Kelven woke with the certainty that he was not alone. Pain tore him from the depths of his dreams, so jagged and raw that it rendered him immobile. For long moments, he remained in the concealment of the evergreen, struggling to master himself and praying that the stranger would not kill him where he lay. Slowly, the pain either subsided or he grew accustomed enough to its presence to move again.

It was still dark. Kelven could hear the crackling of a fresh fire. His own had extinguished before he fell asleep. He could feel the faint caress of its warmth across his face. Clutching the hunter's knife, he stumbled clear of the tree and into the cool night.

The stranger sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, tending the fire with the butt of a staff. Its polished, silvery wood that seemed entirely unaffected by the flames. Bright eyes watched from behind the strands of black hair that tumbled across his ruined face. The cloak about his shoulders was so dark that it seemed to repeal the firelight. A raven was perched on his shoulder, its beak like a dull, curved dagger.

“Hello, Kelven,” said the man. The bird cawed and shook its feathers. “Do you know me?”

Kelven nodded. “Ravenwalker.” The hunter’s knife quivered in his hand.

The cloaked man sneered in distaste. “I suppose I am. My given name is Obsidian. Dian, if you prefer. Which I do. Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Kelven retrieved his mostly dried shirt and pulled it on as he lowered himself to the forest floor. It felt cool and clammy against his skin. He hardly noticed. Stones! They sent the bloody Ravenwalker. Here was the man who’d cast down the sorcerer Zaymenar. He was a magus of the First Order and a legend among the clans. If even one of the stories they told of him was true, the staff he carried could blast Kelven halfway to Taralius. They’re just stories. By the Graven One, let them just be stories.

The magus regarded Kelven for long, hushed moments. “You killed the hunter they sent after you.” There was a tense silence as the Ravenwalker watched him. Kelven nodded. “Deftly done. The wound was clean and precise, directly into the heart. The work of an experienced hand.” This time, no amount of waiting would draw a response. Eventually, the Magus sighed. “His name was Raln. As I understand it, he was only just wed this past year. The Stone Seat will need to pay his death price to his widow. I’m sure it will seem a pittance. It always does.”

More silence followed.

“Awkward, isn’t it?” The Ravenwalker attempted a smile. Only half of his face responded to the effort. “I’ve never been good at this. I’ll cut straight to the point. Kelven Strall, I need your help.”

Suspicion bubbled up in Kelven’s mind. This was the last thing he’d been expecting. He’d fled a hundred miles from Styrven, using every trick he knew to throw off the hunter’s pursuit. In the end, he’d broken his vow and spilled the man’s blood. He’d expected to spend whatever life remained in him fleeing and hiding from the agents of the Stone Seat. Now, one of them sat before him asking for his help. It stank so much of misdirection and trickery that Kelven’s temper flared.

He had just opened his mouth to voice his anger when a fresh fit of coughing struck. Pain rushed through him again, worse than before. His vision turned murky black. Moments later, he found his face pressed against a bed of cold, fallen needles. The smell of pine and dirt and earthen rot that filled his nostrils was a strange contrast to the burning agony in his chest. He writhed, sucking in air, desperate for enough breath to calm his treacherous lungs. He wondered if the Last Wind had finally come to bear him away.

Then he felt something hard against his chest. There was a moment of intense pressure, followed by a sudden, blissful release. The pain melted away into a dull ache. He swallowed a mouthful of fresh air, as cool and sweet as chilled cider. The Wind blows on. I’m not finished. Not yet.

When he opened his eyes, he found the Ravenwalker standing over him, all black and dour. Shadows danced along the ridges of his scars, and his cloak billowed like living shadow. The butt of his staff was pressed firmly against Kelven's chest. Its grained, silvery surface was alight with a dim, evanescent glow. Yet, for all the grimness of his appearance, there was a softness to the man's eyes that Kelven would not have expected.

“Are you well?” the magus asked.

“I—“ Kelven began, half expecting another attack. “I think so.”

The Ravenwalker nodded. He extended one hand, helping Kelven rise from where he’d fallen. “Come and sit by to the fire. The warmth will help.”

“Thank you.”

“How long has it been?”

“Not sure I follow,” muttered Kelven, wiping the warm blood from his lips as he seated himself near the fire.

“The black lung? How long has it been with you?”

Kelven looked up. “How’d you know?”

"I am a magus." His laugh was hard and bitter. The raven, now perched on a nearby branch, cawed as though this was some private joke. "Isn't it my place to know?"

“I suppose,” Kelven conceded. He was uncertain of this man. One moment, he seemed filled with empathy. The next, he was as hard and cold as granite. “It’s been a few months. Six at the most.”

The magus nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sorry for it. It’s a terrible sickness.”

Kelven shrugged. “I can’t deny that, but there’s not much I can do about it. I’ve seen a half-dozen healers. Even one of those Flameborn Physickers. The answer’s always the same. There’s no cure for the black lung.”

“Yet here you are.” The implication was clear. Yes. Here the middle of the wilderness, running from the Stone Seat with six stolen melding wands.

“Just doing what needs doing,” said Kelven.

The Ravenwalker poked at the fire with the butt of his staff. “And what does a dying man need with six melding wands? I can understand taking the wand of detachment. There must be some relief in that. But the others? That remains a most peculiar mystery.” Kelven struggled not to stare at the magus’ scars as the man paused to push a strand of hair away from his face. "You were a thief once, weren't you? They say you're the only man to have escaped the Blackclaw."

“Twice,” Kelven muttered. And the first time, I wasn’t alone. That was something he preferred not to dwell on. I’ve paid my penance and set it right. As right as I can.

“Then you did go back?” asked the Ravenwalker. “Why?”

“To settled a debt.”

The magus pursed his twisted lips. "Still, that was many years ago. You left that life behind, didn't you?" His silence was as good as an open confession. "What drew you back? After all these years, why steal the melding wands?"

“I have my reasons.”

“And I can only assume those reasons are founded in some desperate need. As it turns out, I also have a need, and it occurs to me that we may be able to help each other. Tell me, Kelven, what would you say to one more job?”