. The grounds. The dragons. The students. The routines.

The familiar faces. The simple comfort of knowing where he'd be sleeping each night. For the first time in years he'd stopped living one day at a time waiting for the next disaster. Stopped expecting trouble around every corner. And now here he was again. Packing for the Umber lands.

The thought sat heavily in his stomach.

"Come on you old bugger," he muttered to himself. "Start simple." He pointed at the duffle.

"Socks and drawers. Work your way up." Practical problems first. Always practical problems first. Worrying about monsters could come later. Jim grabbed five pairs of thick woollen socks from the nearby wardrobe and folded them neatly into the bag alongside several sets of underwear. Cold wet feet killed morale faster than monsters ever did.

He'd seen entire units become miserable after two days of marching with soaked boots. Men could endure fear. Cold feet was where they drew the line. He tossed in a few pairs of trousers next, followed by undershirts and several rough travelling shirts that already smelled faintly of smoke and pipe tobacco. The scent clung stubbornly to almost everything he owned these days. His spare leather boots followed soon after.

They landed heavily in the bottom of the bag with a dull thud.

"Wet boots are a nightmare," Jim muttered. That lesson had been learned painfully somewhere in the freezing mud of the eastern campaigns years ago. Three weeks of rain. Two weeks of misery. One very memorable fungal infection. Not an experience worth repeating.

He reached over to the little shelf near his bed and grabbed two small wooden boxes of pipe tobacco before hesitating briefly. Then added a spare pipe. Because if he was going back into the Umber lands he was absolutely going to need something calming that wasn't alcohol. He considered adding a third pipe. Then decided that might be admitting weakness. Jim knelt slowly beside the bed, joints crackling loudly in protest, and reached underneath.

His fingers brushed old wood. For a second he paused. The movement stopped completely. Then slowly dragged the chest out into the light. The iron feet scraped softly across the floorboards. It was old.

Solid oak reinforced with black iron bands worn smooth with age. Scratches marked the surface along with faint burn marks from places long forgotten. The chest had travelled almost as much as he had. Different camps. Different wars. Different lives.

Jim lifted it onto the bed with a grunt and unlatched the lid. The hinges creaked softly. The smell hit him immediately. Old paper. Leather. Oil.

Smoke. Memory. The smell of years. Inside lay several leather-bound books alongside neatly folded papers of commendation and service records tied together with faded red ribbon. Jim stared at them quietly for a moment. The ribbons had once been bright.

Now they looked tired. Like everything else in the chest. Then gently lifted them aside. He'd never known what to do with commendations. People gave them to you for surviving things you'd rather forget. Beneath them rested a small weathered leather notebook.

Its edges were worn soft from use. The corners had rounded from years spent being pulled from pockets and packs. Jim picked it up carefully.

"Gonna need that," he murmured. The notebook disappeared into the duffle. Maps. Notes. Routes. Places to avoid.

Things he never wanted to forget. And things he desperately wished he could. The sort of knowledge nobody ever wrote into proper guidebooks. Then he reached deeper into the chest. His expression shifted slightly as his fingers closed around cold metal. The feeling was instantly familiar.

Slowly, Jim lifted out his old armour. Dark steel caught the morning light. Not rusted. Never rusted. Just aged. The deep grey-black sheen of true carbon steel.

Forged in dragon fire. Heavy enough to matter. Heavy enough to trust. The armour unfolded slowly as he lifted it free. Piece by piece. Scarred in places.

Dented in others. Not enough to weaken it. Just enough to prove it had done its job. Jim ran a hand across the breastplate. His fingers traced old marks left by blades, claws, and things he preferred not to think about. The steel felt cool beneath his palm.

Familiar. Comforting. Like greeting an old friend he hadn't seen in years. Old enough to have stories attached to every dent. Jim ran his thumb slowly across one rough patch near the ribs where the steel had warped inward years ago. A spear had struck there once.

Hard enough to crack ribs clean through. He could still remember the impact. The sudden loss of breath. The pain. The certainty, for one brief moment, that he was about to die. Hadn't spared him the pain.

But it had saved his life all the same. Jim exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Still ugly," he muttered to the armour. The armour, wisely, offered no opinion. Jim smirked faintly. It had always been a better listener than most people. He lowered it carefully into the duffle alongside a pair of leather-armoured greaves scarred from years of use. The bag suddenly looked much heavier now.

Much more real. Less like a collection of supplies. More like preparation. Jim closed the chest slowly and slid it back beneath the bed where it disappeared once more into shadow. The familiar scraping sound echoed softly through the cabin. For a moment he remained standing there quietly.

Looking at the packed bag. At the armour. At the life he'd built here. The little cabin. The academy. The students constantly getting themselves into trouble.

The dragons. The routine. It occurred to him that leaving felt stranger than it should have. Then the cabin door creaked open behind him. Jim didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Emile stepped into the room.

"You good, lad?" Jim asked quietly. Emile stood near the doorway with his hands shoved into his pockets. The young man looked uncomfortable. Not frightened. Just thoughtful.

"I'm okay," he replied. Jim grunted softly. He knew a forced answer when he heard one. Years of military service had made him very familiar with them. The cabin had grown strangely quiet again now that the reality of leaving had settled properly between them. Neither of them seemed entirely sure what to say.

Jim adjusted the strap on the duffle bag resting across the bed before turning to look fully at Emile.

"You take care of Auline while I'm gone," he said. "And when you head down to the paddock, be careful with some of those young drakes." Emile nodded.

"They're young," Jim continued. "Which means they're idiots."

