Narbok Blackbriar stood outside his family's manor, shifting his weight to his good leg from the one Specialist Spinova had healed. The magic had been flawless—sealed artery, fused flesh. The skin was smooth and whole.
But every heartbeat sent a phantom pinch through his thigh.
That damned kitchen boy! That mongrel half-breed who smells of onions!
Fading fungal motifs—remnants of the Mycari heritage his father so desperately clung to—covered the old wood of the door. The ground-floor windows, usually bright with pleasant green phosphorescence remained dark, transforming the house into a silent monolith within the enclave.
I just need to sleep. Narbok grimaced, running through his excuses. I'll explain in the morning. I'll tell him the boy cheated, that the bastard used an elixir to pierce the mist.
Bile rose in his throat as he reached for the iron latch.
Shink.
The sound came from the other side of the entryway—the distinctive slide of the iron deadbolt being driven home.
Narbok stilled. His hand hovered over the latch, trembling.
"Father?" The word felt small in the night air.
Silence answered him.
Heat spiked in his chest. He gripped the handle and twisted it hard but the door held fast. "Father! Open up!"
From inside, he heard the deliberate gait of footsteps moving away—Herod Blackbriar retreating deeper into the house, putting walls and distance between himself and the son who had stained the Mistblood name.
"Father!" Narbok's voice cracked, rising. He hammered his fist against the wood. "Let me in! You can't just—you can't leave me out here!"
The last light in an upper window winked out.
Narbok stepped back, his breath hitching. The healed flesh his leg throbbed. He looked around the enclave at the other houses, all of them silent, curtains drawn tight. He turned his back on the door. Begging was beneath him. He was a Blackbriar, a descendant of the Mistblood bloodline. If his father wanted to play the stoic patriarch, let him. The barracks had benches. He could sleep there until morning, when he would find a way to exact the price the half-breed owed him.
"A discouraging turn of events, wouldn't you agree?"
The voice drifted from the darkness to his left. It was melodic and warm, entirely at odds with the chilly mist.
Narbok spun, his hand dropping to the bone-hilt of his dagger.
A figure peeled itself away from the shadowed wall of the neighboring manor and approached. The man leaned back against the Blackbriar estate, one boot propped up against the wood, checking his fingernails with the casual air of a guest waiting for dinner to be served. He wore a tailored vest and dark trousers that were unblemished by the grime of the alley.
Narbok looked over the man. Unblemished skin, soft hands, and a vest that cost more than a soldier's yearly wage. He reached out with his [Spiritual Perception], brushing against the stranger's aura. It felt thin, almost frail. The crimson of a martial path appeared as a washed-out shade, lacking any real heat. A gentle flutter resonated from the core, the mark of a low F-tier who had barely Awakened.
Weak. Pathetic. The assessment confirmed his first impression. A dandy. Some village merchant lost in the enclave, or perhaps a noble looking for illicit goods who had taken a wrong turn.
Narbok straightened, his chest puffing out. He might have lost to the kitchen boy, but he was still a Mycari in the heart of his people's territory, still a predator compared to this soft-skinned man.
"You're lost, human." Narbok sneered, stepping away from the door to face the stranger. "This is a private enclave. Turn around and walk away before I decide to take that vest as a tribute."
The stranger ignored the threat, his attention fixed entirely on his fingernails. After a long moment he finally looked up, offering a polite smile that radiated absolute calm rather than fear.
"A tribute." The man mused, testing the word on his tongue. "An interesting concept, though given the rather final sound of that deadbolt behind you, I'd say you're in a poor position to be making demands. You look like refuse left on the curb for collection."
Heat crept up Narbok's neck. "I am Narbok Blackbriar. I am a descendant of the Mistblood. And you are about to bleed."
Narbok drew his dagger, the bone blade hissing against the sheath. He expected the dandy to flinch, to backpedal. Instead, the stranger simply pushed himself off the wall, striding forward with a grace that set alarm bells ringing in the back of Narbok's mind.
"Mistblood." The stranger's voice was soft. "A lovely name. Historic. Though I suppose history doesn't help much when a Duskborn half-elf breaks your toys, does it?"
