Midnight. Aerandir was certain that he would find something if he made his way through the streets in the darkness, which was what he exactly did. With his hair snugly covering his ears and red scarf covering his neck, he roamed around the dark blue and gray streets and alleyways, studying the sleeping city.

He carried a small knapsack, making him look like a slouching novice still attending the Midgard Academy under Leo von Frisch’s elementary course.

“I truly hate this place,” the acolyte murmured, once more. “Especially at nightfall. The place stinks of death.”

Havelock, as his Guildmaster, took it upon himself to accompany the youngest of the Order. Leon had volunteered, but the High Priest curtly declined the offer. The Paladin did not belong to the Order, and was not supposed to be privy of the holy men's secrets.

“I realize that you do not favor my company as well,” said Havelock, his white robes oddly scintillating in the moonlit night as they walked. “At ease, my boy. You are wasting energy, what with tensing your muscles that way.”

Aerandir only nodded. He sighed since he preferred his old friend’s company rather than his shrewd Guildmaster, but he did so inwardly since he held high regard for the man.

“Best to open your other senses, and hear what secrets the night carries,” said Havelock. “You might be surprised.”

Obediently, he closed his eyes. At that precise moment, Aerandir’s sharp senses heard a shrill cry. It was too faint to have come from the city, he decided. It came from outside. Even farther from the outskirts of Geffen. The sound was very faint yet distinct; his ears would prick if they only could.

He remembered lazily eyeing one senior knight who went through the west gate carrying a carefully-wrapped blade, before nightfall.

His eyes snapped wide open.

“I need a portal, Guildmaster,” said Aerandir urgently. “To Glast Heim.”

Havelock cocked an eyebrow. “You have studied for three years under my tutelage, and you have not learned even simple teleportation? In fact, you have learned not even a single holy gift. But you are gifted, Aerandir. Your senses are even too acute, one would wonder if you came from a different…profession. I sincerely wonder why.”

Aerandir said nothing, but he was a shade paler.

“Very well,” Havelock dropped a sapphire to the ground as a holy offering, and held out his hands. Within a few seconds a half-drawn sacred circle of light emerged, slowly completing by itself with intricate interlacing lines and curves, and holy symbols.

“There you go, Brother Aerandir.”

Aerandir was about to step into the portal when he paused, and turned back towards Havelock. “May I ask a quick question? About Lady Dastonia.”

“Go ahead,” answered Havelock. He eyed the young man in acolyte’s robes with slight amusement.

Aerandir noticed his Guildmaster’s look, and shook his head. “No, nothing. I guess I already have the answer.”

“Godspeed,” bade the High Priest, giving the young acolyte his blessings and prayers of protection.

A sudden, urgent explosion of white light flashed in the alley the moment Aerandir stepped into the circle and vanished, acolyte and all.

Havelock, with his breath misting as he made his way back to Venris’ mansion, indeed knew that ‘a boy in acolyte’s robes’ was a more accurate description of Aerandir than ‘an acolyte’. He held the crucifix dangling from his neck as he said a silent prayer.

“God knows the Order needs lads like him,” he confided into the night. “After all, didn’t the Book say that while He provides, we are the Will’s hands?”