The lad jogging alongside Martin had been such boring company that he was longing for the treks of his youth, where one of his instructors would spend the time peppering them with theoretical cultivation scenarios and the occasional spirit beast. For reflex training, allegedly. Instead he got suspicious looks and monosyllabic answers to all his questions. The teenager wouldn't even share meals with Martin, insisting on preparing his own food every time they stopped. If he was going to hurt the kid – which he wasn't – it sure as hell wouldn't be by poisoning the food.

Not the most epic of adventures, but at least they were heading towards the spring grazing territory for the kid's clan. Hopefully a few of them had a sense of humor.

His spiritual senses alerted him first. Then it was the smell. Traces of humanity and livestock mixed in with the roasted herb scent stirred up by their passage through the scrubgrass. It was another few minutes before he saw anything, the uneven terrain acting as better concealment than most veils he'd come across.

Martin and his companion – name to be determined – crested a rise and came across a scene that both was and wasn't what he was expecting. When he leapt at the chance to track down some nomadic tribes, he was envisioning the people on the far western Alrasian continent, from almost two millennia before. Temporary shelters and high quality horses, mostly, with some interesting cultivation methods that kept them safe from wandering spirit beasts, guided by the best diviners in the world. Mysticism mixed with practicality, and some excellent leatherwork besides.

Some of that was present. Maybe not the cultivation, but he could see some horses he wouldn't be ashamed to ride, and what was clearly a temporary village set up. But he was pretty sure the lump under a tarp over there was an actual airship, and someone was cooking on a portable stovetop that looked fancier than what he would see in half the homes in Verilia.

The contrast was jarring, somehow more so than anything else he'd experienced since waking up. Locomotives and airships, and giant foundries, he could accept all those as firm signs he was in the future. A city like his new home was so different than what he was used to that it was actually easier to handle.

These were people he had expected to be stuck in his comfortable past, only to find them firmly entrenched in the present.

No time to worry about it. His erstwhile companion had sprinted ahead, and was now returning with a middle-aged woman. Her hair was shorn on the sides, left longer on top and pulled behind her head in a tail. The edges of a tattoo peeked out at the base of her throat, in a green so dark it was almost black. Martin was at least thrilled to see the fashion he was expecting wasn't far off. He would be picking up a pair of the trousers before he left, if he could find someone willing to sell.

"I'm told you're here to negotiate with the clans," she said. Her voice was sharp as cut glass. Not friendly, but not overtly hostile, he didn't think.

"That's right. I represent the Eternal Archive, from Verilia. The Laskarian Empire has been making choices that will doom us all if we let them run rampant. I'm here to see if we can work together."

"Interesting. Why don't you come with me."

He followed as she turned on her heel and strode towards the other end of the village. Where all the cultivators were gathered, as it so happened.

On the way, he passed by the cooking areas. One mournful look to the granny manning the dessert tray later, he was crunching down on some sort of fried dough ball, soaked in a spicy syrup.

His guide made no comment, so Martin chose to stay silent as well. It only took a few minutes to reach their destination and he was ushered into a wide dwelling, made from treated canvas stretched over collapsible frames.

Inside he found the cultivators, as he expected. Most were obviously members of the clan, with the same forest green displayed somewhere on their body, in jewelry, as a patch on their jackets, tied as a ribbon in a braid. Then there was another cultivator that didn't fit, an obvious outsider like Martin. Wearing the kind of clothes that would let them claim to be from anywhere, no identifying markings at all. She looked a bit past thirty, and her cultivation was better ordered than he'd seen in most modern cultivators – outside the sect of course – but not amazing.

"This one arrived two days ago. A witch from the Laskarian Empire, telling us how the Meristans are building a chokehold on the magic we all need, and if we don't stop them, the world is doomed. Sound familiar?"

It would be so, so easy to kill the Laskarian. He could probably even do it without anyone else noticing. Bodies were mostly made of water after all. Influencing someone's blood at his own level? Near impossible. The spirit had supreme control over the body, undermining that barrier was a cultivation path that required dedication, loose morals, and a strong stomach. But for someone so far beneath him? Child's play.

He held off. That wouldn't get him what he came for.

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"What a coincidence." He said when the silence stretched. "How could we convince you otherwise?" He dragged a chair from the edge of the room over the thin mats scattered around the floor, and sat opposite the Laskarian. If he pretended it was informal, maybe everyone else would follow suit.

A hope that was dashed when everyone except the woman who had led him over filed out without a word.

"You could both be lying. Or telling the truth, as you see it."

True, technically. Except Martin was actually right, and the Laskarians had aligned themselves with Team Evil.

"Tonight, you both are guests of the Nehelan clan. Tomorrow, you two and I will ride out. By fate's grace, we have a clan meeting in a week's time with some of the other leaders. They can decide."

"Very well," the Laskarian said, in heavily accented Meristan.

Martin gave a small burst of thanks out to whatever trick of history left the languages on this continent mutually intelligible.

"My companions have visited the other clans. I'm sure we would be happy to speak to your leaders at once."