"That sounds familiar." Jim pointed a finger at him.

"Difference is drakes can accidentally remove your arm when they're being idiots." Emile smiled faintly.

"I recommend bringing Auline down with you when you're handling them," Jim said. "Gets them in line quickly enough. She doesn't suffer fools no matter the species." That earned a quiet laugh from Emile. The tension eased slightly. Just enough.

"I will, Jim. Don't worry." Jim gave a small nod. For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. Just honest. Then Emile asked quietly:

"How long d'you think you'll be gone?" Jim scratched at his beard thoughtfully.

"I don't know, lad." That was the truth of it. And they both knew it.

"Depends how good their lead is. Depends how good their plan is." He snorted softly. "Depends how competent the team actually turns out to be." Which worried him more than the monsters honestly. People caused most disasters. The monsters merely finished them.

"A few weeks at least, I reckon." Emile nodded slowly. His expression suggested he wasn't particularly thrilled by that answer. Then suddenly:

"Here." Jim frowned as Emile reached behind his back and produced a bottle along with Jim's old hip flask. The sight caught him slightly off guard.

"It's the cheap stuff," Emile said. "Just how you like it." Jim stared at the bottle. Then at the flask. The old flask looked strangely familiar sitting in somebody else's hands.

"And I filled your hip flask too." A small smile tugged at Jim's face despite himself.

"Cheers, lad." For a second he looked genuinely caught off guard by the gesture. Jim wasn't particularly good at emotional moments. Most of the time he handled them by pretending they weren't happening. Or by insulting somebody. Or leaving.

"I know how you like a nightcap," Emile said awkwardly. "And if things get stressful..." He shrugged slightly.

"At least you've got a drink to relax with." Jim nodded once.

"Aye." Simple answer. But it meant more than that. He slid the bottle carefully into the duffle bag before tucking the filled hip flask into one of the pockets of his old wax coat. The familiar weight settled comfortably against his side.

"Ooh wait a sec," Emile suddenly blurted. Then turned and hurried out of the room before Jim could respond. Jim watched him disappear with a raised eyebrow. The cabin door banged lightly behind him.

"What's the soppy lad doing now?" he muttered to himself. He shook his head. Honestly. Give a young man one dragon and a bit of confidence and suddenly they started acting sentimental. A few seconds later Emile came rushing back into the cabin holding something wrapped in cloth. Jim's eyes narrowed immediately.

Emile unwrapped it carefully. The cloth fell away a little at a time. A familiar shape emerged beneath it. A sword.

"Here," Emile said, holding it out. "Take this too." Jim blinked. For a moment he simply stared at it. Then shook his head immediately.

"Nah lad. Can't do that. It's yours now."

"I know," Emile replied. "But you gave it to me because I had use for it and needed it." He held the sword out more firmly.

"I don't right now." His eyes met Jim's.

"But you do." The room went quiet again. The sort of silence that only appeared when both people knew exactly what was being said without needing to say it aloud.

"When you come back," Emile added, "you can give it back." Jim's gaze lingered on the weapon. Emile glanced down toward the belt knife hanging at Jim's hip.

"With respect…" he said carefully, "…I don't think that little thing's gonna cut it where you're going." Jim snorted softly at the accidental wording. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Didn't even mean that, did ya?"

"No."

"Shame. It was decent." Then slowly Jim reached out and took the sword. The familiar weight settled into his hand immediately. Comfortably. Naturally. Like greeting an old friend.

Carefully, he drew the blade. Steel whispered softly from the scabbard. Morning sunlight caught the edge, gleaming bright silver across the cabin walls. The reflection danced briefly across the ceiling. Clean. Sharp.

Razor edged. Jim could tell instantly Emile had maintained it properly. Taken care of her. That mattered more than he'd admit aloud. A neglected weapon told you a lot about a person. A maintained one told you even more.

Jim turned the blade slightly in the light before nodding once.

"I'll bring her back, lad," he said quietly. Emile nodded.

"See that you do." Jim slid the sword carefully back into its battle-worn scabbard. The old leather creaked softly as the blade disappeared home. The sound was strangely familiar. For a moment his hand lingered on the hilt. Then he placed it gently atop the duffle bag beside the rest of his gear.

The sight of it there made everything feel painfully real now. No longer just talk. No longer just rumours and old stories. No longer something happening in a few days. He was leaving. Again.

The realisation sat heavily in his chest. Jim turned back toward Emile and stepped closer. For a second he looked like he might say something meaningful. Something wise. Something worthy of the moment. Instead, he held out his hand.

Emile stared at it briefly before reaching out and gripping it firmly. Jim's grip was rough and solid, worn by years of sword hilts, shovels, dragon tack, and hard living. The handshake lasted a fraction longer than either of them would ever admit was necessary.

"I'll see ya when I'm back, lad," Jim said. Emile nodded once.

"You better." Simple words. But neither of them treated them lightly. Jim released the handshake and pointed a finger toward him.

"And whatever you drink from my booze cupboard…" A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"…make sure you bloody replace it." Emile laughed softly.

"I'll do my best."

"No," Jim corrected. "Do better than your best. Some of those bottles are older than you."

"I'm pretty sure one of them's older than the academy."

"Aye and still tastes better than half the faculty." That earned a proper grin from Emile now. The first genuine one in a while.

"I'll make sure Auline's looked after too," he said. Jim nodded absently. Then suddenly froze. His expression changed immediately.

"…Ah shit." Emile blinked.

"What?" Jim rubbed a hand over his face.

