Chapter 17: Sealed and Marked

Chapter 17: Sealed and Marked

 Under the same full moon that watched over the burning tribe, Rufus stood on the orphanage porch, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the sky.

"Heard 'em say we oughta be able to make it there in ten years or so."

Edmond stepped up beside him, pulling off his hat.

 "Heard who say where?"

"Read it in the paper. Some fella outta Germany's workin' on rockets. Says we'll be walkin' on the moon before long. Imagine that—walkin' on cheese."

"The moon's not made of cheese."

"Like you know. Hell, for all we know, it's just a paintin' up there. Some bug crawls across it every night with a brush or somethin'."

"Yeah… some bullshit."

"Now dammit, Edmond, I'm just tryin' to talk philosophical is all. Why you gotta bust my teeth?"

"Just keeping you from repeating stupid—"

Edmond stilled. His eyes locked on something in the distance.

"Kick off the lamp."

Rufus reached up and turned off the porch light. Neither man said another word as they stepped back inside, leaving the door slightly open.

A few quiet moments passed. Then, a shadow darker than the night crept up. It slipped through the doorway, shut it soft behind, and melted into the dim interior.

"Took ya long enough. Startin' to think you just slapped him 'cause you liked it."

Sitting at the kitchen table, light low, curtains drawn, Sister Moira let out a slow breath. Her eyes flicked between the two men.

"I assure ya, Mr. Gunn, I took no such pleasure from it."

She unwrapped her shawl, shaking loose the fiery red hair usually pinned tight. Both men shifted, suddenly finding the walls real interesting as she sat down.

"I do apologize, Edmond. But I'd little choice."

"No need. Just tell us what you found."

"Wish I coulda been there to see you peel his scalp back. An' twice!"

Rufus slapped his knee, grinning as he snapped his fingers, lighting up a smoke.

Moira shot him a hard glare, cheeks tinged pink, but turned back to Edmond, all business.

"Nothin' solid yet, but I did uncover a few things. First, the bounty's source—it traces back to a mission up north. The St. Helena Mission."

Edmond leaned back, arms crossing, jaw clenching tight.

"Wonder if that's where the kid escaped from."

"The strangest part is, when I tried diggin' into it, I found nothin'. No records, no ledgers. I couldn't even get the name of a single soul workin' there."

She reached into her satchel, pulling out a worn book. Flipping through the pages, she landed on one, pressing her finger firm against a line.

"Read this."

She slid the book across the table, keeping her finger on the page as she shoved it toward Edmond.

Edmond read for a moment, his brow lifting. Moira tapped the line again, firmer this time.

"If this is correct, it means someone high up in the Church is there. Someone untouchable."

Rufus leaned in, squinting at the page.

"What's it say?"

Edmond exhaled through his nose. 

"The bounty for Levi. Seems it was pushed through direct—by the High Commander himself."

Rufus let out a slow whistle, rocking back in his chair.

"This smells worse than skunk shit."

The High Commander of the Frontier Guard himself. That wasn't just unusual—it was damn near unthinkable. 

The man didn't bother with petty bounties. His name only appeared on military orders that shaped the entire frontier. If his signature was on Levi's head, that meant something far bigger was moving behind the scenes.

Because the Guard wasn't just a military force. It was the product of an entire war— The war for the Frontier.

The Frontier Guard was a beast all its own. The war for these lands had started as all imperial conquests did—swift, brutal, and one-sided. 

At first, the Church's Vaporguard legions carved through the native lands, pushing deeper with every battle. Resistance was scattered, divided by old tribal feuds and the sheer weight of the Church's war machine.

But the bloodshed changed that.

Bit by bit, the tribes began to unify, setting aside old rivalries in the face of a common enemy. They adapted. Learned. Fought as one.

 Their Earthsong magic, once wielded in isolation, began to work in harmony, amplifying their warriors into something the Church had never faced before. 

 That's when the tide shifted.

What should have been a quick conquest turned into a war of attrition.

For the first time, the Church found itself stretched too thin. The war dragged, their victories growing smaller while their losses mounted. If the tribes continued to unify, it wouldn't just be a war—it'd be an extermination, and not in the direction they wanted.

So the plan changed.

The Treaty of Red Clay was signed under a banner of peace, but Edmond knew peace had never been the Empire's goal.

 The Church pulled its forces back, abandoning the costly fight under the guise of diplomacy. They granted the tribes their lands, their autonomy, their right to govern themselves—on paper.

In reality, he knew they'd done what all conquerors did when brute force failed.

They let time and human nature do the work for them.

The moment the Church withdrew, the tribal alliances cracked. Without a common enemy, old grudges resurfaced, and the fragile coalition of tribes unraveled. 

The war was over, but the frontier had not been won. And so, in the vacuum left behind, the settlers did what the Church would not.

They picked up their own weapons.

That was the birth of the Frontier Guard.

Not an army, not a nation's force—just men fighting for their own survival. First, it was town militias, ragtag posses, and old war veterans turned mercenaries. 

Then it was organized companies, trained killers, hired blades, and lawmen who answered to no law but their own. Over generations, those militias hardened into something permanent.

Now, the Frontier Guard was its own power, beyond the Empire's reach.

