"Trust is a rare and bitter vintage. It is often fermented in desperation and aged in dire peril. One must have a strong stomach to partake, but it is a flavour that can sustain a traveller when all other rations have run out."

  — The Culinarian's Chronicle

  With the shouts of Krev'an soldiers echoing down the alley, Leo turned, his hand dropping from its offensive stance. He looked up at Rix, who was still mounted on Bocce's back, her knuckles white on the saddle's pommel. He met her eyes. She gave a nod, her expression a mixture of terror and resolve. Their options had run out. He grabbed Bocce's reins. "Come," he said, his voice a low, urgent command. He led the reluctant great bird forward, directly into the shimmering tear in reality. Bocce, with Rix on his back, plunged into the void after him with a distressed squawk. The transition was a violent and nauseating tumble through a silent void that smelled of ozone. The sounds of the chase, the heat of the city, the very feeling of solid ground—it all vanished, replaced by a disorienting, weightless fall through nothingness.

  Leo stumbled out the other side, landing hard on the floor. A moment later, Bocce staggered through, his legs buckling on the unfamiliar surface. The sudden, jarring stop sent Rix sliding from his back, landing in a heap beside Leo. The portal snapped shut behind them with a sound like tearing fabric, plunging the room into the moody light of a glowing crystal.

  Leo landed hard, his senses reeling. He pushed himself up, his eyes sweeping the room, taking in their new prison. There were no doors, no windows, no visible way in or out. The space was a paradox of organisation. One half was a chaotic pile of half-sorted goods: a Krev'an Inquisitor's helmet with a spiderweb crack in its visor, a petrified egg the size of a cannonball, and a barnacle-encrusted wine amphora, clearly salvaged from a deep-sea wreck. The other half was meticulously ordered. The walls were covered in charts, detailing the comings and goings of Krev'an patrols, tide tables for the Muroc harbour, and a celestial navigation map of the northern sea. Shelves nearby held a multitude of tomes and scrolls, neatly labelled in a cypher Leo couldn't discern. This was the workspace of a high-level operative.

  The hooded figure lowered their hood. His face was an intelligent mask of vulpine features, dominated by a muzzle full of teeth just a little too pointed to be entirely human. Intelligent silver eyes that missed nothing regarded them with open amusement. A pair of tall, silver-fox ears twitched atop his head. "Réwenver," he said, his voice a confident baritone. "At your service." He was an akajváltó, one of the beast-kin from the far east, and he moved with a liquid, predatory grace. "I am a purveyor of rare artifacts," he said, his voice a silken purr. "And a courier of the unseen."

  Leo pushed himself fully to his feet, his hand tensing at his side, ready to summon a blade from the aether. His gaze flicked from the charts to the man. "What does this have to do with us?" he asked, his voice a flat query.

  "I've been tracking the increased Inquisitor activity all day," Réwenver explained, his silver eyes glinting. "An aggressive patrol like that is wonderful for business. People who don't want to be found get... motivated. Then the whispers on the wind grew louder. Talk of wanted persons, arriving on the express maglev from Highforge. Friends of the Archmagister... the newly captive Archmagister, I should say." He looked them up and down, his sharp grin widening. "High-value targets, indeed. Anyone who can get the Krev'an this stirred up, and is an enemy of my enemy? Now that is bound to be profitable."

  "So we're just a business opportunity to you?" Leo asked.

  "Au contraire," Réwenver replied, his voice shifting to the fluid, melodic cadence of Trade-Alternate. "I have an idea of where you might be going, and I'd like to propose a... mutually beneficial opportunity." He made a casual gesture, opening a small, shimmering portal in the air beside him. He reached in and pulled out a full bottle of wine and three crystal glasses. “Perhaps we can break bread and have a discussion?”