"I haven't even told her yet." The words hung in the air. Both men immediately understood the problem. As if the world itself had been waiting for the comment— A deep rumbling growl vibrated from outside the cabin window. The glass rattled softly in its frame.

Both men slowly turned. A massive amber eye stared back at them through the glass. Unblinking. Watching. Jim sighed. Of course she'd heard that.

"Right." The eye narrowed slightly. Smoke curled lazily from the edges of Auline's nostrils, fogging the window. The dragon looked deeply unimpressed. Which, Jim reflected, was usually a bad sign. Emile folded his arms.

"I've already made her aware," he admitted. Jim looked at him.

"You what?"

"She noticed you packing armour and weapons." Emile shrugged slightly. "Didn't take a genius." Outside, Auline let out another low rumble that sounded deeply unimpressed. The cabin window rattled softly. Jim pointed accusingly toward the dragon.

"Now listen here—" The amber eye narrowed further. Judgement radiated from it. Emile wisely took a step backward. Years of experience had taught him there were some arguments you simply didn't want to be standing near when they started.

"I think," he said carefully, "you may need to give her a lot of fuss before you leave." Jim stared at him. Then at the dragon. Then back at him.

"…I hate that you're probably right." The eye vanished from the window. A second later came the loud unmistakable sound of something very large dramatically collapsing onto the ground outside. The cabin shook slightly. Jim closed his eyes.

"She's doing it on purpose now." Emile shrugged helplessly.

"She learned from the best." Jim chose not to respond to that. Mostly because it was difficult to argue. Jim sighed the deep exhausted sigh of a man who had somehow ended up emotionally manipulated by a dragon.

"Right then," he muttered. Auline let out another dramatic rumble from outside.

"Aye aye, I'm coming." The rumble immediately stopped.

"Manipulative bastard." Jim stepped out of the little cabin into the cool summer air to comfort and explain to a three-ton apex predator that he would not, in fact, be present tomorrow morning to provide her daily bowl of tea and morning attention. Life was strange sometimes. The academy grounds were quiet now, most students either still sleeping off celebrations or enjoying the first real morning of summer freedom. Sunlight spilled across the hills surrounding Riordan while a light breeze rustled through the grass and trees. The air smelled of summer.

Fresh grass. Warm earth. Wood smoke drifting from distant chimneys. Auline sat waiting outside the cabin like a deeply offended mountain. Her tail lashed slowly across the grass as Jim approached. Each sweep flattened patches of wildflowers.

"Oh don't gimme that look," he muttered. The dragon lowered her massive head toward him with another unhappy growl. The sound vibrated through his chest. Jim scratched beneath her jaw scales carefully. The rough scales were warm beneath his fingers.

"You'll survive a few weeks without me." Auline snorted hot smoke directly into his face. Jim coughed.

"Right. Fair point." The dragon seemed very pleased with herself. Her amber eyes stayed fixed on him. There was too much intelligence in dragon eyes sometimes. Made conversations uncomfortable. Especially when you suspected they were winning.

"I've got work to do," Jim said quietly, continuing to scratch along the rough scales near her neck. "And apparently I'm the only idiot stupid enough to do it." Auline rumbled low in her throat.

"Aye well, that's hardly new information." The dragon nudged him hard enough to nearly shove him off balance. Grass crunched beneath his boots. Jim barked out a laugh despite himself and rested a hand against the side of her snout. The scales there were scarred in places. Old marks.

Old fights. Just like him.

"I'll come back." The words came easier than he expected. Maybe because he wasn't entirely sure he believed them. Auline stared at him for several long seconds before finally letting out a slow grumbling breath and settling slightly into the grass. The tension seemed to leave her all at once.

"There she is," Jim muttered. "That's less murder-y." Auline closed her eyes. One enormous wing shifted slightly as she settled more comfortably into the hay and grass. By the time he finally left the paddock nearly an hour later, the morning sun sat much higher in the sky. The academy had fully awakened. Students moved along distant pathways.

Voices drifted across the grounds. Dragons lounged in nearby paddocks. Life carried on. Jim walked slowly down the long road leading away from Riordan Academy with his duffle slung across his back, sword hanging at his hip, and pipe clenched between his teeth. The academy stood behind him atop the hill, all towers, dragon pens, and ancient stone catching the summer light. From a distance it looked almost peaceful.

Home. Strange thought. There had been a time when Jim would have laughed at the idea. Jess had told him transport would arrive to collect him from the academy gates. But Jim couldn't bring himself to wait. He hated waiting.

Waiting meant thinking. Thinking usually led to memories. And memories were bastards. Patient bastards. The sort that waited until you were alone before showing up. So instead he walked.

Steady. Purposeful. Boots crunching softly against the dirt road while pipe smoke drifted lazily behind him in the morning breeze. The familiar weight of the sword rested against his hip. The duffle sat heavily across his shoulder. Old armour.

Old habits. Old roads. Birdsong echoed faintly through the trees bordering the road. Far off behind him came the distant roar of dragons. The sound faded gradually as he moved farther from the academy. With every step Riordan became a little smaller behind him.

As Jim walked, the quiet morning was eventually broken by the distant rhythmic sound of hooves striking dirt. Clop. Clop. Clop. Jim glanced up through the thin curl of pipe smoke drifting from his mouth. A black carriage was approaching down the road at a steady trot, pulled by two broad dark-coated horses whose tack gleamed faintly in the sunlight.