Each territory had its own force and commander, each one shaped by the land they ruled. The Red Blades, born from blood-soaked plains, were the fastest and deadliest cavalry in the west. The River Guard kept the waterways secure, controlling trade with an iron grip. The Blackwood Rangers, ghosts in the forests, waged their own kind of war against threats both native and foreign.

And at the top of it all—the High Commander.

The man who could call them all together when the frontier threatened to collapse into chaos.

But he did not answer to the Church. Not directly. The Guard had no bishops, no inquisitors, no sanctified ranks. They followed their own code, their own justice.

And yet—his name was connected to Levi's bounty.

That didn't happen by accident.

Someone high enough in the Church had gone over every territorial commander, pulled the right strings, and made sure the bounty was signed without question.

That wasn't just coincidence.

That was power.

"This is too deep. I think it's time to stop before we can't."

Moira shot Edmond a look like he'd lost his damn mind. She shook her head, stuffing the book away with more force than necessary.

"Then what do ya suggest we do? Nothin'?"

"Exactly."

She stared at him, disbelief flashing across her face.

"An' the boy?"

Rufus snuffed out his smoke, leaning forward.

 "We got him covered—mostly. But we do need your help wit' one last bit."

Edmond sighed. He knew Moira well enough to see where this was going. She wouldn't back down. But like it or not, they needed her.

"This goes too high, Moira. The best we can do is hide him. We already have someone finishing his augments."

"Maggie?"

"That's right. Once she's done, all he'll need is—"

"The Church's seal." 

Moira finished for him, her voice tight.

Silence settled over them. The fight had drained from her face, but irritation simmered beneath the surface. She looked between the two men, searching for something—some alternative, some way out.

But there wasn't one.

She exhaled sharply, crossing her arms.

 "What yer askin' of me goes against every fiber of my bein'. Ya know that, right? Not to mention forgin' the church's seal. That's a crime."

Edmond didn't answer. He just held her gaze.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She huffed out a breath, shaking her head.

"'Damn you. Course ya do. Well, take me to him. Lord knows I can't let the boy suffer more than he already has. Plus, with the seal, it's more of a rule than doctrine. Seems we can bend that one fine. Just this once though."

"Thank you, Sister. After this, I suggest you wipe any trace of you looking into this. Just focus on Denton. Can't change the world, Moira."

"You'd just end up dead."

Both Edmond and Moira shot Rufus a look, but they knew he was right—even if he had all the tact of a boot to the teeth.

"I'll mind what's mine, Mr. Thatcher. Now let's get movin' before I need to head back. I've got some plans to rearrange as well."

"Plans?"

"I was gonna go to the mission myself. Extend my services while gatherin' information… what?"

She blinked, only to find both men staring at her like she had a ghost perched on her shoulder.

As they led her out of the orphanage, they did their best not to be too harsh explaining just how damn crazy that idea was.

----

"You're insane!"

Levi swiped his hand across the chalkboard, smearing away Maggie's latest sketch.

"I'm not some damn stage for you to show off on!"

"Oh, mon cher, you mistake my heart on zis! You want to look bold, no? Make a statement! Zere is more to zis art than just fighting."

She was already redrawing, frantic strokes replacing what he'd erased.

Levi ran a hand down his face. They'd been at this all day—back and forth, argument after argument, with nothing to show for it.

"For the last time—I don't need eyes on me. I need the opposite. I don't need all this fluff!"

Storming toward the back of the cluttered shop, he yanked open an icebox and pulled out a beer.

"Ah, no, go right ahead, drink my beer while insulting me! Are you sure you are not French? Maybe a lost cousin?"

"Ain't no Frenchie." 

Levi dropped onto a worn-out sofa. Cracking open the bottle, he drank deep, drowning his frustration. 

Never in his life had he regretted his lack of artistic skill—until now. If he had even a lick of drawing talent, maybe he wouldn't be at the mercy of a woman whose taste was downright criminal.

This lady had more screws loose than a crashed locomotive.

Maggie, meanwhile, wasn't deterred. She jabbed the chalk at the board, muttering something sharp and quick in French. Then, shaking her head, she turned to him, hands on her hips.

"Ecoute-moi! You must understand, as an artist, I can be… pushy. But do not hold zis against me. Now, come. I will do better."

Levi squinted at her over the rim of his bottle, then drained the rest in a long, slow chug. She'd said this before. He doubted she even realized how many times.

But he'd also learned something else today.

Maggie was a genius.

Her inventions weren't just practical—they were things he'd dreamed about as a kid. The kind of tech only the Church had, the kind that could change a fight before it started.

But damn, she was exhausting.

With a deep breath, he pulled his hair back, tying it up tight. He stepped back to the board, pushing his temper aside, forcing himself to focus.

"Just remember."

He pressed the chalk to the board, dragging sharp, deliberate lines.

"This arm only has one purpose. Not to look pretty. Not to test your skills. It just needs to help me kill."

Maggie stilled for a moment, her gaze flicking over the scars along his face. A slow heat flushed her cheeks, grounding her, pulling her into his rhythm.

"To kill, hein?" 

She exhaled, nodding. Then, a wicked grin curled her lips.

"Alors, then let us do zis properly. I will craft for you ze arm of Death himself! Sounds good, no?"

Levi set down the chalk, meeting her gaze.

"Sounds good."