For the past hour, the wolf had knelt in meditation.

It wouldn’t be entirely accurate to call it “prayer,” not in the usual sense. He was not making entreaties, not sealing bargains. He contemplated the deeds of seven entities who had merged to become a single deific amalgam; he considered the acts of heroes who had followed in their footsteps. For his service to their collective name, those Seven gave him power – but it was his mind that dictated the form that power took.

Now his meditation was complete, his purpose clear, and – most tangibly – his spells ready. The day’s deeds awaited him.

He rose to his feet and turned to the array of equipment that had been laid out: gambeson, scale armour and leggings, boots, gauntlets, and a polished steel helm. Thus arrayed, he left the cell and strode along the corridors. His mixed blood gave him something of an innate stoop, but so much as he could, he kept his shoulders square and his back straight, standing tall and proud.

The robed priestess at the altar turned to face him and bowed her head. “Ah, Varyn, the resolve in your eyes is a sight to behold,” the ageing fox said with a smile. “It almost makes me wish I’d sought the more active life myself.”

“You’ve taught me a great deal, Lynnara,” the wolf replied, bowing. “I can only hope I’ve learned enough of it.”

“Your heart will guide you the rest of the way,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve always been glad to share my books with you, and my insights into them, but you’re too restless to sit in the library forever. You’ve the strength and vigour to do great deeds, instead of just reading about them. I’m glad to see you ready to do so.”

“Now, Lynnara.” Varyn smiled, kneeling down to bring his face more on a level with hers. “I think the people of Delan’s Mill would say you did a great deed for them.”

She waved it aside. “For our lot, no sickness of this world is a threat to our lives, however devastating it can be without divine aid. But my spellcraft won’t do much good against bandits like the ones that are in the guardhouse now.”

The wolf smiled broader and dipped his head, acknowledging her example. “We each serve as we can. You taught me that.”

“And as you’ve learned it well, I have something for you.” She gestured for him to follow, and went to one side of the little chapel, lifting the lid on a great storage chest. “It was left here twelve years ago by a man who’d carried it to battle against a necromancer. He wanted it to pass to a new owner in time, and I think that time has come.” With both hands she lifted something from the chest, long and swathed in wool.

Lifting it and turning the cloth back, he unveiled a fine flanged mace, well-tended and gleaming.

“I’ll use it well,” he promised, sliding the haft through a belt hoop. “And when I’ve outgrown it, I’ll pass it on in turn.”

“Good, good. And what now, Varyn?”

The wolf tugged his cloak around his shoulders, fastening it with a heptacle brooch. “I will find friends,” he said. “And then we will find someone who needs friends.”

He turned to the door, and the fox smiled after him.