The animals moved with the easy confidence of well-trained road horses. Strong. Steady. The sort bred more for endurance than speed. The carriage itself was plain but sturdy, all reinforced wood and black iron trim with heavy shutters over the windows. Built to travel.

Built to survive bad roads. Built to keep moving when common sense suggested turning around. Atakin. Had to be. Nobody else travelled around looking that aggressively suspicious. Jim slowed slightly as the carriage drew closer.

The wheels rolled over the dirt road with a low rhythmic rumble. Dust kicked up behind it in lazy clouds. The driver sat high on the bench wrapped in a long dark coat despite the warming summer morning. Older bloke. Grey beard. Scar across the nose.

Looked like someone who'd stabbed at least three people professionally. Possibly before breakfast. The carriage slowed. Then finally rolled to a halt beside him with a soft creak of suspension and snorting horses. One of the horses flicked an ear toward Jim. The other looked completely unimpressed by his existence.

The driver looked down at Jim for several long seconds.

"You Jim?" the older man asked gruffly.

"Aye," Jim replied. The driver jerked a thumb toward the carriage behind him.

"Hop in." Polite fellow. Jim approved. People who got straight to the point were generally easier to deal with. Jim stepped forward and pulled open the carriage door. The hinges creaked softly.

The inside was dimly lit and surprisingly comfortable. Padded seats. Blankets. Storage compartments beneath the benches. Enough room for several people if they didn't particularly like one another. Which, Jim suspected, was probably the standard Atakin arrangement.

He tossed his duffle bag inside with a heavy thud before pausing with one hand on the door. The academy sat far behind him now. Small atop the distant hill.

"How far we going, mate?" he asked. The driver gave a dry little grunt.

"I'd get settled in." Jim raised an eyebrow.

"It's a long one." That wasn't exactly reassuring. Then again, neither was most of what he'd heard that morning. Jim nodded once anyway and climbed inside. The carriage rocked slightly beneath his weight as he settled onto one of the benches. The cushions compressed with a soft sigh.

Outside, the driver clicked his tongue at the horses and the carriage began moving again with a steady jolt. The wheels rolled forward. Riordan slowly began slipping away behind them. Jim leaned back heavily against the cushions. For a moment he simply listened. The creak of wheels.

The steady rhythm of hooves. The faint rattling of gear stowed somewhere beneath the carriage. Leather shifting. Wood flexing. Harness chains clinking softly. A journey sound.

A soldier sound. The sort of noises that eventually became background music after enough years on the road. Jim reached up and tapped the ash from his pipe out the small side window before sliding it carefully back into his pocket. A gust of warm summer air drifted briefly through the opening before disappearing again. Then he pulled his old waxed flat cap down low over his eyes.

"No greater admin than sleep," he muttered to himself. The carriage rocked gently as it rolled along the road. Jim folded his arms across his chest and settled in for the long ride. His armour sat packed away. His sword rested nearby. The academy was behind him.

The Umber lands waited somewhere ahead. That sounded like tomorrow's problem. Gods knew when he'd next get a proper night's sleep.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Turns out the carriage driver had been right. It was a long journey. A very long journey. They had ridden through the entire day and deep into the night without stopping for more than a few brief rests to water the horses and to piss. The steady rhythm of wheels and hooves had long since become a dull ache buried somewhere behind Jim's eyes. The carriage itself seemed determined to find every bump and rut in the road. Now morning had come again.

Jim sat quietly inside the carriage watching the sun slowly rise over the distant mountains of the Hinterlands. Golden light spilled across the towering snowy peaks, reflecting brilliantly from the white caps until the entire range seemed to burn with cold fire. Low clouds drifted lazily between the mountains while pine forests stretched endlessly below them like a dark green sea. Beautiful country. Harsh country too. The sort of place that looked welcoming right up until it killed you. Jim knew they were close now.

When he'd been younger there had always been rumours about the Atakin Order's true headquarters. Most folk imagined secret underground chambers or hidden city districts buried beneath capitals. But soldiers whispered different stories. Stories about a fortress-keep hidden high in the mountains where Atakin agents were trained, interrogated prisoners, and planned operations nobody else was supposed to know existed. Jim had always assumed half of it was drunken bullshit. Now though…

He peered out the carriage window again. Maybe not. Jim stretched slowly inside the cramped carriage and immediately regretted it. Several parts of his back cracked loudly while his shoulder gave a painful pop that sent a sharp ache down his arm.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered. He rolled the shoulder carefully trying to work the stiffness out. Gods he missed being young. There'd been a time he could sleep on bare stone beside a campfire and wake up ready for battle without issue. Now sleeping slightly crooked in a padded carriage apparently counted as attempted murder.

"I'm getting old," Jim grumbled. A moment later several sharp knocks sounded from above on the carriage roof. Wake-up call.

"We nearly there!" the driver shouted down. Jim banged a fist against the roof in response.

"I'm up!" Barely. He settled back onto the bench and peered once more through the little side window. And there it was. The keep. The Atakin Bastion.

Even Jim felt himself go quiet slightly at the sight of it. The fortress sat atop the mountain like something carved from the mountain itself. Massive black stone walls rose high above sheer cliff faces on every side, making the entire stronghold look almost impossible to assault. Watchtowers crowned the outer walls. Bridges spanned impossible drops between sections of the fortress. Smoke drifted from enormous chimneys and forge towers built directly into the mountainside while banners bearing the Atakin symbol snapped sharply in the cold mountain wind.

The place was enormous. Far larger than Jim had expected. Not a keep. A city disguised as a fortress. Jim let out a low whistle.

