BEGINNINGS

Security check-post A-32,

Three miles north-east of Aube.

Three men, clad in dark grey and white uniform, sat huddled around a small campfire. They were posted in the middle of the forest that flanked Aube on two sides, adjacent to a river that covered the third. It was a dark winter night, snow glistening in the light thrown about by the flames.

Symon Orth was drinking his favorite wine. He had saved it for a special occasion; his first marriage anniversary. Leaning back, he thought of how he had broken the news to his wife that he would be posted out. She had taken the news calmly enough, reassuring him, telling him to take care and return safely.

She was a jewel. Symon had been told how fortunate he was to have a wife like her, and he agreed whole-heartedly.

What can one say? That was the curse of having a family. The White Wolf will always come first.

Drunk and infernally tired, Symon smiled distractedly at his other two companions, as they laughed and made the kind of jokes that would make his wife swat his arm were she to hear them. His eyes grew heavy and heavier, until he fell into the darkness of dreamless sleep.

Simon gasped awake, fighting for air. He couldn't tell apart reality from nightmare, and sat bolt upright, eyes adjusting to the dark. The campfire lay in dying embers, and in the moonlight, he saw a comrade sprawled haphazard on the ground beside it. He would've been asleep, if not for the arrow sticking from the back of his skull. Simon scrambled up, eyes wild, and discovered the other guard, body broken, lying in an introspective pool of red liquid. There was someone dark and cloaked sitting on his chest, his posture pensive, hand under chin. Simon struggled to get to his weapons, as the man's gaze turned to him.

Suddenly his head was pulled back by his hair, and he caught the glint of sharp steel before it made contact to his throat. There was the sound of the sizzle of liquid on ember - the last thing Simon saw was the sharp gaze of the man sitting on his dead friend's chest.

The hand that held the dagger that had ended Simon Orth's life belonged to another hooded figure. His dark cloak billowed as he turned towards the main camp and hurried into the tent. His eyes scanned the space until they landed on what he needed - a map of the region with the markings of the posts and guard locations. He glided over to it and carefully rolled it up. It disappeared into his cloak the next moment and he stepped outside, returning to his accomplice who was still lost in thought, elbow leaning on the dead man's solar plexus.

"What is the matter, Cyer?" he asked, walking to stand before him.

Cyer was younger than him, He blinked slowly, processing the question posed to him. He turned his gaze to the bloodied corpse he was sitting on.

"I can't help but wonder about how easy this has been," he replied in a grave voice.

"It only means we have done a good job hiding our presence," the other man reassured, "If the White wolf hasn't caught our trail - and I believe they haven't - there really is no reason for them to expect us this far out in their lands. I'm quite confident the next encounter will go just as smoothly."

Cyer did not look convinced. He sighed as he narrowed his eyes, saying, "I don't know, Allen... Something feels very wrong about all this... I feel like we're missing something."

The man called Allen shook his head. "Don't overthink this, Cyer. It could be your doom. The Frateco sent us here because they know we can do this. Cease your worrying, lad, and concentrate. It's only a couple of miles to Aube."