The sound of Jack beating a punching bag to an inch of its life filled the musty room. Her graceful strikes rained against the bag with the precision of a surgeon. Jabs, crosses, hooks. She performed without any mental input, her mind far away from where she stood.

It had been three of the longest days of her life. Eventually fearing the worst, Will had gone searching for Twila. She had been found catatonic, laying limply in the rain alongside the body of Trixie. Once Twila was able to speak again, she said Trixie had overused her magic—more or less cooked her brain, from what Jack could gather from Twila's extensive vocabulary. A bit of magic transfer from Celestia and the girl made a decent recovery, with instructions to not use her magic over the next few days. With that in mind, she moved over to something else to eat away at her time. Twila had taken to reading over everything she could regarding the late Trixie: notes, grades, her letters—anything she could get her hands on. The farmer should have been worried; after all, Trixie had been a necromancer according to Twila. Yet, she trusted the soul-folk; girl had a good head on her. Whatever she was looking for regarding Trixie wouldn't involve something wicked.

Jack twisted her body, dodging an imaginary blow and countering with a hard elbow to the bag's side. Her thoughts turned to the other victim of that night.

Rarity.

She had been taken to Camelot and was currently being treated at one of the best hospitals in Caballo. That was all Jack knew. They were restricting visitation to family only, and the only information she could pry from anyone over the past few days was simple lip service of 'stable, but not improving.'

Jack scowled, slamming her fists even harder against the bag in an effort to drown out her anger. She hadn't been sleeping; every time she shut her eyes, the sight of Rarity's limp, delicate body being hauled onto a stretcher woke her up again. There had been one night of rest, thanks to some medication Will had smuggled to her, but that was a fleeting thing that filled her with visions of fantastical nightmares, gray beach sands, garish monsters...

Jack paused, breathing heavily as she put her hands to the sides of her cotton wife-beater then lifted her shirttail and took to wiping her face, wincing slightly at the unusual architecture of it. She could take off the bandage soon—maybe even would later today—the docs were astounded at how fast her nose was healing; she'd need to be careful for a few weeks, thing was still tender, but thanks to Will's quick actions, it had set 'like a glove on a hand,' according to one doctor.

The woman sighed, letting her shirt drop and reaching up to touch the elephant in the room. She ran a thumb along the lined off-white dip in her face that stretched across almost her whole cheek, ending a hair's breadth from her mouth.

Jack felt like a contradiction. Her hands, as she had experienced before, could take a life as easily as breathing. But when it came to protecting Rarity, she couldn't do a single thing—she was a helpless child. If Trixie hadn't showboated and toyed with her, there was no doubt in Jack's mind that she'd be dead.

“A warrior has scars, Apple. There's no shame in an honor mark,” a deep voice to her side said.

Jack hid her surprise at Will's stealthy arrival with a derisive snort. “Some warrior. Rarity's in the hospital, an' I couldn't even get a hit off.”

“But she's not dead. Neither are you.”

She turned to face the giant; he sat inside the boxing ring, resting his meaty arms over the ropes and letting his legs dangle over the edge. Jack wordlessly stepped up and joined him nearby, waiting for him to continue.

Will stared straight ahead, his scruffy and scarred face hundreds of miles away. “Norfolk have a word: Ronnel.”

She shrugged, waiting on him to continue. “What's it mean?”

“Wheel.” Will looked over his palm with his unbandaged eye as he clenched and unclenched a hand. “But there are a few different meanings behind the word for us. Ronnel is a life philosophy many of my people follow.” Will put his hand down and glanced Jack's way. “You travel life and become stronger, no matter what stops you along the way. No matter what knocks you down, Apple, you rise from it and march. Wagon wheels along the Path. We take the Path, and the Path takes us. A simple fact there, with no mess or fuss.” He put a paternal hand to her shoulder. “You simply march on. The Path will show you the way.”

She shut her eyes briefly in thought. “I jus' ain't sure, Will... ain't never felt this—hell, t-this weak before. My life's one thing, but I'm scared fer Rarity.”

“If you think you're weak, then we'll work until things don't look bleak.” He pointed a finger at Jack. “You're wanting to protect the girl, right?”

She nodded, not even a pause or hesitation. “I ain't lettin' no one hurt her again.” Her conviction quickly fell. “But what can I do ta stop 'em? I ain't no soul-folk, Will. The other day, she coulda jus'...” Jack looked down at her calloused hands. “Anythin' I can do, one a them can an' then some.”

“Wings and spells—“

“Don't make a man. I know, I know. Ya said that the other day,” Jack dismissed with an irritated frown. Will smiled slightly at the woman.

“You remind me of Jiranda.”

