Daimon finished working his way up another steep incline in what was beginning to feel like a never-ending series of steep inclines. The forest's autumn scent enveloped  him, A harbinger of the long winter to come. The trees stood sentinel, their leaves painted in hues of fire - red and gold and orange.  The annual journey to the current order hall—little more than dilapidated wooden ruins —served as a stark reminder of how far the order had fallen.

 Before him stretched a dirt path, long unused, winding its way through an endless sea of trees. No other soul had trod this way in years, he wagered. Not that he blamed them, he found himself out of breath as he reached the top; this trek would be hell for anyone that wasn't a rune bearer. He had made his way to the hall twice before now, but had found himself taking a different route every time. Not on purpose, it simply depended on which way he was coming from. This route was easily the worst of the three.

Looking ahead, Daimon thought you'd assume that the path was just a never-ending trek through an infinite forest. Peering forward, trees dotted the path at both sides, there were no signs of any openings, no sense of something beyond.  His thoughts turned to Caden, as they often did on these lonely treks. Caden the Dutiful, some called him. Caden the Stubborn, others muttered behind his back. To Daimon, he had been teacher, father, friend. But Caden had not been seen in three long years, and many whispered that the old man was surely dead.

Daimon frowned, thinking of the last gathering where they had all decided, despite his pleas, that they would not spend the manpower to organize a formal search. He clenched his teeth at the memory; he had wanted to turn them all to ice then shatter their frozen frames to pieces. 

The air around him grew cold, a chilly mist emanating from each step he took. The leaves around him all froze before suddenly shattering, making a light "popping" sound. The noise broke him from his reverie.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, stopping to inspect the frozen ground he was now standing on. He really needed to stop doing that, he thought. He took a deep breath. He had argued with nearly every member that day. If he wanted to change any of their minds, he was going to have to control his temper.

Daimon's best chance was Morgan. One of the older members—if he could convince him, some of the others might follow suit.  He had last seen Caden at the final gathering they'd had at the old fort, back in Copper Downs. Back home. At 17, there had been no reason for Daimon to follow Caden around on his missions anymore. With so few members, grouping up was more of a hindrance than a help. They needed to cover as much territory as possible.

Daimon's hand drifted to the pocket where he kept Caden's tattered old book. Its presence was a comfort and a burden both.

"I will check to make sure you still have it," Caden had said, watching Daimon shove the ragged thing into his pack.

"You know I could probably fit twice as much rations in here if I didn't have to lug this around, old man," Daimon had replied. He'd frowned at Caden then, noticing the wrinkles on his weathered face looking twice as prominent as when Daimon had seen him as a child.

"Yet it is worth twice as more. Read it to remind you of your purpose, so you may never falter."

Purpose. The word echoed in Daimon's mind as he trudged onward. Were they truly fulfilling some grand design, or merely mercenaries clinging to outdated ideals? He had thought about once again sharing his thoughts on this with Caden that day—one more argument for old times' sake. But he'd decided against it. Caden had looked so old, and Daimon hadn't wanted to depart seeing that look of disappointment on his face.

If you had asked Caden, Daimon's refusal of reverence to the code would undoubtedly plunge the world into utter chaos. He smiled as he walked, a thousand memories of a thousand arguments passing through his mind. He missed working that old man up. 

He took a long pull from his flask, the water doing little to quench his thirst. As he neared the clearing ahead, he found himself wishing for something stronger. The long night ahead would be trying indeed. Would Caden be there? He made his way through, noting that the shrubbery on either side had clearly not been taken care of. Thistle bushes and weeds connected to each other, blocking the way.

He held out his hand, sending a light mist through the air. The blockade of bushes crystallized in only a few seconds. His hand still outstretched, he closed it into a fist, and the newly formed ice shattered, clearing the way. He didn't have to do that, but he always felt his rune power respond stronger when he did something physical along with it.