Narbok snarled and lunged. It was a simple thrust, meant to terrify rather than kill, aiming for the man's shoulder.
The stranger moved faster than Narbok's eyes could track him.
One moment he was standing there, and the next he simply occupied a space where the knife wasn't.
Narbok stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him off balance. Before he could recover, a hand settled on his shoulder—immovable, like an iron shackle clamping down.
"Careful now." An amused tone whispered in his ear. "We wouldn't want you to trip. You've done enough falling for one day."
Narbok tried to twist away, to slash backward with the dagger. The hand on his shoulder tightened. A thumb dug into the soft junction of his neck and collarbone, finding a nerve cluster.
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Pain exploded behind Narbok's eyes.
Sensation fled his arm, and the bone dagger clattered to the wet cobblestones. His knees gave way, sending the world tilting sideways as he collapsed.
Narbok gasped, his vision swimming. "Who... who are you?"
The stranger leaned in. He smelled of lemon and juniper. His eyes were close now—pale discs that absorbed the moonlight, devoid of any emotion.
"Just a concerned party." The man whispered. "A consultant, let's say. I specialize in structural damage."
The stranger loosened the pressure on the nerve cluster, allowing Narbok to stand, before immediately towing him down the street like a recalcitrant child.
"Get your hands off me!" Narbok dug his heels into the cobblestones. "My father will—"
"—continue to stare at the back of his door." The outsider finished cheerfully. "He's decided you're a liability, and liabilities, my young friend, are usually discarded. We, however, see an asset."
Narbok stumbled as he was dragged out of the enclave, overpowered by the deceptive strength in the man's slim frame. Whenever he tried to resist, a quick grind of thumb against neck reduced his rebellion to a twitching grimace.
A jaunty folk tune began whistling through the night air. It was a happy sound, terrifying in its disconnect from the violence of his treatment.
"Where are you taking me?" Narbok's voice came out smaller than he wanted.
"To see a man about a job." The stranger whistled another bar of the song. "A man who believes that the Reaping Tournament was an… anomaly, let's call it."
"I don't want a job."
"Everyone needs a trade, Narbok. Currently, yours seems to be 'public disappointment.' We're offering a career change."
They emerged from the enclave's narrow lane onto a main thoroughfare. After a while, they approached a building that stood as a monument to commerce, its pale stonework and smooth ash wood a rebuke to the village's grime. Light spilled from its large, spotless windows, illuminating neat displays of potions within. A polished copper sign above the door seemed to gather what little moonlight there was, holding it in a soft gleam.
The Verdant Phial.
Narbok's steps faltered. He stopped fighting the grip, staring at the sign.
"Zarven Mault?" Narbok whispered. Mault owned half the town. He was the reason the enclave's costs kept rising.
The stranger didn't stop. He marched Narbok toward the door. "Mr. Mault is a man of significant schedule, but for you—for the protagonist who was cheated out of his glory—he cleared his calendar."
Narbok looked at the man holding him.
"You're his dog." Narbok's throat went dry as the rumors met reality. "You're the one they talk about in the taverns."
Cillian Drekcil smiled, and for the first time, it looked genuine. It was the expression of a prowler that had successfully cornered a deer.
"I prefer 'his Associate.'"
Cillian stopped them in front of the store. A figure opened the shop door and stepped through. Checking a silver pocket watch, the man snapped the lid shut with a click before smoothing the front of his pristine charcoal-gray coat.
"Ah." His voice was smooth and cultured. "Mr. Drekcil and young Master Blackbriar. On schedule to the minute. Excellent."
Cillian released his grip, sending Narbok stumbling forward while rubbing his bruised shoulder. He looked between the two men—the smiling wolf and the immaculate accountant.
"I didn't agree to this." Narbok backed up a step, his pride warring with his fear. "I'm leaving."
The man in the coat didn't move to stop him. He simply clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head as if evaluating a column of figures that didn't quite add up.
"You could," he said, his tone mild. "You could return to the enclave. You could explain to your father why the Blackbriar name has lost a large share of its social value in a single afternoon. Perhaps if you are diligent, you might earn back a fraction of his respect over the next decade."