  The fear and adrenaline in Rix’s face were suddenly replaced by a spark of scientific curiosity. "Spatial magic?" she whispered, her mind already piecing things together. Her eyes darted to his wrist, noting the absence of a Mage's Seal. "That's incredibly rare. And you're unlicensed. You're a smuggler!" His eyes flashed and he simply grinned, shrugging as if to say, what can you do? "But how are you not caught?" she pressed, her words tumbling out in a rush of excitement. "Every spatial displacement leaves a residual aetheric trace. It's like leaving footprints in the snow for any decent sensor array. How are you not on a watchlist?"

  Réwenver's fox ears twitched, clearly enjoying her frantic energy. "The portals are short-range," he explained calmly, pouring the wine. It was a Solarian vintage, its color so deep it was almost black, holding the crystal's light as a dim, crimson star at its heart. Leo watched it coat the glass, noting the high viscosity. "Limited to about one side of this city to another. And the signature?" He smirked. "Benefit of being an akajváltó. There's always a bit of wild magic clinging to us. Creates a natural distortion."

  He clarified the limits of his power as he opened a second, smaller portal, from which he produced a platter of cheeses. A third portal yielded a loaf of crisp, dark bread. "The pocket dimensions, however, are perfect for holding inanimate objects across great distances.Can't pat down a pocket dimension."

  Rix looked intrigued, muttering, "Fascinating... a biological cloaking field..."

  Réwenver gestured to the wine, bread, and cheese he had summoned. "Please," he said. "Help yourselves. My apologies to your large friend," he added, nodding towards Bocce, who was watching him. "I haven’t anything in storage for him."

  Despite the tension, Leo's curiosity was piqued. His focus zeroed in on the food. It was an offering of staggering quality. The platter held three distinct cheeses. The first, a soft, creamy round with a downy white rind, was a Saints-Tome, a rare triple-cream cheese from a remote Vorosian monastery. Leo could see the rind was perfect, not a flaw on it, a sign it had been time-locked at the absolute peak of its ripeness, a moment that usually lasted less than a day. The second, a hard, amber-coloured wedge, was crystalline with age. He recognised it instantly: a 5-year-aged Skjallheim Shard, a cheese traditionally smoked over hickory by the nomadic mountain-folk. The third was a golden-brown block of Tynammen Gold, a cheese with an intense, salty, umami kick that was almost impossible to export.

  The bread was a Boule de Campagne, a rustic country loaf. As Réwenver sliced into it, the deep, dark, almost-burnt crust crackled, revealing a soft, steaming interior with a perfect, open, and chewy crumb structure. It was fresh from an oven.

  Leo took a piece of the bread, still warm, and a sliver of the soft Saints-Tome. The flavour was perfect, a buttery, mushroom-like explosion that coated his tongue. This wasn't just food; it was a statement of power. "How do you store these so perfectly?" he asked, his voice a mixture of suspicion and professional admiration. "The bread is still warm. The cheese is at its peak. This shouldn't be possible."

  Réwenver's grin flashed. "My dimensions hold their state in time," he explained, tapping a finger to his temple. "Everything returns exactly as it went in. The bread thinks it's only been a moment since it left the oven." He smiled pointedly, his silver eyes glinting. "The effects are... troublesome for living creatures, however."

  Rix, her scientific curiosity overriding her caution, leaned forward. "Troublesome? How troublesome? What happens? Does the stasis field just fail? Does it cause cellular degradation?"

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Réwenver's grin turned a bit rueful. "Nothing so... clean. When I was young, I had a fondness for fried frogs' legs. I tried to store a few live ones, to... preserve their freshness. Suffice it to say, when I tried to retrieve them, the effects of the time dilation had wreaked havoc. Some had reverted to eggs. Some were tadpoles, swimming in a void that wasn't there. Others..." He grimaced. "...were just dust. The effect has always been similar for other living creatures. It's an unstable temporal field, not a true stasis."

  "Fascinating," Rix breathed, her mind already racing. "So it's not a stasis, it's a temporal... scrambling. A non-linear temporal field! Does it work on fertilised eggs? What's the variable? The complexity of the organism?"

