Citadel Altaerein

Mid afternoon

I need to get a handle on these arguments with Iskaryn. I’ve gotten so used to them that I’m getting careless about having them in public, and I’m worried that it’s coloring the others’ perceptions of me. Of us.

Earlier, Liberte said to me, “I’m starting to wonder which one of you is the familiar and which one is the mage.”

“Not a mage,” I corrected.

“Which one of you is the familiar and which one is the… I don’t want to say ‘master’ but—”

“She’s my conscience,” I said sharply, cutting him off.

Which is exactly the sort of thing that I’m talking about. Though I don’t know that my irritated reply was doing me any favors here.

Everyone else has something obvious they bring to the table. Steel. Divine judgment. Combat magic. Me? I have a flute. And meager hunting skills with a bow. My magic isn’t useless, but it’s hard not to think that no one would notice if it simply wasn’t there.

I’m already feeling out of place here. This bickering with Iskaryn isn’t helping.

Still, self-pity isn’t going to solve the problem in front of us. Whatever I think of my qualifications, I am here now. We reached Citadel Altaerein just a few minutes ago.

It sits on the hill above Breachill like a monument to someone’s bad decisions.

Time has not been kind to it. Parts of the walls have collapsed entirely, and greenery is creeping up through the stone as nature slowly reclaims it. When Iskaryn returned from scouting earlier, she said, “I have seen better castles.” Seeing it for myself, I can confirm that description was entirely accurate.

The main gate hung partly open when we reached the outer wall, which wasn’t exactly surprising given that no one has maintained the place for years.

The red smoke we had seen rising from the ruins earlier had finally stopped. Warbal believed it was some sort of distress call. If so, whoever controls the citadel has put an end to it. Or perhaps it simply burned itself out.

We will soon find out.