Kryos 29 – Pagopoi 28, Imperial Year 1642
The Southern Road, Mercia to the Free Cities
The journey from Fallowfield to the southern town of Millford – where Finnian Dewberry, known in a past life as Yuto Nakamura, worked as a baker's apprentice – took fifty days.
Winter deepened as they traveled. The days grew short, the nights long and bitter. Frost coated the grass each morning, and the horses' breath plumed like dragon smoke. Twice, they were forced to shelter in barns when snow closed the roads. Once, they lost a pony to a broken leg and had to buy a replacement from a farmer who charged twice its worth.
Elara kept the group moving. She had learned to read the sky for storms, to find shelter in the lee of hills, to stretch their supplies when the next town was farther than expected. Rosalind managed the money – a dwindling purse that she supplemented with careful trades. Roderick hunted, bringing back rabbits and the occasional deer. Miku cooked, turning simple ingredients into meals that lifted spirits. Hikari prayed, and her prayers seemed to keep the worst of the weather at bay.
Kaito tinkered endlessly, even on the road. He had rigged a small forge to the back of a cart – a contraption of brick and bellows that Natsuki had dubbed the Firebox – and spent his evenings shaping metal, muttering to himself about alloys and tolerances. Rin rode in silence, her magic a coiled spring beneath her calm exterior. She spoke rarely, but when she did, her words were sharp and precise, like arrows.
Natsuki had sent her mercenary company back to their garrison; they could not afford to feed fifty soldiers on the road. She traveled alone now, her axe across her back, her eyes always scanning the horizon.
"You are quiet," Elara said to Roderick one evening, as they sat by the fire. The others were asleep, wrapped in blankets, their faces pale in the firelight.
"I am thinking," Roderick said.
"About what?"
"The assassin." He poked the fire with a stick. "Two kills now. A corrupt knight, a corrupt treasurer, a corrupt duke. He is not random. He is sending a message."
"What message?"
"That no one is beyond reach. That power does not protect you." Roderick looked at her. "That is a message we could use."
Elara frowned. "You want to find him."
"I want to know if he is one of us. And if he is, I want to know why he hides."
"He hides because he kills people, Roderick. Even bad people. That makes him a criminal in this world."
"It makes him a weapon," Roderick said. "And weapons can be aimed."
Elara had no answer. She watched the fire burn low, and when she finally slept, she dreamed of a man in a dark cloak, standing on a hill, looking down at her with red eyes.
Pagopoi 15, Imperial Year 1642
The Town of Southbridge, Near the Free Cities Border
The rumors reached them in a tavern called the King's Rest, a drafty building at the edge of a town that smelled of tanneries and cheap wine.
A merchant from Valdria was holding court at a corner table, surrounded by listeners. He was a fat man with a red face and a voice that carried.
"…struck down in his own study! The duke, mind you, a man with fifty guards, a man who had never known fear. And this… this thing… it came from the sky, like the hand of an angry god. His own servant was sprayed with blood. They say the duke's body was not even fit for burial."
"What manner of weapon?" a listener asked.
"No one knows. Some say a mage. Some say a demon. I say it is the beginning of the end. The old powers are waking. Mark my words."
Elara exchanged a glance with Rosalind. The merchant was describing the same method – a distant kill, a projectile, a brass casing found later. The assassin had struck again, this time in a different kingdom.
Three kills, Elara thought. The knight, the treasurer, the duke.
Who are you?
She paid for the merchant's ale and asked him quietly, "The duke. What were his crimes?"
The merchant looked at her – a halfling in travel‑stained clothes – and shrugged. "Duke Vane? He was a monster. Killed his own brother. Sold villages to slavers. Tortured a woman to death." He leaned closer. "Between you and me, the kingdom is better off without him. But no one dares say it aloud."
Elara thanked him and returned to her table.
"He was a monster," she told the others. "The assassin killed a monster."
"Three monsters," Roderick said. "He has a type."
"Or he has a code," Hikari said softly. "He only kills those who deserve it."
"No one deserves to die like that," Rin muttered. "No one."
The table fell silent. Elara looked at Rin – the mage who had locked herself in a tower, who had studied magic to forget the bombing, who had never fully rejoined the world.
"We are not here to judge the assassin," Elara said. "We are here to find Yuto. Let us focus on that."
They finished their meal and left the tavern, but the rumors followed them like shadows.
Pagopoi 28, Imperial Year 1642
The Village of Honeywell
Honeywell was a small village in a valley, surrounded by orchards and wheat fields. The houses were whitewashed stone, the streets clean, the air sweet with the smell of baking bread.
The bakery was at the center of the village, a low building with a chimney that poured smoke into the gray sky. A wooden sign above the door showed a loaf of bread and a sheaf of wheat. The name beneath read Dewberry's Oven.
