There was a sharp rap on the door, snapping him from the reverie. He opened it to find Mother Margrit, her meaty arms crossed in front of her as she glared at him. Margrit had cared for him since he first came to Miln, treating his wounds and helping him understand the ways of the city. The Painted Man was amazed to find she could still intimidate him after so long.

“Let’s see, then,” Margrit said.

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He steeled himself and pulled down his hood.

Margrit looked at him for some time, showing none of the horror or surprise he expected. She grunted and nodded to herself.

Then she slapped him full in the face.

“That’s for breaking my lady’s heart!” she cried. It was a surprisingly powerful blow, and he hadn’t fully recovered before she slapped him again.

“And that’s for breaking mine!” she sobbed, and clutched at him, pulling him close and crushing the air from him as she cried. “Thank the Creator you’re all right,” she choked.

Ragen returned soon after, and clapped the Painted Man on the shoulder, meeting his eyes and making no comment about his tattoos at all. “Good to have you back,” he said.

In truth, the Painted Man was more shocked by Ragen, who wore the keyward symbol of the Warders’ Guild as a heavy gold pin on his breast.

“You’re the Warders’ Guildmaster now?” he asked.

Ragen nodded. “Cob and I became partners after you left, and the ward brokering you started made us the dominant company in Miln. Cob served three years as guildmaster before the cancer took his strength. As his heir, I was the natural choice to succeed him.”

“A decision no one in Miln regrets,” Elissa put in, pride and love in her voice as she looked at her husband.

Ragen shrugged. “I’ve thrown in where I could. Of course,” he looked at the Painted Man, “it should have been you. It still can. Cob’s will made it clear his controlling share of the business was to be turned over to you, if you ever returned.”

“The shop?” the Painted Man asked, shocked that his old master would have included him in his last wishes at all after all this time.

“The shop, the ward exchange, the warehouses and glasseries,” Ragen said, “everything down to the apprentice contracts.”

“Enough to make you one of the richest and most powerful men in Miln,” Elissa said.

An image flashed in the Painted Man’s mind, him walking the halls of the Duke Euchor’s keep, advising His Grace on policy and commanding dozens if not hundreds of Warders. Brokering power…building alliances…

Reading reports.

Delegating responsibility.

Surrounded by Servants to care for his every need.

Stifling in the city’s walls.

He shook his head. “I don’t want it. Any of it. Arlen Bales is dead.”

“Arlen!” Elissa cried. “How can you say that, standing right here?”

“I can’t just pick up my life where I left off, Elissa,” he said, pulling off his hood and the gloves as well. “I’ve chosen my path. I can never live inside walls again. Even now, the air seems thicker, harder to breathe…”

Ragen put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve Messaged, too,” he reminded him. “I know what the open air tastes like, and how you thirst for it behind city walls. But the thirst dies out in time.”

The Painted Man looked at him, and his eyes darkened. “Why would I want it to?” he snapped. “Why would you? Why lock yourself back in prison when you had the keys?”

“Because of Marya,” Ragen said. “And because of Arlen.”

“Arlen?” the Painted Man asked, confused.

“Not you,” Ragen growled, his own temper rising. “My five-year-old son. Arlen. Who needs a father more than his father needs fresh air!”

It was a blow as hard as Margrit’s slap, and the Painted Man knew he deserved it. For a moment, he had spoken to Ragen as if he were his true father. As if he were Jeph Bales of Tibbet’s Brook, the coward who had stood by while his own wife was cored.

But Ragen was no coward. He had proven that a thousand times over. The Painted Man himself had seen him face demons with nothing but his spear and shield. Ragen didn’t give up the night out of fear. He did it to conquer fear.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I had no right to…”

Ragen exhaled. “It’s all right, boy.”

The Painted Man walked to the rows of portraits on the walls of Ragen and Elissa’s receiving room. They had one commissioned every year, to mark its passing. The first was only Ragen and Elissa, looking very young. The next was some years later, and the Painted Man looked at his own face staring back at him without wards, something he hadn’t seen in years. Arlen Bales, a boy of twelve, sitting on a chair in front of where Ragen and Elissa stood.

He grew progressively older in the portraits until one year, he stood between Ragen and Elissa, holding infant Marya.

The next year’s portrait, he was gone, but soon after, a new Arlen appeared. He touched the canvas gently. “I wish I’d been there to see him born. I wish I could be there for him now.”

“You can,” Elissa said firmly. “We ’re family, Arlen. You don’t have to live life like a Beggar. You’ll always have a home here.”

The Painted Man nodded. “I see that now. See it in a way I never did before, and for that, I’m sorry. You deserve better than I gave, better than I can give. I’m leaving Miln once I’ve had my audience with the duke.”

“What?!” Elissa cried. “You’ve only just arrived!”

The Painted Man shook his head. “I’ve chosen my path, and I’ve got to walk to its end.”

“Where will you go then?” Elissa asked.

“Tibbet’s Brook, to start,” he said, “long enough to return battle warding to them. And then, if you can broker the wards throughout Miln and its hamlets, I’ll do the same for the Angierians and Laktonians.”

“You expect every tiny hamlet to rise up and fight?” Elissa asked.

The Painted Man shook his head. “I’m not asking anyone to fight. But if my da had owned a bow with warded arrows, my mam might be alive. I owe everyone the chance she didn’t have. Once the wards are everywhere, spread so far and wide that they can never be lost again, people can make their own decision about what to do with them.”

“And then?” Elissa pressed, her tone still hopeful that one day he might return for good.

“Then I fight,” the Painted Man said. “Any that stand beside me will be welcome, and we’ll kill demons until we fall, or until Marya and Arlen can watch the sun set without fear.”

It was late, and the Servants had long since retired. Ragen, Elissa, and the Painted Man sat in the study, the air thick with the men’s sweet pipe smoke as they shared brandy.

“I’ve been summoned to the duke’s audience with ‘the Painted Man’ tomorrow,” Ragen said, “though I must say I never in a century would have thought they were talking about you.”

He smirked. “I’m to have Warders disguised as Servants try to copy your tattoos while you’re distracted talking to His Grace.”

The Painted Man nodded. “I’ll keep my hood up.”

“Why?” Ragen asked. “If you mean for everyone to have them, why keep them secret?”

“Because Euchor will covet them,” the Painted Man said. “And I can use that to gain advantage. I want him distracted, thinking he is buying them from me, while you distribute them quietly to every Warder in the duchy. Spread them so far that Euchor can never suppress them.”

Ragen grunted. “Clever,” he admitted, “though Euchor will be livid when he learns you’ve double-dealed.”

The Painted Man shrugged. “I’ll be long gone, and it’s no less than he deserves for locking up all the knowledge of the old world in his library for only a handful to see.”

Ragen nodded. “Best for me to act as if I don’t know you in the audience, then. If your identity gets out, I’ll act as shocked as the rest.”

“I think that’s wise,” the Painted Man agreed. “Who else will be there, do you think?”