"Well," he muttered quietly, "that's subtle." Especially for a secret order supposedly dedicated to not being seen or known, the Atakin certainly seemed to have a deep love for dramatic architecture and excessive livery. The amount of flags and pennants alone was absurd.

Black banners bearing the silver eye of the Atakin snapped violently in the mountain wind from nearly every tower, wall, bridge, and battlement Jim could see. Great hanging standards draped from the fortress walls while smaller pennants lined the roads leading inward like they were welcoming visiting royalty rather than concealing an intelligence network. Jim stared out the carriage window.

"Subtle bastards," he muttered. Still… He scratched at his beard thoughtfully. At least it looked like an absolute bitch to attack. The Atakin Bastion rose from the mountain like a fortress carved by angry gods. Sheer cliff faces surrounded it on all sides, dropping hundreds of feet into mist-covered valleys below. Narrow stone bridges connected outer towers while layers upon layers of walls climbed upward toward the central keep. The more Jim looked at it, the more defensive positions he spotted.

Any army stupid enough to attack this place would likely die tired. The carriage rolled steadily onward toward a pair of enormous black iron gates set into the outer wall. As they approached, the gates began to move. Slowly. Heavily. Massive chains rattled somewhere deep within the walls while the iron doors groaned open just enough for the carriage to pass through.

The sound echoed across the stonework. Jim glanced up at the thickness of the metal overhead.

"Aye," he murmured quietly. "Definitely compensating for something." The carriage entered the Bastion proper and rolled into a massive central courtyard bustling with movement. The sound hit him first. Boots on stone. Voices calling between buildings. The distant ring of metal striking metal from somewhere deeper within the fortress.

Agents in dark coats crossed between buildings carrying papers and crates. Armoured guards stood watch along the walls while servants hurried through the courtyard trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Nobody seemed to be standing still. The place smelled of cold stone, forge smoke, horses, and secrets. Very secretive secrets. The carriage finally rolled to a halt near a wide staircase leading toward the central keep. Jim pushed the carriage door open and climbed out, grabbing his duffle as he stepped down onto the black stone courtyard.

His boots struck the stone with a dull thud. Cold mountain air struck him immediately. Cleaner than the lowlands. Sharper too. A small group of figures in dark robes bearing the silver Atakin eye across their chests were already approaching. Jim sighed internally.

Here we bloody go. The woman leading them was tall, sharp-featured, and moved with the sort of confidence that suggested she spent most of her time giving orders people regretted ignoring. The others naturally fell half a step behind her.

"Jerrim Ada," she said as the group approached. Jim adjusted the duffle on his shoulder.

"Aye," he replied. "Jim'll do." The woman gave a faint smile.

"It's good to finally meet you." Jim grunted noncommittally.

"I read the reports regarding the Battle of Riordan," she continued. Jim's expression flattened slightly. Course she had. Everyone had apparently read those bloody reports. At this point he suspected they were handing copies out recreationally. The woman studied him carefully now.

"The official records did not adequately convey the level of chaos involved." Jim nodded slowly.

"Aye," he said. "It was a bit of a spicy one, eh?" The corner of his mouth twitched faintly around the pipe.

"I'm sure Jess told yas all about it." The woman's eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the mention of Jess. Tiny movement. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it. Jim did. Interesting.

But just as quickly her calm composed expression returned like the crack had never existed at all. Professional. Very Atakin.

"I haven't introduced myself properly yet," she said smoothly. She placed a hand lightly against her chest.

"I am Lady Dalanev. Keeper of Information here at the Bastion." Jim nodded politely enough. Sounded important. Probably meant she knew everybody's secrets and enjoyed it far too much. Dalanev gestured toward the thin red-haired man standing beside her. He looked vaguely like a rat that had learned how to wear formal clothing.

Sharp nose. Sharp eyes. Sharp little fingers constantly twitching against the sleeves of his robes like he was mentally rearranging paperwork at all times.

"This is Gunlav," Dalanev said. "Keeper of Plans." Gunlav gave Jim a short stiff nod. The kind of nod that suggested he'd already calculated at least seven ways Jim could complicate his work simply by existing. Jim instantly disliked him on principle.

"And this," Dalanev continued, gesturing toward the final member of the group, "is Selest." The younger woman stepped forward slightly. She was probably half Jim's age at most, though unlike the others she carried herself less like a scholar and more like someone used to moving quickly when things went wrong. Practical boots. Light gear beneath the robes. Eyes constantly scanning.

Taking everything in. Soldier or field agent. Maybe both.

"She is the Keeper of Actions." Jim blinked once.

"…That sounds ominous." Selest smirked faintly.

"It often is." Jim liked her immediately. Dalanev spread her arms slightly toward the towering keep behind them.

"Welcome to Bastion." Jim looked around the vast courtyard again. Agents crossing bridges overhead. Black banners snapping in the wind. Smoke rising from forge towers built into the mountainside. Enough stone walls to survive the end of the world.

The whole place felt less like a headquarters and more like a kingdom hiding inside a fortress.

"Aye," he muttered. "Cosy place." Gunlav frowned slightly. Jim ignored him. Instead he shifted the duffle on his shoulder and glanced back toward Dalanev.

"Well," he said, "should we get to business sooner rather than later?" He scratched at his beard.

"The sooner this is done, the better, eh?" Dalanev nodded slowly.

"A man of action," she said with a faint smile. "I see." Jim grunted around the pipe. Most people who called him that usually meant: man unlikely to sit quietly through long meetings. Which was fair. Jim had survived many things in his life.