The fort rose before him, blackened walls spoke of long-ago fires, while weeds choked what he was sure had once been a grand courtyard. At its center stood a cracked stone fountain, dryer than desert sand, while splintered wood sat on the ground just a few paces from him.

He took another swig from his flask and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Hopefully they had something stronger than water.

Daimon made his way around the weathered wooden walls of the fort, each splintered board and overgrown patch of weeds a testament to its neglect. The sight of such decay brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Has Denim grown so feeble she can't even see to basic upkeep? he mused. Small wonder none seek us out. And if they did, what respect would this ruin command?

He came at last to the great oak door, incongruously solid amidst the surrounding ruin. It groaned on ancient hinges as Daimon heaved it open, the sound echoing through the empty courtyard like the lament of some great beast.

The entryway beyond was dimly lit, but Daimon could see flickering firelight spilling from the main hall. Before he could take another step, a familiar voice rang out.

"Ah, young Daimon," came the reedy tones of Clive Watken. The man was no true member of the order, lacking the gift of the rune, but he had served them faithfully for longer than Daimon had drawn breath.

Watken stood before him now, tall as a ogre despite his advancing years, bald pate gleaming in the torchlight. A warm smile creased his wizened face as he reached for Daimon's coat. "And surprisingly early. Sir Caden would be pleased."

At the mention of his mentor's name, Daimon felt a pang of grief and anger mingled. He shrugged off his coat, handing it to Watken with a nod. "Thanks, Watken. It's good to see you." The old servant's presence was a small comfort in these gatherings.

Daimon's voice hardened as he asked, "Where can I find the hag?"

Watken flinched as if struck, his eyes widening in shock. Even after all these years, the old man had never grown accustomed to Daimon's irreverence. "If... if you are referring to the most respectable Miss Denim, our esteemed leader," he stammered, "she awaits in the chamber beyond."

With that, Watken drew himself up to his full, imposing height and resumed his post by the door, ready to greet the next arrival. His demeanor suggested that it was he, not Miss Denim, who had suffered the insult.

"Thanks, Watken," Daimon muttered, striding towards the flickering light of the main hall.

The not so great hall stood as stark and cold as the day they had first claimed it, three long years past. Miss Denim had never been one for the comforts of home, and it showed in every withered floor board and stained plank tile. At the far end, atop a dais that ran the width of the chamber, sat a long table with over a dozen chairs. There, like some withered queen upon her throne, perched Miss Denim.

Daimon's boots thudded on the hard floor as he approached. To his right, Dakarai leaned against the wall, arms crossed and eyes closed. The dark-skinned man seemed to slumber, though Daimon knew better than to assume. Dakarai was ever watchful, even in repose. It seem's he was not the first to arrive.

As he drew nearer, Daimon could see Miss Denim's gnarled hands moving in slow, rhythmic motions. No doubt she was stroking that wretched beast she called a cat. Amon, she named it, though Daimon had other names for the creature - none fit for polite company.

Cherene Denim was an ancient old bat, her hair a shock of grey that seemed to crackle with barely contained energy. She had ruled their order since his master Caden was a boy, and if one were to ask Daimon - though few ever did - she had done a piss-poor job of it.

Tales were told of the power she once wielded, a rune that could bend minds to her will. Yet that power was gone now, torn from her by means unknown. Daimon had never heard tell of another surviving a rune extraction. And wondered if the old crone had ever truly possessed one at all.

"Is that you, Grandma?" Daimon called out, his voice dripping with false concern. "I feared having two wild beasts left alone for so long, you'd have torn each other apart."

Miss Denim stiffened but did not turn. When she spoke, her voice was as dry as autumn leaves. "I am never alone. Watken is always with me. And Amon would never harm me."

Daimon scowled. "Aye, more's the pity. Gods forbid it ever did anything to make me happy."

At last, the old woman began to turn. She moved with agonizing slowness, each motion deliberate. Daimon knew it for the power play it was - she would face him on her own terms, not his.

"There are no more gods, boy," she rasped, her rheumy eyes fixing upon him at last. "Only their children remain. And I'm afraid even they left us long ago."

