Raith found Thea in the garden.

  The druid circle had gone for the day, so the place was quiet. Thea stood alone beneath one of the new trees, working through a slow set of shield drills. He waited until she finished the forms and lowered her shield before speaking.

  “I need a favor,” he said.

  Thea wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. “If this is about convincing Zinny that every type of mushroom isn’t edibile, I am done. She can learn that one the hard way.”

  “It is not about mushrooms.”

  She gave him a wary look. “What is it about, then?”

  “Venton.”

  Her expression flattened.

  “I am still not thrilled with this idea.”

  “I am aware, but he hasn’t really given us a choice at this point. The good news is we have some more help.”

  He told her about the man in the garden at Zinny’s party. The tired eyes and the paint under his nails. Thea’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “That’s Hob.”

  Raith nodded, glad that she knew the name.

  “I was hoping you could tell me more about him.”

  Thea considered that, then sighed.

  “He is a member of the Templar Order with [Divine Skill: Invulnerability]. I am not clear on the details, but my father respects him and I know him personally to be a kind man.”

  Raith’s eyebrows shot up and a grin spread across his face.

  “Invulnerability! That’s very good news. Our odds just got a lot better.”

  His initial excitement froze at Thea's frown.

  “He’s a painting teacher.”

  The grin fell away from his face.

  “He’s a what now?”

  “Hob was never interested in becoming a [Warrior] or anything. He likes to paint, and is an art instructor at the lorehall. He’s really good at it, too.”

  Welp, he’s still invulnerable, right? We can make this work.

  “I guess that explains why he told me to ask for him at the lorehall,” Raith said. “Alright, let's keep this simple. In and out. No long conversations with scholars or archivists. Just, ‘hello, you cannot die, would you like to help us make a plan to not die, too’.”

  Thea sighed again, longer, but there was a ghost of a smile on her lips.

  “Alright. Let me get cleaned up.”

  ***

  School was not in session, and Raith found the absence of noisy children made the halls feel unsettling. Thea led them through a side corridor that smelled of parchment and turpentine. The walls here were hung with canvases in various stages of completion. Landscapes, pieces of fruit, abstract swirls of color that made Raith’s eyes cross if he tried to assign meaning to them. They were obviously the work of children, but some were actually quite good. Thea stopped at an open doorway and inclined her head.

  “In there. Try not to knock anything over.”

  Raith peered inside.

  The room was large, high ceilinged, and full of light. The far wall was almost entirely windows, letting in the autumn sun in wide sheets. Canvases leaned against every surface. Some were hung, others stacked. A long table held jars of pigment, brushes of every size, and a battered ceramic mug that seemed to serve as a general dumping ground for paint-stained water and abandoned brushes alike.

  In the middle of it all stood Hob.

  He was taller than Raith remembered, but skinny. He wore a drab linen tunic and plain trousers rolled to mid calf. His feet were bare. There were streaks of blue and green along the side of his neck, as if he had swiped at sweat with a paint-covered hand.

  His hair was sandy light brown, now tied back in a loose knot. More paint flecked it, tiny spots of red, gold, and deep purple. His face was open, a little sleepy looking. If Raith had passed him in the street, he would have assumed he worked in a stable or something.

  He did not look like the toughest man alive.

  Hob was frowning at a canvas, brush poised. When Raith stepped inside, Hob spoke without looking over.

  “You are standing in my light,” Hob said mildly. “This piece doesn't call for a silhouette. Please move two steps to the left.”

  Raith blinked, then did as instructed.

  “Better,” Hob said.

  He dabbed another line of white onto the canvas. Only then did he turn to regard them properly.

  “Oh, good. You came.”

  He set the brush aside with care, wiped his hands on a rag that had long ago surrendered any hope of ever being clean again, and offered a half bow.

  “Raith Quirric,” his eyes flitted to Thea and a wide grin came over his face. “And my dear Thea Gannon. Thank you both for coming.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He gestured to a pair of stools near the wall. They both checked for wet paint before sitting. Hob hopped up to sit on the table, legs dangling loosely.

  “So,” Hob said. “You want to kill Venton.”

  “We want him stopped,” Thea corrected.

  Hob tilted his head.

  “Stopped is vague. Men like Venton do not stop until something forces them to. A cage, a grave, or a miracle. I am not well versed in miracles, so I assume you are working with the first two.”

  Raith let out a breath.

  “I appreciate your straightforwardness. The dream I keep having does not leave much room for mercy.”

  “Dream?” Hob asked.

  Raith explained. The broken city. The screams. The horn that was no longer his, but still seemed to draw destruction behind it like wake behind a ship. He kept his tone even, but he could feel his hands tightening on his knees as he spoke.

  When he finished, Hob was quiet for a moment.

  “The [Seer] has seen pieces of that,” Hob said. “Not the same dream perhaps, but the shape. A city burning that should not have burned. A thread cut that should have been tied somewhere else. She sees you at the center of it more often than not.”

  Thea shifted on her stool.

  “If the Archive and the [Seer] know this, why not rally the remaining Templars and the Kingsmen?”

  “Because the Archive is old and cautious,” Hob said. “And the King is tired. More than that, he fears the bugbear hordes will use a conflict with the Templars as an opportunity to push south. There are many voices arguing for patience, investigation and containment.”

  “And yours?” Raith asked.

  Hob’s jaw tightened, just for a heartbeat.

  “Mine says that patience has its limits when a rot has already reached the heartwood. Venton is not simply a traitor, he is a disease that will ruin us all if left unchecked. As long as he remains where he is, he drags good men and women along with him. Or crushes them when they refuse.”

  His gaze went distant for a moment.

  “My wife was one of those,” he added quietly.