Lengthy briefings were not among his favourites.

"Please," Dalanev continued, gesturing toward the inner sections of the Bastion, "follow me. I'll introduce you to the team." There was the faintest trace of pride in her voice now.

"I'm quite certain you'll be impressed." That alone immediately made Jim suspicious. People only said things like that when they were about to introduce you to someone who'd won awards. Or someone unbearable.

"They're currently in the sparring quarter." Jim nodded once and began walking alongside the group across the enormous courtyard. Agents and servants moved around them quickly, most stepping aside the moment they recognised Dalanev and the others. A few glanced curiously toward Jim, eyes lingering briefly on the old armour strapped to his bag and the sword hanging at his hip. One young agent looked particularly confused. Jim assumed he'd expected somebody taller.

Or prettier. Possibly both. Dalanev glanced toward the duffle resting across Jim's shoulder.

"I can have a servant carry your baggage if you'd prefer."

"Nah," Jim replied immediately. He shifted the heavy leather bag slightly higher onto his shoulder.

"It's my shit. I'd rather lug it meself." Gunlav looked faintly offended by the phrasing. Jim suspected Gunlav spent a lot of time being offended by things. Selest looked like she was trying not to laugh.

"As you wish," Dalanev said smoothly. Then she gestured ahead.

"Follow me." The group crossed the courtyard toward a massive stone staircase carved directly into the mountainside. Jim slowed slightly as he looked upward. And upward. And upward. Sweet merciful gods.

The staircase seemed to climb halfway to the bloody moon. Flights upon flights of black stone steps zigzagged upward between towers, bridges, and narrow walkways disappearing into the higher reaches of the Bastion. Jim stared at it silently. Then slowly looked toward Dalanev. Then back at the stairs. Then back at the stairs again.

Jim regretted not taking her up on the servant offer.

"Fuck," he thought. The others had already begun climbing. Jim sighed heavily and started after them, the duffle immediately feeling twice as heavy as before. Funny how that happened. Jim sniffed once, adjusted the heavy duffle higher onto his shoulder, and began climbing again. One foot in front of the other.

That was the trick. Don't look up. Looking up only confirmed the stairs hated you personally. So Jim kept his eyes fixed firmly on his boots as they thudded steadily against the black stone steps. Step. Breathe.

Step. Breathe. The staircase seemed endless. Or at least endless enough that Jim was beginning to suspect the Atakin had somehow enchanted the bloody thing specifically to break morale. The higher they climbed, the thinner and colder the mountain air became. A sharp wind occasionally swept between the towers, carrying the scent of stone, smoke, and distant forge fires.

Sweat slowly gathered beneath Jim's shirt despite the chill while the duffle dug harder and harder into his shoulder. Still he kept climbing. One step at a time. Years ago he could've sprinted this without issue. Years ago he could've climbed three mountains and still had enough energy left to make bad decisions afterward. Now every third step felt like a negotiation between his knees and the gods.

Jim wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and straightened slightly as he noticed Selest glance back toward him. Absolutely not. He refused to be outperformed by someone young enough to survive entirely on spite and optimism. His pride might not be worth much. But it was all he had left at this particular moment. So Jim lifted his chin, adjusted the bag again, and continued climbing as though he wasn't suffering at all.

Which, in his experience, was often the key to survival. So Jim did what all older men did when exhausted: Pretended very hard not to be. He kept his face neutral despite the increasingly questionable state of his lungs. Totally fine. Perfectly normal.

Not dying at all. The others continued climbing ahead of him at a steady pace while Jim stubbornly followed behind trying not to sound like an asthmatic horse. Gods he hated stairs. He hated them almost as much as hills. Then—A heavy door somewhere above creaked open.

Jim immediately looked up, grateful for literally any excuse to stop staring at his own boots. Dalanev stood beside a large iron-bound doorway set into the mountainside wall. Warm torchlight spilled through the opening behind her while Gunlav and Selest stepped through into whatever chamber lay beyond. Jim nearly felt religious relief.

"Thank fuck for that," he thought. He paused halfway up the final steps and took several steadying breaths while pretending to admire the architecture. Nice stonework. Very mountainous. Very stair-shaped. Very important tactical breathing.

Not exhaustion. Definitely not exhaustion. Then, after ensuring he no longer looked moments away from collapsing into dust, Jim adjusted the duffle once more and stepped through the doorway behind them. Warm air hit him immediately. A welcome change after the cold mountain wind outside. The room beyond was enormous and circular, its high stone walls lined with hundreds of candles set into iron holders.

Their flames danced against the dark stone, casting shifting shadows across the chamber while the constant sound of movement, steel, boots, and impacts echoed through the air. The noise bounced from wall to wall. A training hall. A proper one. It smelled of sweat. Oil.

Old wood. Training rooms always smelled the same no matter where you went. Didn't matter if it was a military fort, a mercenary camp, or a fancy secret organisation hidden inside a mountain. Six figures occupied the chamber, all completely absorbed in what they were doing. None of them looked up immediately when Jim entered. That alone told him they were either disciplined…

…or arrogant. Possibly both. Jim's eyes drifted first toward a man and woman sparring near the center of the room with wooden training swords. The man swung hard in a vicious horizontal strike—and the woman instantly flipped backward out of range with such speed Jim almost lost track of her. The man rolled forward immediately after her, wooden blade whipping upward toward her ribs.

She cartwheeled away again. Jim blinked slowly.