Elara went alone. The others waited at the edge of the village, hidden among the apple trees.
She pushed open the door. The heat hit her first – a wave of dry warmth that smelled of yeast and honey. A young man stood behind the counter, his hands dusted with flour, his face round and friendly. He was a halfling, like her, with curly brown hair and bright blue eyes.
"Welcome to Dewberry's," he said. "What can I get for you? The rye is fresh, and the honey cakes are still warm."
Elara looked at him. She remembered a different face – a Japanese boy with a shy smile, always offering to share his lunch, always kind.
"Yuto," she said.
The young man's hands stopped moving.
"My name is Elara. But before this life, I was Yuki Tanaka. I was the class president. You sat behind me, third row from the front. You always brought extra rice balls because you knew some of the other kids forgot their lunch."
The young man stared at her. His flour‑dusted hands began to tremble.
"Yuki," he whispered. "You are real."
"I am real. And I am not alone."
Yuto – Finnian – came around the counter and embraced her. He was shorter than her, even for a halfling, and he smelled of bread and cinnamon.
"I have been waiting," he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I did not know if anyone would come. I did not know if I dreamed it all."
"You did not dream it," Elara said. "None of us did."
They sat in the back room of the bakery, surrounded by sacks of flour and trays of cooling bread, and Finnian told them his story.
He had been reborn as the only son of a halfling baker and his wife. His childhood had been ordinary – helping in the bakery, learning to knead dough, growing up in a village where everyone knew everyone. The memories had come slowly, as they always did: dreams at seven, fragments at eight, full recall by fourteen.
"I did not leave because I did not know where to go," he said. "And because my parents are old. They need me. The bakery is their whole life."
"We are not asking you to leave forever," Elara said. "Only to help us. To be part of something bigger."
Finnian looked at the others – Roderick with his tusks, Rosalind with her fine clothes, Miku with her eager face, Hikari with her silver pendant. He saw Kaito's tools, Natsuki's axe, Rin's cold eyes.
"You are all reincarnators," he said.
"Yes."
"And there are more?"
"Twenty‑two more. Plus a teacher."
Finnian was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"I cannot leave Honeywell," he said. "But I can help. I can bake bread for your journeys. I can pass messages. I can be a safe place for others to find." He smiled. "And I can make sure no one goes hungry."
Elara felt her heart swell. "That is more than enough."
That night, they camped in an orchard outside Honeywell. Finnian had given them a sack of fresh bread, a wheel of cheese, and a jar of honey. They ate well, and for the first time in weeks, they laughed.
"Nine," Rosalind said, counting on her fingers. "Elara, Roderick, myself, Miku, Hikari, Kaito, Natsuki, Rin, and now Finnian. Plus Valeria, who supports us from Fallowfield. Ten accounted for."
"Twenty still missing," Elara said. "Plus the teacher."
"We will find them," Miku said. "We have time."
"Do we?" Rin spoke from the shadows. "The assassin is killing high‑ranking nobles. The crown is hunting him. If they cannot find him, they will start hunting anyone who is strange. Anyone who does not belong. That includes us."
The fire crackled. Elara looked at Rin.
"What do you suggest?"
"We need to be more careful. We need to stop traveling as a group. We need to establish safe houses – places where we can hide, communicate, regroup." Rin's eyes were dark. "And we need to find out who the assassin is. Before he brings the whole world down on us."
No one spoke. The weight of her words settled over them like a blanket.
Finally, Roderick said, "She is right."
Elara nodded. "Then we will adapt. Tomorrow, we split into smaller groups. Rosalind, you will take Miku and Hikari east, toward the Free Cities. Kaito, you will go north with Natsuki and Rin. Roderick and I will go west, toward the coast. We will meet again in two months, at the Crossroads Tavern."
"And Finnian?" Rosalind asked.
"Finnian stays here. He is our anchor – a place to send messages, a source of supplies." Elara looked at the halfling baker. "Can you do that?"
Finnian nodded. "I can. And I will."
They clasped hands, nine reincarnators bound by death and hope, and made their plans.
Pagopoi 29, Imperial Year 1642
Honeywell, Dawn
Elara rode out of the village at first light, Roderick beside her. The others had already left, scattering to the four winds like seeds from a dandelion.
She carried a new loaf of bread in her pack, a gift from Finnian. She carried a map marked with safe houses and meeting points. She carried the names of the missing – twenty names, written in Japanese, hidden in a pouch beneath her shirt.
And she carried a question.
Who are you, assassin? Are you one of us? Or are you something else?
She did not know. But she intended to find out.
The road west stretched before her, empty and cold.
She rode into the dawn.
End of Chapter Eight