  "It does," Réwenver said, his own interest piqued by her understanding. "Which is interesting, because unfertilized eggs are perfectly stable, just like the cheese..."

  "Can we return to the matter at hand?" Leo interrupted, his voice instantly cutting off their excited tangent. His gaze was fixed on the smuggler.

  Réwenver's fox ears flattened slightly, and his charming smile snapped back into place. "Of course. My apologies. Let's get down to the matter at hand."

  His charming demeanour faded. "The port is on lockdown," he said.

  With a casual flick of his wrist, a small, shimmering portal, no bigger than a dinner plate, opened in the air above the table. It was a scrying glass. Through it, Leo and Rix could see a bird's-eye view of the Muroc docks. The image was clear as day. They saw the swarming Krev'an patrols, but they also saw shimmering, blue-white scanner fields erected at the end of every gangplank. As they watched, a merchant was dragged from a queue, his protests silenced by a rifle butt to the stomach. "They're running full bio-signatures and arcane resonance scans on everyone. Your plan to cross the sea is impossible," Réwenver said, his voice cold, closing the portal with a snap of his fingers.

  He paused, a clever glint returning to his silver eyes. "At least, by conventional means." He offered them an alternative. "I can get passage on a northbound merchant vessel. Once the ship is far enough from shore, beyond the range of the Krev’an, I can open a portal back to you. You step through, and we're on way to the Dominion, no questions asked." He leaned back, the plan laid bare. "I can arrange it, for a price."

  Leo's eyes narrowed. "What price?"

  Réwenver dismissed the idea of money with a wave of his hand. "Coin is... temporary. My price is not coin, it is an exchange of specialised services. This," he said, his sharp grin returning, "is where our arrangement becomes truly mutually beneficial. My needs are a bit more specific." He reached into another unseen pocket and produced a silver sphere. With a twist, it projected a shimmering blue-light schematic into the air between them. It was a detailed architectural rendering of a massive and heavily fortified tower. "I have been contracted to retrieve an item of “ahem” significance," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "From the archives of the Crimson Council."

  Rix leaned forward, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and recognition. "The Crimson Council? Réwenver, they're not just some guild. They are the government of the Dominion. Security on their archives is said to be impossible. Arcane wards, kinetic barriers, a full platoon of corporate sentinels. What on Aetherra could you possibly need from there?"

  Leo’s voice was quiet, yet it carried dangerous weight. “And more to the point, why do you think we could possibly help you?”

  "Let me be candid," Réwenver said, his charming smile returning, though his eyes remained sharp and serious. "I know who you are, Master Artificer Rixxaaliah. And you, Kentarch Leonus ak'Sorvus, Reaper of Svordfj?ll."

  The title cut into the room. The air, already thin with tension, seemed to drop twenty degrees. Rix went rigid. Her head snapped toward Réwenver, her expression of cold, sudden fury. Her eyes narrowed into a hostile glare. That name, that title, was a secret known only to the four people who had watched the classified recording.

  Any trace of warmth vanished from Leo's face, replaced by a cold and utterly lethal stillness. His voice, when he spoke, was a dangerous growl.

  "What do you know about Svordfj?ll?"

  Réwenver, to his credit, did not flinch. His charming smile remained, though his eyes were now cold and assessing, a merchant who knew the precise value of the item he was bidding on. He met Leo's deadly gaze with an unflappable calm. "My business is knowing, Leonus. I know that 'The Reaper' is a title the Krev'an Councillors whisper. I know there is a shadow bounty on your head, issued by the Crimson Council itself, so high it's a state secret. And I know the Archmagister of Highforge personally stuck her neck out to get you on that train."

  He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know what you are. And I know that you know exactly what skills you both possess. I need you to get me in. Once we have the item, I can portal us back out. But what I can't do," he admitted with a disarming shrug, "is break their security panels or fight my way through a platoon of sentinels."

  Rix was pale, staring at Leo. Leo, in turn, slowly, deliberately, relaxed his posture. The lethal presence receded, replaced once more by the wary fugitive. "You're a criminal," Rix finally said, her voice shaky. "How can we trust you? You could sell us out to the Krev'an the moment we get there."

