February ~ 27!

Grant’s frustration smoldered like the fire he was sullenly staring into. Waylon had just finished preparing dinner, and was now sitting cross-legged writing in his journal. They had found a secluded spot off the main road, and Grant had attempted to burn off his anger by hauling rocks and building the fire pit. He was still in a bad mood, and Waylon’s cheerfulness at getting away from the Vassals was wearing on his nerves.

Just as Grant opened his mouth to give the Wielder a piece of his mind, Waylon put his quill down and smiled, “Thank you. No one has ever stood by my side against other people like that. You came back for me, and put your own safety at risk to do so.”

“It’s fine-”

Waylon held up a hand, clearly reluctant to interrupt. “Please, let me finish. Being a monster hunter is a solitary life. One where you can only trust yourself and your wits. It may be hard to believe… but I don’t have many friends.”

Grant eyed the man to see if he was jesting. “But you are the son of Heavyweight Wednesday. You’re a Wielder, and I've seen at least three ladies swoon when you passed them and graced them with your presence.”

“Funny. Now stop that, I’m being serious. The fact of the matter is… I haven’t been able to earn either a proper combat skill or a Title, which is why I am Waylon Wednesday; near-exiled son of Wednesday not even in the running for his father’s Wielded Weapon. I only have this Weapon of Power now because I’ve been proving my worth to the District by working for Lady February. Even so, I am my father’s child. My status in life only brought enemies, which is why I was running wagons alone when we first met.” Waylon looked away, obviously uncomfortable with sharing his emotions to this degree. “Your actions have proven time and again that you are a man of integrity. I just want to say that I’m glad that we met.”

A lump formed in Grant’s throat at this rapid shift. “I don’t… know what to say.”

“There’s no need to say anything. Drink your District-approved monster-enriched four-ounce Bed. We’ll get up early tomorrow and head towards the finals, maybe get a crack at those marauders.” Waylon took a shot of the green liquid and shuddered as it oozed down his throat.

Grant nodded and tossed back his own warm and too-salty drink. No matter how hard he tried to empty his mind and focus only on his breath, his mind always returned to the lost token. “How will I get a chance to defeat Lady February now?”

<Not by whining!>

Waylon slurped on his waterskin, applied some rendered fat on his raw neck, and lay on his bedroll. Grant couldn’t blame him. He’d had a challenging day. They both had. A thought struck him, “Regent’s glare, my money pouch! Did they get that and my token?”

His hand shot inside his pocket, where he felt the reassuring lump of the pouch… and something else. It crinkled when touched, and his heart beat faster as he pulled out a scrap of paper. He waited until Waylon rolled over and started snoring before reading what it contained.

Powerlifter Elenor Thursday has your token. Bring Waylon to the red octagon in the center of Valentine, walk away, and you’ll get it back.

“Red octagon? Is that a building?” Grant looked at the note one last time before throwing it into the fire. “Do they really think so little of me? Was this all a ploy to make it look like they wanted the token… just so they could get to the son of Heavyweight Wednesday?”

His head was screaming that he should let the politics of the District play out, that the quest is all that mattered. He watched Waylon sleep, realizing that this was the first night that Waylon went straight to sleep. Up until now, he would toss and turn, waking up intermittently to ensure Grant was keeping guard during his shift.

<He trusts you. You could use that, Grant.> Sarge’s offer spoke directly to the darkest part of him, and for a long moment the young man was frozen with indecision.

“Is that a life worth living?” Grant idly wondered before shaking his head. No matter what, he wasn’t going to betray his friend. He tossed the note into the fire.

<You pass.>

The crack of a twig late in the night pulled Grant’s attention to the opposite side of the flames. He peered around the campsite, still on edge from the previous day’s activities. The fire was mere embers, the extra gathered wood having run out hours ago.

