Early morning sun had burned the mist off the rolling fields, which shimmered with golden waves as the wheat, almost ready for harvest, danced in the breeze. Smoke from a campfire lazily swirled upward, wood crackling gently.

“So I've been thinking about Solas”, Alana said, lowering their tin cup of bitter and burned campfire coffee. “And, look, I’m a damn good mage, but I don't even know if I can kill a god”.

Viago de Riva's eyebrow twitched, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. The master assassin’s hand moved with precision, in a fluid motion borne from long practice. With a flick of his wrist, the king was dead.

“Checkmate”, he said in triumph.

“I'll get you next time, old man”, Alana replied, creasing their mouth into a half smile at the frown this quip drew upon Viago's face. He was probably less than a decade older than them, but Viago had mentored Alana during their training, and they never missed an opportunity to wind him up about it.

“You need to be less impulsive”, Viago explained with an air of exasperation. “Not every battle can be won through attack alone, Rook”.

The overnight camp was ringed by torches, lit to keep the hungry shadows at bay. In the darkness, the flames glowed with a warm copper light that seemed almost homely against the cold bleakness beyond. Above, when the dense clouds occasionally parted, a few distant stars shone out with a silver gleam like coins tossed in a wishing well.

Tempest finished her wine, a cheap red that tasted of vinegar and stained the inside of the tarnished pewter goblet it was served in, and glanced across to the tavern door. It had swung open, ringing the small brass bell that hung above the lintel, so that all eyes in the dark, smoky pub were drawn to the person coming in. You couldn’t be too cautious in a place like this, a known hangout for smugglers and pirates who were often found around the docks of Athkatla, the so-called city of coin.

The person walking into the inn was a tiefling, short and wiry, with red skin tanned even redder through years at sea, and twisty, curling horns that emerged from a scruffy mop of greying hair. He called for a pint, in a voice like dry sand, and scanned the room with his amber eyes that made contact with Tempest’s ice-blue ones.

Sitting down opposite her and taking off his leather jacket, he began to speak. “Thought I’d find you here. Got a job, need someone I can trust. You in?”

“Depends on the job, Joachim”, Tempest replied, gesturing to the barkeeper for another awful wine.