"…The fuck am I watching?" Selest hid a smile. The pair continued dancing around one another at impossible speed while their training blades cracked together sharply every few seconds. Neither seemed remotely interested in standing still. None of it looked remotely practical. But it did look exhausting.

Jim already disliked it on principle. Nearby another man trained alone against a wooden practice dummy. Or more accurately—The dummy was losing a fight. The bloke was shirtless, his torso looking less like something born naturally and more like a sculptor had personally carved him out of marble while deeply angry. Every muscle along his chest and arms shifted beneath sweat-slick skin as he moved through slow deliberate strikes with a practice sword.

No wasted movement. No flashy spinning. No unnecessary theatrics. Just brutal efficient cuts repeated over and over with terrifying precision. THUD. THUD.

THUD. Each strike made the training dummy shudder violently. Wood splinters littered the floor around its base. Jim immediately liked him more than the gymnastics pair.

"There's at least one sensible bastard here," he muttered quietly. The final three figures stood farther back near a row of reinforced wooden target boards. They appeared to be practicing magical combat. At least Jim assumed that was the intention. In reality it mostly looked like three lunatics attempting to kill invisible enemies while aggressively violating several laws of physics.

Bolts of light and flame cracked through the air while the trio darted around the chamber in sudden bursts of speed, leaping, rolling, and hurling magical strikes toward targets already half-destroyed from repeated impacts. The air occasionally flashed with blue, red, and gold light. One woman actually ran three steps along the bloody wall before twisting midair to fire a blast of blue energy into a target board. The explosion shattered half of it apart. Fragments of wood scattered across the training floor. Jim stared silently for several seconds.

The woman landed smoothly and immediately continued moving like none of it was unusual. Jim laid the heavy duffle down beside the doorway with a grunt and rolled one shoulder carefully until it popped. The relief was immediate.

"Right then," he muttered. "What is it ya actually need me to do here?" A familiar voice answered from somewhere deeper in the candlelit chamber.

"We need you to teach us what to expect in the Umber lands." Jim turned toward the shadows. Jess stepped forward between the flickering candles, arms folded loosely across her chest. The candlelight danced across the dark fabric of her coat as she approached.

"When to fight," she continued calmly.

"And when to run." Jim snorted softly.

"Aye well, that second lesson's the one most idiots struggle with." A small smile tugged at his face.

"How do, lass?" Jess nodded once in greeting.

"You made good time."

"I walked half the bloody mountain getting here," Jim replied. "I'd hardly call it good." His knees certainly hadn't. His eyes drifted back toward the sparring agents. One of the acrobatic sword lunatics was still balancing on one hand for reasons Jim couldn't even begin to understand. Right. Gods help him.

Jim pulled off his waxed flat cap and tucked it into his belt.

"Right," he said loudly, clapping his hands together once. "I reckon I should introduce meself to this crack team before one of em accidentally backflips into a wall." The sharp clap echoed around the chamber. Selest coughed suddenly into her fist trying not to laugh. Jim pointed toward the training floor.

"Can ya get em to stop whatever the fuck this is supposed to be, eh lass?" Jess turned sharply.

"FORM UP!" The command cracked through the chamber instantly. Every single agent froze mid-motion. The room changed immediately. No hesitation. No delay.

Training ceased as though somebody had flipped a switch. Within seconds the six agents had formed a neat rank in the center of the chamber. Jim noticed that. Discipline. Good. Maybe they weren't completely hopeless.

Jim nodded once approvingly before glancing back toward Dalanev and the other Keepers.

"You all mind?" Dalanev raised an eyebrow slightly.

"I beg your pardon?" Jim jerked a thumb toward the agents.

"I need to get cracking." He shifted his weight slightly.

"And prior experience tells me having higher-ups looming around tends to put folk on edge." A few of the agents looked very carefully at the wall ahead of them. Gunlav looked faintly offended by the suggestion. Dalanev however remained composed.

"I can assure you," she said smoothly, "they are professionals. Our presence should not and would not affect them." Jim nodded slowly.

"Aye," he said. Then pointed at himself.

"But it affects me." That caught them slightly off guard. Jim shrugged.

"I don't like teaching while people stand behind me judging every word outta my mouth." Which, in his experience, most important people eventually started doing. Selest smirked faintly at that. Jim pointed toward the door.

"So unless one of yas plans on fist fighting a vampire later, I'd rather handle this meself." A brief silence followed. The agents remained standing rigidly at attention. Then Dalanev smiled. A genuine one this time.

"Very well." She inclined her head slightly before turning toward the door.

"Come," she said to the others. Gunlav looked like he wanted to argue. One glance from Dalanev killed the thought instantly. The three Keepers departed the chamber together, the heavy door groaning shut behind them. The sound echoed briefly through the training hall. Silence settled across the room.

Six agents stood waiting in formation. Jim stared at them. They stared back. Nobody seemed entirely sure who was supposed to speak first. Then Jim sighed deeply.

"…Right," he muttered.

"This is either gonna go very well…" His eyes drifted toward the woman who'd been doing backflips with a sword moments earlier. She looked entirely too pleased with herself.

"…or I'm gonna end up drinking heavily before noon." Jim stood in front of the six agents with his hands resting behind his back, pipe smoke curling lazily around his head while the candlelight flickered across the chamber walls. Shadows danced across the stone behind him. The agents stood silent in formation watching him carefully now. Some curious. Some confident.

One or two looked vaguely disappointed. Jim had seen that look before. They'd expected a legend. Instead they'd gotten a tired old bastard with sore knees and a wax coat that smelled faintly of dragon and cheap whiskey. Not exactly inspiring material. Jim met each pair of eyes in turn.

