One dim night a week later, Ghaleon found himself preparing for his journey into the desolate Frontier where Althena's light would not shine. He was meticulous about the array in which he stowed his items. Dry rations were carefully measured out and a several canteens hung off the sides of his backpack. Much as he disliked carrying supplies, he had no doubt that they would be necessary.

Everything that he had read about the Frontier said that it was a dry, forsaken place where nothing would grow. A man die of thirst long before he could find any muddy water hole or tepid stream to drink from. Ghaleon had no intent of scavenging for food in a place like that. He preferred the temperate forest, where juicy berries and venison could easily be had, and water discovered. But there was no choice in the matter. The Vile Tribe inhabited a wasteland, not a paradise.

Ghaleon fleetingly thought of using his magic to levitate his supplies, but was already set against it. Considering how harsh the Frontier would be, he did not want to waste energy on such luxuries. He would have to carry it himself. Ghaleon shrugged. Besides, carrying supplies shouldn't be much of a burden. There was a time when he didn't know magic, and he carried things much heavier than a simple backpack full of water and foodstuffs.

The premier checked over his clothes, making sure they were in good condition. He had ordered them a few days ago and they had just come in yesterday evening. Now he wanted to make sure there were no rents or imperfections in them. These lavender clothes weren't an ordinary set of garments. The long-sleeved tunic and pants were voluminous and thick, designed to allow his skin to breath, but capturing any moisture he may loose from his exertions. His clothes would also have to be enough to keep him warm at night, preventing the need for hauling a blanket with him. In addition, the many folds held hidden pockets, allowing him to store several calm herbs and the far rarer seeds of vigor on his person; a very handy thing in a battle when he might not be able to reach into his backpack. He also hoped the tough material would serve as a light form of protection. And if all went well, it might survive the scrapes he may get into and allow him to look half-way decent when he finally met up with the leader of the Vile Tribe.

Having looked himself over, Ghaleon double-checked his backpack, seeing that the most was being made of the space available. Finding nothing wasted, he buckled his backpack shut and slung it over his shoulder. He was ready, yet he couldn't help but feel that something was missing. Ghaleon instinctively closed his hand, as if he should be grasping something.

His thoughts and eyes went to the corner of his sleeping quarters where his old ironwood staff lay. The staff had brought him through many battles. He remembered swinging it over his head, tripping his foes with it, and then using it as a favored walking stick when he was weary. Ghaleon hadn't really used the staff since becoming premier. Perhaps he should take it with him, as a weapon if nothing else. But he didn't.

"And so it ends," he muttered instead.

Then he promptly turned around, opened the door to the outside, and left, trying to allow other thoughts to enter his mind. But temptations for him to leave his chosen path hounded him as he crept through the silent halls of the guildhouse. He passed by Lemia's chambers, and the memories of how she kept trying to comfort him after Dyne's death could not help but well up. She would not be happy to know that her efforts had failed. And there was also Mia. How could the little girl suspect what her cherished mentor was going to unleash?

He stood outside the little girl's door for a moment, allowing himself a period of reflection. Hardly thinking about it, he found himself tracing a sigil of safety upon her door and whispering a short rhyme. "The path is set before me; and from it I cannot stray. For though it strains and wounds us all, darkness must be my way."

Ghaleon was out of the guildhouse just as the sky was beginning to lighten with the promise of day. He stole quickly across the grass slick with the morning dew, although he almost stumbled over a stone the slippery stalks had hidden. The moon still shone, and he wanted that to be the one to light his path. But he was caught between the folds of both night and day, and day was becoming the stronger of the two. If he was still in Vane by the time the first bit of the sun poked over the horizon, he may as well abandon this foolishness and stay in Vane as premier.

But nothing would stop him. Not even the coming of day would stop him. He gained confidence in himself as the light hovered on the horizon. Nothing would stop him. A hunger filled him with every stride he took closer to the teleportation pad that would take him from the floating city to the fountain of transmission below. His cat-like eyes flashed with determination. All the pent-up rage within him could at last be set free. All the horror and misery he had lived through would at last have their chance to show the world just what he thought, just what he went through. No one would have the power to harm him again.

No one , he thought. Nothing . And he reached the teleportation pad, never noticing that his initially quiet strides had broken out into a fevered run.