They both turned to face him.

"Just me I'm afraid," he said with as much cheer as he could muster.

There was no response as their would-be host left the tent. Martin waited for a few minutes until it was clear no one else was coming, shrugged and followed. He didn't acknowledge the Laskarian at all.

"Are you really a thousand years old?"

Martin turned to find his former escort hovering in an alley between yurts.

"I'll tell you if you show me where to get dinner around here."

To his shock, the youth actually smiled and urged Martin on, back towards the cooking area. He was ushered into line behind a couple just returned from a horse ride, judging by the smell, and just ahead of a mother with two preteens following behind.

Every one of them smiled and sent him a word of welcome. The difference between their jovial inclusion and the silence of the last few days was a relief. Martin was not made for taciturn silence.

The same elderly woman who had passed him a treat was doling out the food. A thick stew, aromas of slow cooked meat wafted out, paired with the fresh baked bread on the next table. Hearty fare, but perfect for a spring evening with a nip in the air, after a long day of running.

Settled in at a long table, filled with laughing clans people, Martin's friend stared expectantly.

"Right. I was born over 1600 years ago. But for most of that time my body was held in stasis. I don't know if you can count those years."

"Woah. I'm fifteen. I'm counting all of them."

Martin snorted and took a mouthful of the stew. Rich with herbs and fat, he would be going back for seconds if it was an option.

"My names Vorash. It's the first year the elders have trusted me to keep an eye on one of the winter villages. Not for the whole summer, just a month. They'll send replacements back tomorrow, so that Keila isn't stuck alone. I've asked Breva if I can come to the clan meeting, what with finding you and all, but she said no."

Every word the boy had stored up over the last few days seemed determined to make themselves known. Martin let the wave wash over him and picked up what he could. There were some more questions for him tossed in but the boy barely paused long enough to eat, let alone wait for the answers. No culture was without its quirks, and if he was going to beat out the Laskarians he needed every weapon available.

When Vorash paused for breath, Martin seized on the moment to ask some questions of his own.

"Was I offending you before?"

"What? Oh yeah I've heard some of the old people say it confuses strangers. I didn't have standing to declare you a guest, or a friend of the clan, or an enemy, or anything else. So I couldn't talk.

"But now you're an honored guest! So we can talk all we want.

"Now I heard you're a witch. That's pretty cool. I am too." The lad's chest puffed out as the monologue picked right back up. "I'm still new but the elders think I'll be pretty strong one day. That'a why they let me stay with Keila."

"I would be very interested to hear about how your people teach new…witches, especially without a City. Do you find it harder to practice stronger techniques?"

The youth paused in his inhalation of the stew remnants to pat Martin on the shoulder. "Maybe when you come back. If you're a friend of the clan we can talk about it. But not with just guests. Sorry."

He waved it away. The boy really did look sorry, and it wasn't anything Martin didn't expect. It's not like he was giving away sect secrets to anyone who stopped by to ask.

Seeing that Martin was not offended, Vorash was back at it. Martin spent the evening with the lad, all the while making preparations for what came next.

**********

The following morning Martin met Breva and three of her clan members at the edge of camp, warriors if the number of weapons meant anything, along with the Laskarian cultivator.

Martin wasted no time sizing the woman up more fully. He had refrained the previous day out of respect for his hosts, but he was not planning to travel with someone he had no knowledge of.

It wasn't like she was hiding anything. Martin usually kept up a low-level veil. Not to suppress his cultivation level, but just hide the more intricate techniques from the casual observer. The Laskarian either didn't know how, or had no interest in such courtesy. Or they were trying to intimidate him.

Horses were led over by a few of the local children. Beautiful animals, with strong lines and muscles that spoke of long days of riding. A chestnut mare was offered to Martin. He produced an apple from his storage tattoo and fed half of it to the beast, which stood by, crunching docilely while he saddled and mounted.

There was no fanfare or final goodbye from the clan members. Breva simply turned and rode off, and the rest of them followed.

Hours later, the silence had once more become oppressive. Hours after that, he had settled into a comfortable meditation, a few lengths back from their guides. It was a surprise then, when the Laskarian pulled back to come up beside him.

Martin wished he could find something easy to hate. That she was a bad rider or cruel to the animal carrying her, but it wasn't the case. The woman had grown up in a saddle if he was any judge.

She flicked her braid over her shoulder and didn't bother to look at him when she spoke. "I know who you are. The masters tell stories about the old world, and how you were a fearsome warrior. It's sad you've fallen so far to fight back in fear of what we can become."

"Huh. I haven't heard of you at all."

With a nudge his horse surged forward a few steps. Just far enough to make it clear he had no intention of indulging the argument. Or giving away any of his plans.

There was no denying that a large part of the magehunters, and the rest of the cultivators in the Empire, were like George. They'd been forced into it before they were strong enough to fight back. Or they didn't understand the nuances at play.

Those people didn't get sent on stealth diplomatic missions on other continents. This woman was deeply complicit. Martin would kill her and not lose any sleep when the time came.

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