  The room seemed to narrow around that sentence.

  Raith swallowed. “I am sorry.”

  “Everyone says that,” Hob said, looking down and away before shutting his eyes tightly. “It does not change the fact that she is gone.”

  “How did it happen?” Thea asked gently.

  Hob’s hands flexed against his arms, paint cracking where it had dried along his knuckles.

  “When Venton made his move,” Hob said, “he did not do it alone. There were warnings, but they came too late. My wife was one of the ones who spoke against him when the first whispers started. She believed in the Order, the old vows, more than anyone I have ever known.”

  His mouth curved in a faint, wry smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “She believed they would listen. That truth would win if she spoke it clearly enough.”

  Raith already knew the end of the story, but his stomach still clenched as Hob continued.

  “When Venton fled with his loyalists, there was confusion. Some Templars stood aside when they should have fought, either uncertain or already half under his influence. Too few tried to stop them. My wife was one. She took a spear through the chest while trying to reach him. By the time I arrived she was already gone and the traitors had escaped.”

  Silence settled, heavy and thick.

  Hob shook himself from his reverie and met Raith’s eyes.

  “That is why I came to you at the party. The [Seer] told me the thread that leads to Venton is inextricably bound with yours. She does not see clearly enough to say whether you cut it or get tangled in it. She does see that I will stand there with you, if that is the path I choose.”

  “That is a lot to base a decision on,” Raith said.

  “It is my only hope for justice.”

  Thea let out a slow breath.

  “Tell us about your [Skill].”

  Hob’s expression eased a little, as if he welcomed the chance to talk about something less raw. He shrugged.

  “Nothing can harm me. Not steel, not fire, not poison. I can still feel things. Impact. Pressure. I can be knocked back, buried, or trapped, but I do not break. Weaver’s only know why I was given this gift.”

  Raith tilted his head. “You don’t want it?”

  Hob shrugged. “I did not want any of it. I wanted to paint, to catalog what I saw. During the last campaign, the Order insisted every Templar contribute something more…decisive. I wanted to be left alone with my canvases, they wanted a shield.” He glanced at his paint streaked hands. “Life is not obliged to give us what we want.”

  Thea was frowning.

  “I wish the Weavers did not give [Skills] that tempt commanders to treat someone like a tool instead of a person.”

  Hob listened without visible offense.

  “I refuse to step onto battlefields unless the head of the Order demands it.”

  “And now?”

  “And now my wife has been murdered,” Hob said simply.

  Raith tapped his chin thoughtfully.

  “So there's no way for you to be hurt?”

  Hob shook his head. “Not that anyone has found, and the Order has tested it extensively. But there are many ways to remove a problem that do not involve killing it. Venton may be evil, but he is not a fool.”

  “That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Raith said.

  Hob gave a small smile. “Then let us plan in such a way that they never get the chance to do so.”

  Raith thought of the rough plan fomenting in his mind. He rubbed his palms against his knees, feeling sweat.

  “You did not come here just to watch me paint,” Hob said. “You wanted to know how I would fit into whatever sketch you are drawing in your head.”

  Raith hesitated, then nodded.

  “Yes. You could obviously draw whatever initial response they have. Spells. Arrows. Anything that would kill the rest of us before we can react. While they are focused on you, we find Venton.”

  He hated how cold the words sounded, even to himself. Hob’s expression did not change.

  “Good. I prefer plans where my presence is acknowledged honestly. Some people try to pretend they are not using me as a wall. They are. It is fine.”

  Thea made a frustrated sound.

  “You are not a wall,” she said.

  Hob’s smile turned gentle.

  “I am,” he said. “That is what the Weavers gave me to be. The question is where I choose to stand. I would rather stand in front of people I respect and for a cause I believe in.”

  He looked between them. Thea’s shoulders slumped a little. Some of the tension bled out of her voice.

  “You are sure you want this,” she said.

  “I have wanted this since the moment my wife died and Venton walked away. If you move forward with this, I will be there in front.”

  “All right,” Raith said softly. “Thank you, Hob.”

  Hob took his hand, his much longer fingers closing carefully around his.

  “On behalf of the fools who walk into danger with their eyes open, you are welcome.”

  ***

  On the way back to the manor, Thea was quiet.

  They walked through the late afternoon bustle of Beckhaven, past vendors packing up their stalls and apprentices hurry carrying bundles for their masters. The sky had begun to tint gold along the horizon.

  Raith waited until they turned down the quieter lane that led toward their estate.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Thea let out a long breath.

  “I hate this,” she said. “But I understand it. I agree Venton needs to be stopped. I am grateful someone like Hob exists and is willing to stand with us. And I hate every piece of what that implies about the world we live in.”

  “Welcome to my brain for the last few days,” Raith said.

  They walked in silence for a few steps, then Thea added, “My father asked me to serve as liaison between the Order and the Archduke. At least until a new High Emissary can be appointed. My noble title makes me a logical choice.”

  Raith blinked. “You did not mention that.”

  “It happened while you were talking to Embry,” she shrugged. “I would have brought it up eventually.”

  He frowned.

  “That sounds like a terrible job.”

  “It does,” Thea agreed. “Which is why I will be very annoyed if Venton kills us before I get a chance to complain about it properly.”

  Raith smiled despite himself.

  “I will do my best to see we survive. And I promised Zinny I would not die before she can throw another party.”

  They reached the manor gate as the last sliver of sun slid below the rooftops. The new wall cast a long shadow across the courtyard, solid and reassuring.

  Raith paused with his hand on the latch.

  “Next step,” he murmured. “Gather information.”

  Thea glanced at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just talking to myself.”

  He opened the gate and stepped through.