Clearwater used to be a secret place where white-robed monks lived peaceful and austere lives, insulated from the outside world by its hidden existence. Compelled by the ravages of famine, its presence was made known to merchants and settlers on whom they hoped for the provision of food to their dying community. In that one year, several changes were effected whereupon the isle allowed the entry of business houses and refugees who were looking for a place to put down their roots at. The tiny population of simple monks began to swell but only so much that the place still retained its nature as a quiet and secluded slice of the world.

Clearwater today remained as it had for the last hundred years. The isle wasn’t ruled by a king but governed by a monk who acted as the final decision-making voice whenever changes, proposed by a council of senior monks, were to be affected regarding Clearwater’s administration. The current head monk was seventy years old and blind from a lightning strike he had suffered while gathering medicinal plants in the mountains.

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The old monk’s joints ached as he stood beside a tall blond man who had come to clearwater with grave news about the state of the world. As always, a light drizzle drummed across the high roofs of the isle’s strange living structures. Hollow cylindrical stone buildings as tall as ten houses stacked vertically were lived in by multiple families who formed individual small communities, bound by the common home they shared. These homes were built in a concentric circle around a wide and shallow pond that clearwater derived its name from.

"Such a decision cannot be made by me alone," the old monk told the blond man whose presence at Clearwater was unsettling the council.

"I’m not asking you to," Rowan replied.

"But you will have me plant the seeds for the outcome you desire."

"Yes."

The monk sighed, knowing his decision was already made.

______

"Sir, you have guests."

Rowan was at his desk, writing a letter when he was interrupted by the guard. His hand paused over the white parchment where a few lines had already been written in black ink.

"Did they state their names?"

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"Someone called Syryn, sir," the guard respectfully answered.

The name sent a wave of longing in Rowan. He wished it really was Syryn here to see him.

"Let them in," he told the man, knowing just who it was brandishing his lover’s name so impudently. Rowan would not have tolerated such if it was anyone but Lucien applying Syryn’s identity so freely during his travels.

He heard the sound of footsteps despite the rain. There were at least four, maybe five of them, he realised. So Artemus was here as well. The blond set his writing implements away and stood up as familiar faces appeared through the door of his living space.

Lucien smiled and though it reached his eyes, a hint of worry remained in its pretty arc.

"Rowan, how ya been doin’?" Sebastian was the first to speak. The sandy-haired mage was soaked from head to toe by the rain so he began to remove his shoes and outerwear at the door.

"As well as a man can be," Rowan answered. After taking in the presence of Magnus and Akida, his gaze drifted to the pale-faced Artemus whose hard expression and silence communicated everything the blond needed to know about how the search for Alka was going. "What brings you to clearwater?"

"Need yer help," Sebastian replied as he wrung the water out of his clothing. Lucien, who had taken off everything but his pant, was already heading to Rowan’s kitchen for some hot water. forted him as well. Explain yourself, will you?"

"There is capacity for heroism and villainy in each one of us," Rowan answered as he gazed up at the dark sky.

"Hah! You can’t be both, Rowan. Which one are you?"

The answer was simple. "A hero to one, and a villain to another."

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