Caden would have raged to hear such words, Daimon knew. It was, perhaps, the only thing he and the withered crone before him agreed upon. The tale of Orion was nonsense, regardless of what the code might claim.

Daimon glowered at Miss Denim, his mind racing. For moons, he had rehearsed this moment, seeking words that might sway her, might convince her to reconsider the decision of last year's gathering. Yet now, face to face with her, all he wished to do was spit.

"Why do you glare so, child?" Her voice cracked like old parchment. "Are you still sour with me? Caden would have wanted you to remember your duty. Our goals remain the same, with or without him."

"'Would have'?" Daimon spat, fury rising in his chest. "Aye, I'd forgotten how easily you speak of him as dead. He spoke of you only with respect, you know. I think the worst thing about his absence is that he cannot see how right I was about you. In the end, you're nothing but an inept witch who finds it simple to abandon one of your most loyal."

Daimon cursed himself inwardly. This would get him nowhere, yet he could not abide her presence.

A faint smile played across her wizened features. "Loyal, aye. That he was. Yet he would agree with my decision were he here. But this is the last we'll speak of it, Daimon. My decree from the last gathering stands and will not change. This order will not stay afloat if I devote any of you to a search, and as you're soon to learn, we'll need all hands for what's to come."

Daimon's fist clenched, frost forming around his knuckles. "Your decree is worth less than horseshit, and I'm not about to—"

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. "Easy now, son," came A gravelly voice.

Daimon glanced back. Morgan stood behind him, weathered face lined with concern. In the doorway, Anita watched with worried eyes. Even Dakarai had roused himself, dark gaze fixed upon the scene.

Looking down, Daimon saw the field of ice that had formed beneath his feet. He blinked, feeling the tiny crystals that had begun to form around his eyes. Morgan's breath misted in the suddenly frigid air.

With effort, Daimon mastered himself. He shrugged off Morgan's hand and stalked to a chair at the far end of the table, throwing himself into it with ill grace. Damn it all, he had done exactly what he'd sworn not to do for near a year.

The fire in the hearth sputtered and hissed, as if trying to ward off the chill that had descended upon the chamber. "Miss Denim," Morgan greeted, bowing low to the bag of bones. Daimon bit his tongue to keep from scoffing at the display.

"How fare you, Morgan?" she asked, her voice thin as a winter wind. Morgan reachedout to the demon cat on her lap and it stretched out to sniff his proffered hand, before hissing at it.

"Better now that I find myself amongst friends," He replied, a smile creasing his weathered face. His eyes flicked to Daimon, words unspoken hanging in the air between them.

"Are we all that's arrived?" Morgan asked, turning back to their withered leader.

Miss Denim's gnarled finger pointed to a doorway on her right. "Emara arrived with the dawn, having ridden through the night. She rests now. And that great oaf Emerick lumbers about somewhere. But the day is yet young. More will come by suppertime, and I mean to keep this gathering brief."

Daimon's gaze drifted to the entryway. So Emara was here. The only one near his age, and one of the few who'd voted for a search party. He appreciated that, though it still shocked him. They'd never been close, he and Emara.

"Can I not even get a hug, lad?" Anita's voice rang out. She'd approached silent as a shadow, her fur coat faded but still a welcome sight. He and Caden had hunted the beast themselves, paid to have it tailored. A gift, in happier times.

Though Anita had not supported the search, Daimon found he could not stay wroth with her. He stood, allowing himself to be enveloped in her embrace. She smelled of wood-smoke and memories, no doubt having camped with Morgan on their journey. The old bear never deigned to sleep beneath an innkeeper's roof.

"Let me look at ye," she said warmly, clasping his shoulders. Her eyes, the color of storm-tossed seas, searched his face. "I think ye've finally stopped growing."

A smile tugged at Daimon's lips despite himself. "You said that last time, you know."

Her calloused fingers brushed his stark white hair from his eyes. "You could use a trim."

"You said that before, too."