Jack ran the name through her brain. “Yer wife?”

Will slowly nodded. “She used to get so annoyed at me telling her crap like that. Deep down though, I think she enjoyed it.” He rose from his seat and stared at the farmer. “She would of liked you.”

“I'm sure I woulda liked her too.”

The man seemed like he was going to say something, then quickly changed his mind, rolling his shoulder instead. He shuffled on his feet, then glanced at the farmer once more. “Apple, I've never been one to beat around the bush: I want you to be my personal apprentice.”

Jack crossed her arms and quirked a brow. She spoke low. “Will, are ya jus' pityin' me?”

“If my pity was yours to take, I woulda baked you a damn cake.”

“Then why me? Why not Gilda, or Dash, or, or, anyone else?”

He put his hands to his hips. “Because you've got the mindset—you're a warrior through and through.”

“Fer the love-a...” Jack held the back of her right hand up and pointed at her Mark. “Ya see this? Apples. I live on an' apple farm, Will. Ain't too hard ta add up.”

He smirked. “You were a late bloomer when it came to it, I bet.”

Jack scratched at her head. “Last one in my class. But how'd ya...?”

Will pointed a finger straight up. “Because I think it's a mark with a deeper meaning than what you're giving it credit for. From what I've studied about the folk race, most of the late carriers have a more symbolic relationship with their mark then someone who's, hell, I dunno, good at hairdressing.”

“I ain't the type ta go deep. Ya know that. 'Sides,” she continued, standing up herself and moving to take a drink from the water bottle she carried nearby. “How deep can ya go with apples?”

“I bet when you got it, you had three members of your immediate family.”

She stopped once more, nearly spitting out her drink. “Will, yer startin' ta scare me. Yeah. Bloom had jus' been born 'fore I headed to Manhattan.”

“Do you remember what you were thinking about when you...” He held up the back of his hand towards her, clenching and unclenching it.

She gave pause, tilting her head back in heavy contemplation. “Hell. If I'm rememberin' right, was jus' thinkin' 'bout how I didn't fit in Manhattan, an' was confused 'bout where I could be accepted at, warts 'n' all. Then I got ta thinkin' about Granny an Mac—I knew she had the know-how on takin' care of a kid, an' Mac was always pretty good on that kinda stuff too, but...” Jack closed her water bottle and put it to the side, before reaching down to throw on her button-up shirt. “Guess I was kinda worried 'bout 'em, especially with harvest comin' up so quick-like.” She gave an arced gesture with a palm above her head. “Next thing I see is this bright rainbow. An' the thing is... it's pointin' home.” She worked her way carefully up each button, still thinking about her experience. “Guess I took it as a sign—Paul on Damascus road an' all that. Next thing I know...” She shrugged, glancing at her hand. “Ain't much of a story, but it's what happened.”

“And it tells me all I need to know. That mark on your hand isn't for you. It's for your family.”

She narrowed her brow as she grabbed her bottle and a wallet, which she quickly rammed into her back pocket. “Hey now. I'll have ya know I'm a pretty damn good farmer. Marks don't lie.”

“They don't,” he agreed, moving behind the ring and bending down. He pulled up a small satchel and began thumbing through what looked like dozens of notes and letters. “Which is exactly why I want to guide you down the Path. Because I think your talent's more than picking apples.” He gave a grunt in triumph, pulling out a single note from the ceaseless letter pile that poured from his bag. “I think your talent's about taking care of your own, be it through a plowshare or a sword. You can do anything, Apple.” Will held out the paper to Jack, who took it with a raised brow. She froze. On the front was her name, with the unmistakable wide, looping, and crisp penmanship of Rarity. Jack tore into the envelope and began reading.

Sorry for not contacting you until now, darling. The doctors simply abhorred me doing anything more than complete bedrest. I wanted to tell you that, aside from a lingering cough and an occasional failure to cast magic, I am well. According to my doctors, even these minor symptoms will go the wayside within a month or two at the most.

To get to the point, as I'm sure you wish me to do, I am announcing my arrival back to Saint Charles. The train should arrive at six o'clock on the evening you receive this note.

An obvious, hesitant pause, then the lettering became a bit more self-conscious and subdued.

I pray to see you there, Jack. It would do my heart quite well to see another familiar face during these troubling times, and I long for the comfort of your arms enveloping my frame.

With the greatest of expectations,

Rarity.

Jack read the letter, then reread it, then reread it once more. It was good hearing she was ok. Hell, better than good, it was some of the best news she had heard lately, even if the last part had been a bit sappy. Will gave a chuckle at Jack's expression.