A chill ran through his body growing alongside his sense of unease as a layer of mist suffused the site. He’d seen mist like it before… but couldn’t recall where. This wasn’t the predawn mist that he was used to from his years of carrying out chores at the farm: this was unnatural. Waylon continued to sleep like a log, the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling the only indication that he was even alive.

The shadows surrounding the trees moved, and he stopped abruptly to rub his eyes. “Please just be seeing things.”

The shadows raced towards him. Grant grabbed for his sword, but it lay just out of reach by his bedroll. “Waylon! We’re under attack!”

His friend bolted upright, only to be knocked down by the butt of a weapon. The owner of the weapon and his companions appeared from the mist. Four figures, their faces concealed within the folds of cowled hoods.

<Forward roll. Get me in your hand. Now!> Grant rolled forward and grabbed for February Twenty Nine.

“Gah!” A boot stomped on his wrist before it could grab his prize, only his cultivation stopping his bones from breaking under the attack. “What do you want? You can have my money pouch!”

He looked up to get a better look at his attacker, and two curved blades came out of the hidden folds of the attacker’s black cloak to rest against his neck. “House Saturday? Why? I beat you fair and square… are you really going to kill me just because you lost?”

The man leaned down and hissed, “I want you to explain why my Wielded Weapon has lost its power to deal additional bleed damage. Why every Vassal connected to it lost their borrowed power?”

“By Lord January… how in the twelve Districts should I know?” Grant’s tired thoughts then put together the fact that he had taken that power. He tried not to wince as he made the connection, but it seemed the assassin had noticed. Grant opened his status to relinquish the stolen power of February Thirteenth, Razor’s Edge… but the option was greyed out. He wasn’t able to hand back the power without holding his sword?

“Leave him alone!” Waylon staggered to his knees. “I swear on the name of House Wednesday, Grant Monday did nothing wrong. He certainly didn’t steal the power of a Wielded Weapon. That’s impossible. Your weapon must have rejected you after you lost.”

“Shut your filthy mouth.” A casual backhand went Waylon sprawling. Another cloaked figure walked forward and clenched his fists, revealing hidden blades that sprang forward to rest against Walon’s neck. “We recognized the ability being used by Grant during the tournament… after he ‘defeated’ me.”

“A mere coincidence?” Waylon was clearly terrified, but unwilling to back down. “I can name a half-dozen poisons that make clotting impossible.”

“Oh, have no fear. We’ll get to the bottom of things.” The Wielder’s teeth reflected the light of the dying fire. “Take them both to Citadel Saturday for thorough questioning.”

“Please! No!” Waylon squealed in terror, to Grant’s great concern. The last thing he wanted was to be taken in for questioning, but the level of terror in Waylon’s voice was… concerning. House Saturday wasn’t even known as assassins in this District. Was their reputation still so terrifying even without that knowledge?

While Waylon squealed, Grant surged to his feet. Even without his sword, he wasn’t defenseless. He pummeled his fists into the Wielder’s stomach, and bounced off like he had hit a rock.

Damage dealt: -1 blunt damage

Damage taken: 0 blunt damage (1 mitigated)

<A high enough armor means damage gets reflected if you can’t overcome it.> Sarge informed him belatedly. <On the positive side, your own armor will mitigate the reflected damage, so…>

That was all Grant heard before he was rewarded with the back of the assassin’s hand across his face, followed by a sweeping kick that brought him to the ground where he was promptly bound. “If you didn’t have anything to hide, then you wouldn’t have tried to fight back.”

“Literally yes I would.” Grant coughed a mouthful of grass out of his mouth. “You’re abducting us against our will, to who knows where, for who knows what.”

“When, why, who, and you’ve got them all.” The assassin sing-sang as he motioned for the two to be dragged along. “If we are wrong, then you have nothing to fear. You have the word of House Saturday.”

More figures emerged from the shadows, apparently distinguished as Vassals by their purple robes. The Wielder walked away after casually stating, “Vassals, take them to the Citadel. Prepare them for questioning.”