  Réwenver's charming smirk vanished, replaced by a pragmatic seriousness. "You can't," he said simply. "But right now, you have two options. You can take your chances with the Krev’an who are probably tearing this city apart looking for you, or you can take your chances with me." He leaned back, taking a slow sip of his wine. "Your choice. But I can have you on a ship out of here tonight."

  Leo looked at Rix, the weight of their predicament heavy in his gaze. She met his eyes, her fear of him now overshadowed by the reality of their situation. She gave an almost imperceptible shrug. It was a gamble, but it was the only one they had. Leo turned back to Réwenver and gave a curt nod. "We accept." Réwenver's sharp grin returned.

  "Excellent," he said, downing the last of his wine. "No time to waste."

  He didn't wait for a reply. He thrust his hand forward, tearing another portal open in the air, this one leading to the city itself. "Stay close," he commanded. Leo grabbed Bocce's reins in one hand and reached back to take Rix's in the other, a solid, grounding grip. He urged the great bird forward, and together, they plunged through.

  The transition was a violent lurch. They stumbled out of the void not into a room, but into a damp, echoing sewer tunnel, the air thick with the smell of rot and decay. The sudden, jarring shift left them disoriented. "This way!" Réwenver hissed, already moving. They hadn't taken ten steps before the air shimmered again.

  They fell through the next portal, this time into the cramped, dusty space behind a spice merchant's stall. The scent of cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves was overwhelming, a dry, pungent cloud that filled their lungs and made their eyes water. Through the gaps in the burlap sacks, they could hear the roar of the bazaar and, terrifyingly close, the high-pitched whine of a Krev'an autobike patrol passing by. Before they could even catch their breath, Réwenver opened the third portal.

  Their final jump deposited them in a dilapidated seaside shack, the air thick with the smell of salt and damp, rotting wood. Leo and Rix stumbled out, their senses still reeling from the multiple, disorienting jumps. "Stay here," a voice said. It sounded dizzying and far away. "Don't move, don't make a sound. I will retrieve you." By the time Leo's vision cleared, the portal was gone and Réwenver was already walking out the shack's door, pulling his cloak's hood low. Through a grimy window, they watched him join the queue for the northbound merchant vessel. He moved with an easy, confident swagger, handing over his papers with a disarming smile. They watched him board the ship, a lone figure disappearing into the lion's den.

  Then, the wait began. The shack was cold, a one-room hovel of rotting driftwood and tar paper. The only sound was the lapping of water beneath the floorboards and the distant, mournful cry of a sea bird. The ship's horn blew, a hollow sound that echoed across the water. The engines began to thrum, a low, powerful vibration they could feel through the floorboards. The mooring lines were cast off. The ship began to pull away from the dock, and still, no portal.

  Rix started to pace, her anxiety a palpable thing in the small, dark space. "He's gone," she whispered, her voice tight with dawning horror. "He sold us out. Scrap, Leo, he sold us out! He's probably trading our names to the Krev’an right now for a fortune. He's gone, and we're trapped here. What's our Plan B, Leo? We don't have a Plan B!"

  Leo reached back, his hand finding hers in the darkness. "Calm down, Rix," he said, his voice a low murmur. His hand was a solid, grounding presence, but as he watched the distant, receding lights of the ship, he felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. She was right. The ship passed the breakwater, a distant spark on the dark water, moving steadily out of range. He was gone. They were stranded, in a hostile city, with no allies and no way out.

  The vessel was a final, distant pinprick of light, almost lost to the horizon. Just as the last glimmer of its lights vanished, the air in the shack shimmered.

  A swirling portal, a chaotic tear of deep indigo and oily black, tore open in the middle of the room. Réwenver's face appeared, his sharp grin illuminated by the portal's strange light. "Cutting it a bit fine, I know," he said cheerfully. "Come on, let's go."