“Wouldn't have expected you and someone like her to be... you know...” he said, reaching deeply once more into his satchel.

Jack gave a slow nod in agreement. “Neither did I. 'Least at first.” She folded the letter and put it into her breast pocket. “She's got a lot more to her than jus' bein' a rich seamstress, ya know?”

“Mmm,” he grunted, pulling out a thin white robe. He walked over and held it out to the farmer.

“What's this?” Jack asked, glancing at the clothing.

“Well,” Will began, scratching at a cheek and smirking, “the weapon I wanted to show you is here.”

“An' the robe's used how?”

His smile dropped as he stared at the woman. “A weapon ceremony's an important thing for norfolks, especially weapons that have been around for as long as this one. I had to pull some favors just to have you included. Most events are norfolk exclusive, save for partners and offspring.”

Jack gave a nod. “So jus' toss on the robe an' we'll both hit it. Gotcha.”

He shook his head. “Gotta clean up first, Apple.”

The farmer rolled her eyes. “I can't stink that bad, Will—“

“It's symbolic, participants wash themselves before a ceremony,” he instantly said. “Like you're cleaning your burdens away.”

It dawned on the farmer; she nodded. “Ah, I gotcha.”

Will turned, heading towards the door. “Anyway, just go to the hot springs, meditate in the water for a while, then meet me back by the fountain. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Jack traveled north from the modest room that housed the academy's boxing ring, walking down a dirt path for about five minutes, until she came to a long circular wall lined with numbered doors. Steam rose from behind the wall, and Jack could hear the quiet, tranquil splash of water, alongside a few whispered conversations. Nearby the wooden barricade was a booth, where a blonde haired girl in a gray sweater stood behind the counter, completely oblivious to the world. Jack approached her.

“Hey, uh, this where I go ta get a station fer the hot spring?”

She seemed to come back from her daze and glance up at Jack. “Yeah. Sorry. Was just distracted.” The woman gestured behind her. “Yep! Numbered for your convenience, even!” She reached under the counter and pulled out two binders then cracked one open, revealing two palm sized cards. “We've been busy—I only got two stations left. Nine ok?”

“Number's a number,” Jack replied.

The caretaker quickly moved one of the two cards into an almost filled-to-bursting binder.

“Great! Enjoy yourself!” she proclaimed, smiling broadly at Jack.

Jack headed over to the doorways and wordlessly started to count over. Once she found her number, she entered and locked the door behind her.

It was about five minutes later that the blonde realized she had Jack's check-in card upside down.

The farmer shut the door behind her, finding herself in a small changing room. Jack stripped and crammed her clothes into one of the lockers set to the side. After stretching a bit, she walked farther into the room and rounded a corner leading to the spring proper. She came to the small archway leading outside and froze, her mouth dropping in shock.

Gilda lay half submerged in water, her head thrown back and her arms resting along the rim of the water. That, however, wasn't what drew Jack's attention.

Behind Gilda's back, spread out for the world to see, was a pair of wings. Not the ethereal, conjured wings of the sky-folk, but the connected, feathered wings of the griffons.

“W-what?” Jack whispered to herself, taking an unsure step back. Gilda lobbed her head forward at the noise, yawning.

They both stared at one-another for a moment, before Gilda awoke fully.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” she shouted, all but erupting out of the water and stomping towards Jack.

“I...” the farmer trailed off. She paused. “Wait, no. This ain't my fault. The receptionist said this stall here was open.”

“That dumb bitch,” Gilda snarled, spitting to the side. “I never should have came here while there was a temp worker minding the place.”

Jack shook her head, still overwhelmed at what she saw. “Yer a griffon... but, I mean, ya don't look the part. Yer—”

Gilda stepped closer, glowering. “What? Too brown? Always hear about how we're nothing but pale skins?” She glanced down at her nude body. “Dye job.” The woman put a finger in her mouth, showcasing her sharp teeth. “The fangs? Filed 'em.” She continued, splaying out her fingers. “Same as the claws.”

“Why?” Jack asked, narrowing her brow. “Are you tryin' ta—“

“Why the hell you think?!” she shouted, stepping even closer to Jack and shaking a finger up at the woman. “You have any idea how my people get treated in Caballo? No. You don't. You don't have a damn idea what I've gone through.” She gestured behind Jack. “You've seen what Will thinks of griffon-folk, same as almost any other person around here. If anyone found out—if anyone looked deep enough into my records? I'm done. So don't even think about telling anyone this or I'll wipe you off the face of the earth,” she warned, pushing her finger hard into Jack's chest.

“I don't like bein' threatened,” Jack countered, throwing Gilda's finger to the side then clenching her fists tightly. “'Sides, we both know ya ain't takin' me down like we are.”