Slowly. Measuring them the same way they were measuring him.

"Right," he said at last.

"I'm Jim." He sniffed once and scratched at his beard.

"And apparently I've been dragged into this whole mess because of me knowledge of the Umber lands." No reaction from the agents. Disciplined. Good start. At least nobody rolled their eyes. Jim nodded faintly.

"I'm sure most of ya are sitting there thinking surely there's someone better than some old bastard for this job." A few expressions shifted very slightly. One lad near the end of the line looked particularly guilty all of a sudden. Jim pointed at him immediately.

"You were definitely thinking it." The young agent straightened instantly.

"I—"

"Nah don't worry," Jim interrupted. "It's fair." A faint ripple of restrained amusement passed through the group. A couple of shoulders relaxed slightly. Jim sniffed again.

"And honestly? You're right." That got their attention. Several heads lifted a fraction.

"There have been others who've gone into the Umber lands on foot." His tone had shifted slightly now. More serious.

"Better men than me too." The room stayed completely silent. The distant crackle of candle flames seemed strangely loud all of a sudden. Jim's eyes hardened slightly.

"But none of em got back out." That landed. The humour drained from the chamber immediately. Even the acrobatic sword lunatic looked more focused now. Jim folded his arms across his chest.

"Jess has asked me to teach ya as much as I can before we head in." He paused briefly. "Then lead yas through the Umber lands…" His eyes moved across the line again. Lingering briefly on each face. Young. Confident. Capable.

"…and gods willing, back out again with most of you still alive." The words settled heavily in the candlelit chamber. Jim noticed several of them subtly shifting their posture now. Good. They were listening properly.

"Now," Jim continued, "before we get started there's something important ya all need to understand." He pointed toward the floor.

"The Umber lands are not some exciting adventure." Another pause. The room remained silent.

"They are not a story." His voice had gone very calm now.

"That place does not care how talented you are. It does not care how powerful you are. It does not care how special ya think ya are." The calmness somehow made the words hit harder.

"You can be a blade incarnate," Jim continued. He pointed toward the shirtless swordsman still standing perfectly still in the line.

"Fast. Strong. Skilled." Then toward the woman who'd been flipping around the room.

"You can dance about like a caffeinated acrobat all ya like." A few smiles appeared. One or two agents quickly tried to hide them. Jim didn't smile back.

"One mistake…" His voice stayed calm.

"…and you're dead." The room quieted again. The last traces of amusement vanished. Jim folded his arms behind his back and slowly paced along the line. The steady tap of his boots echoed softly against the stone floor.

"You wander off alone in the night for a piss?" he said. "Something'll be watching." The agents remained silent now. Eyes forward. Listening.

"It'll be hungry too." Jim stopped pacing.

"And when it grabs you, it won't care how talented you are." The candlelight flickered softly around the chamber. Shadows danced across the stone walls.

"It'll tear you apart all the same." No humour now. Just blunt honesty. Jim scratched absently at his beard.

"That entire bloody country is fucked." A few eyebrows lifted slightly at the phrasing. One of the agents blinked. Another looked like he wasn't entirely sure whether that counted as an official briefing.

"They pushed too far too many times," Jim continued. "Kept messing with things they thought they could control." His eyes hardened slightly.

"They couldn't." The room stayed perfectly still. Nobody interrupted. Nobody looked away.

"So now the land itself's dangerous." He gestured vaguely toward the north.

"There's a reason every city they build over there looks like a fortress." Jim paused.

"And it ain't because of us." That got their attention properly. Several of them straightened almost immediately.

"It's because of what lives in the dark." The words settled heavily in the chamber. The crackling candles suddenly seemed much louder. Jim could see it now: the shift. Earlier they'd looked at him with curiosity. Now they were actually listening.

Good. Because curiosity got people killed slower than arrogance did, but not by much.

"And we," Jim said quietly, "are going in there alone." Silence. Even the candles seemed quieter somehow. Nobody had a joke. Nobody had a clever comment. Just six agents listening.

Then Jim looked toward Jess.

"How long do I have?"

"A week," she answered. Jim blinked once. Then let out a long breath through his nose.

"Fuck." The agents shifted slightly. A week clearly wasn't the answer he'd been hoping for.

"A week?" Jim muttered. "That's barely enough time to teach yas how not to accidentally poison yourselves." A couple of agents exchanged brief glances. None of them looked particularly reassured. Jim knew better. He rubbed a hand down his face.

"Okay." His voice sharpened slightly now.

"Then we don't have time to waste, eh?" The old tired humour crept back into his tone slightly.

"Take five minutes." He pointed toward the walls.

"Have a smoke. Get water. Pray to whatever gods you believe in." The agents remained standing still. Jim frowned.

"Go on then. I'm giving ya permission to stop standing there like haunted furniture." That finally broke the tension slightly as the group dispersed. A few moved toward the water barrels. Others stretched. One immediately reached for a tobacco pouch. Jim watched them carefully while pulling his pipe from his pocket.

Already observing. Already judging. Then he spoke loudly enough for the room to hear:

"When ya get back…" He struck a match against the wall. The sharp scratch echoed briefly through the chamber.

"…we'll start lesson one." The flame illuminated his weathered face briefly as he lit the pipe. For a moment the scars, wrinkles, and years seemed sharper in the flickering light. He took a slow pull before exhaling smoke toward the candlelit ceiling. The smoke curled upward between the dancing shadows.

"What goes bump in the night over there."