og marched in silence until noon when the small band drew to a halt behind ice-shattered slabs of blue granite. While it was cold in the shade, he was relieved to be out of the bitter wind that flowed down the steep mountainside. They had begun a steep winding descent into a wooded valley. From this vantage he could see the glistening thread of a river and a thin dusting of snow upon the forest canopy.

The leader of the troupe, Maziba, said little. He had introduced his four compatriots before pushing on. None of them talked to him, a fact which he found unsettling. Mog had already forgotten two of their names. He felt odd and out of sorts, his mental faculties dulled by the strong Norn spirits, poor sleep and grief. He was happy to be leaving the isolation of the Norn lands but he felt even more alone among his own kind.

Mog thanked the young dark-shinned warrior named Khaled for a tin mug full of an unknown steaming liquid. Of the two women in the party, he remembered only Laela’s name. The fifth member, whose name he could not recall, was regarding him warily. He was a slightly built man with straw-colored hair and eyes to match the clear mountain sky.

“Are we heading back to Ascalon?” Mog asked, knowing only that the party was moving southward as the rugged terrain permitted.

“No, we are far west of Ascalon,” Maziba replied.

“Kryta, then?”

The man nodded and Mog felt a tug of relief. He realized that while Armand would never understand his feelings toward Maeve, Sister Lemony would not think his grief foolish. He was looking forward to seeing the little monk again.

“I have contacts in Lion’s Arch and I will reward you for delivering me to safety.”

“Maziba, you should tell him,” said Laela with an amused sigh. Mog suspected she was a necromancer but it was difficult to tell when everyone was so heavily muffled in furs and wool against the chill. He only knew Khaled and Maziba were men at arms due to their rather obvious armaments. Khaled had an enormous scimitar scabbarded against his back while Maziba had a viciously sharp scythe resting casually on his shoulder.

“Tell me what?” Mog asked.

“We will not enter Lion’s Arch,” Maziba replied.

“That’s fine, I know Kryta well enough, I can find my way back…”

“Nor will we enter any place that the White Mantle frequents,” Maziba said, cutting him off brusquely. The Elonian’s dark eyes bored into him and Mog detected the man’s distaste.

“Look, I don’t know you and I have done nothing wrong,” Mog started, annoyed that he was being judged so harshly by a stranger.

“For the full turning of a moon I fasted and prayed,” Maziba replied bitterly, “Let us hope you might be redeemed.”

Mog swallowed, utterly puzzled by the man’s words. Redeemed of what? Mog realized his jaw had dropped and he must look like a vacant fool.

“I think perhaps you have got the wrong man,” Mog stammered.

“Lyssa led me to you,” Maziba said angrily, “How lightly you forget your vows.”

His face burned with humiliation as the eyes of the others gazed upon him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. The words stung him. He remembered the fine spring morning that he had prostrated himself before the feet of the goddess and given himself wholly into her service. Sacred Tenebrae, the manifestation of Her rage. Always to serve, even in the afterlife, even after everything he had cherished had been turned to ashes. For the goddess, for his nameless lover, he had sealed that oath. Death did not hold as much horror as being parted from her.

The priests and priestesses had said he was too young, too vulnerable, too much in love with the woman and not the goddess she represented. They tried to cure him of it. Months passed in remote temples and shrines where Akemi conducted his training. She punished his urges, seeking to kill his passion. If anything his love grew deeper and every parting was simply a prelude to a glorious reunion. Part of him had died with his nameless lover and the temple he had called home. Mog could not stomach more death. It had been difficult at the best of times, but after the Searing all the fight had left him.

“I have not forgotten,” Mog replied darkly, biting back his words before he said too much and endangered himself.

“Nor has Lyssa,” Maziba replied, his gaze unwavering, “You are called to serve. I am to deliver you.”

Mog looked away. He was trembling and he knew he must appear foolish and cowardly. He was no more willing to renew his duties than he was seven years ago when he had left Akemi and his vows behind.

“You will come with us peacefully or by force if necessary,” Maziba continued, “You are called to serve and you will keep your vows.”

With that, the man picked up his scythe and made a beckoning gesture, indicating to his compatriots that they had tarried long enough. Mog stood there feeling useless, the chill of the thin mountain air barely a match for the heat of his humiliation. There was nothing he could say in his own defense, he was exposed now for a disgraceful coward. And they were right; he had abandoned his oaths and his calling.

When he did not move, the pale-haired man tapped his shoulder with an ornate staff, gesturing for Mog to walk ahead of him. The five strangers fell into step around him, indicating without words that he would be given no opportunity to refuse his vows again. He kept his face down as anger and shame burned within him. He did not want to go with them. He did not wish to return to his former life as a holy executioner.

But for now he was at their mercy, outnumbered and dependent upon them to lead him out of the wilderness. He walked silently between them, his sensitive mind alert to their disdain and pity.