Gilda opened her mouth, then thought better of it, closing it quickly. A weary resignation spread over her body.

“What do you want?” she quietly asked, looking towards the ground.

The farmer paused on seeing Gilda's complete change. “What do ya mean?”

She glared at Jack defiantly, tears brimming at her eyes. “What else, you vulture? To not say anything. Money, or... or...?”

Jack raised her hands up. “Nothin'. I ain't that kinda gal.”

Gilda scowled, wiping at her eyes. “Everyone has a price, Apple, what's yours?”

“I ain't fer sale.” The farmer crossed her arms over her breasts. “Take that money idea and blow it.”

The griffon-folk looked over Jack, her face an unreadable mask. “Then you're gonna...”

“I ain't sayin' nothin' ta nobody. Yer an asshole, but if ya think I'd go outta my way ta ruin yer life, ya got another thing comin'.”

“Why?”

“It ain't the Christian thing ta do, I ain't the type ta play dirty, I figure everyone's got at least one or two skeletons they ain't wanna show ta nobody—take yer damn pick.”

Gilda pursed her lips, seeming to want to snap again at Jack. She instead gave a resigned sigh, turning and weakly walking back to the spring water. Jack couldn't help but shudder at seeing the stretched, jutting peaks of skin that connected Gilda's wings to her shoulder blades. The griffon-folk stepped inside, sinking into the water, then gestured for Jack to join her.

The farmer complied, sitting on the opposite end of the spring.

Gilda crossed her arms in deep thought as she stared at the water.

“What a lot of people don't realize is that us griffons were some of the first to suffer under 'The Retainers of the Wind.'” She gave an even, emotionless stare towards the farmer, her yellow eyes keenly looking over the woman. “I'm sure Will's mentioned them to you.”

“Jus' that they were a cult or somethin'.”

“You Caballens called it the Cult of the griffon... makes us sound like we were all in on it, yeah?” Gilda offered a wry smile. “My dad was an officer.”

Jack gave a small nod of her head. “So he was part of the problem then.”

“Kinda...” she admitted, glancing to the side. “But not willingly. He was a smart guy—part of a military division before the cult rose to power. They told him my ma's life would be in danger if he didn't help the effort.” She crossed her legs and wiped casually at her nose. “He did what he had to.”

Jack slowly nodded as the water lapped at her stomach, waiting for the woman to continue.

Gilda's large wings fluttered slightly as she looked grimly to the sky. “Where'd it get my old man? Hung for war crimes. He went down like a damn villain and for what? Doing the right thing?” She turned her head and spat once more. “That's why you keep your head low. Don't stick your neck out for anything.”

The farmer still remained silent, unsure what to say to Gilda's outlook.

“Ma got me out of the country. I-I guess she didn't see much of a future for me there.” The briefest flicker of a hurt smile crossed her mouth, then retreated. “Learned real quick you guys aren't fans of the wings. Or the other stuff.”

“Guess it explains why yer always wearin' heavy clothes 'round yer chest,” Jack quietly said.

“Keeping them wrapped hurts like a bitch—it's why I'm here almost every day. Hot water helps.” The woman leaned back a bit more, submerging her upper back with a small groan. “I do what I can to not be obvious, no claws and the skin show that, but I... I can't cut 'em off. That's just too damn much.” She scowled again, shaking her head. “I woulda killed to fly with Isabelle when we were younger. Woulda killed to do a lot of things with her.”

Jack pursed her lips. “There's still time fer that.” She met Gilda's gaze. “Talk ta her. Dash ain't the kind ta throw away an apology, ya hear?”

“She won't listen, hick. That's why I tried to have you talk to her for me.”

“Make her listen an'... maybe tell her 'bout this?”

The woman shook her head in disgust. “Hell no, man. She'll think I'm a freak!”

“She already thinks ya go out of yer way ta hurt her friends—freak's an upgrade ta that.” Jack gave a stern point of her finger. “Give it ta her straight. It's the only thing ya can do.”

Gilda sighed, but nodded anyway, running a finger over the surface of the pool. Jack decided that she had had enough; she rose, placing a hand over her hair and wringing out a bit of the excess water.

“Ya got my word: I ain't sayin' nothin' ta noone 'bout yer...” She gave a gesture towards Gilda's wings then turned, heading towards the changing room.

“Hey, Apple,” the gray-haired woman called out as Jack entered the threshold of the locker rooms. Gilda offered the closest thing to a smile Jack had seen; a cross between a grimace and a smirk. “For being so square, you're not half-bad.”

“An' I think there's maybe a bit buried in ya that's alright,” Jack concluded with a nod.