The words hurt Narbok more than Cillian's rough handling.
The man stepped closer. "My name is Loric Thane," he said, his voice dropping slightly, as if sharing a valuable piece of data. "And we are here to offer an alternative."
Loric took another step. "You should come inside and speak with men who understand that the tournament's result was not a failure of skill, but a failure of market regulation."
Narbok's jaw worked. "He humiliated me."
"He devalued you. He took a premium legacy—your birthright—and allowed a common laborer to tarnish it. It is inefficient when the hierarchy is disrupted by statistical anomalies, but anomalies can be corrected with the right capital."
Cillian leaned against the doorframe, picking his teeth with a small knife. "Daddy locked you out, kid. That's cold. But in there? It's warm. And we have opportunities you'll want to hear."
Narbok looked back toward the enclave. He imagined his father sitting in the dark, the silence of the house judging him. He imagined the whispers of the neighbors, the plummeting value of his own reputation.
Then he looked at Loric, who was offering him a chance.
"What kind of corrections?"
Loric gestured to the door. "The kind that ensure the next transaction ends in your favor."
Narbok stepped forward, and Loric opened the door. They led him through the main shop, a cathedral of commerce that smelled of cinnamon and antiseptic. The shelves were lined with potions that glowed with inner light, each one worth more than Narbok's monthly stipend. They bypassed the counter and ascended a narrow, winding staircase at the back.
The air grew stiller as they climbed. The sounds of the street and shop faded away, replaced by the rhythmic ticking of a clock.
They reached a door of polished wood. Loric knocked once, then opened it without waiting for a reply.
"After you."
Narbok stepped inside.
The office was oppressive in its size, lined with books and ledgers, lit by the steady white glow of rune lights. The carpet was thick enough to swallow the sound of their boots. Behind a desk large enough to serve a banquet on, a man sat working.
Zarven Mault did not look up.
Thinner than Narbok expected, Mault possessed a narrow, ascetic face and hair slicked back from a high forehead. Robes of severe black, unadorned by jewelry or sigils, draped his frame. His hand moved across a ledger, the stylus scratching out a rhythmic tempo.
Narbok stood in the center of the room, flanked by Cillian and Loric. The phantom pain in his leg throbbed, a dull bass line to the stillness.
On the corner of the desk, bathed in the light of a dedicated lamp, sat a glass container.
Clear, viscous fluid filled the preservation jar. A bulbous organ the size of a man's fist floated in the suspension, its surface gleaming with a pearlescent sheen. Ugly veins crisscrossed the tissue. Even through the glass, it seemed to radiate a nauseating aura of crimson and black.
Narbok stared at it. A primal shiver of recognition ran through him. It was a monster part. A trophy.
The matriarch. The feral goblin matriarch.
The rumors flashed through his mind. This was it. This was the proof of Thalorin's rise, sitting on Zarven Mault's desk like a paperweight.
The door behind Narbok clicked shut.
"Mr. Mault." Loric's voice was respectful. "Our guest has arrived."
Zarven continued to write. The quill scratched.
Narbok's palms dampened. He looked at Cillian, but the enforcer was just leaning against the wall, grinning that predatory grin.
Loric stepped forward, placing a hand on the back of a chair opposite the desk. "It's frustrating, isn't it Narbok, to see resources mis-allocated, to watch a system fail to protect its most valuable assets?"
Narbok swallowed. "I don't know what you want from me."
"We want to facilitate a merger of interests." Loric's tone was patient, as if explaining a contract to a junior clerk. "We understand that you are a victim of an unfortunate situation, and believe that with the proper backing, the balance can be corrected. We'd like to offer you a position, Narbok. A chance to be effective."
The scratching of the stylus ceased.
Zarven placed the quill in its holder and deliberately closed the ledger.
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
Finally, the merchant looked up.
His eyes were dark, devoid of kindness or empathy. They were the eyes of a man who looked at the world and saw only columns of profit and loss. He judged Narbok in a way that made his knees tremble.
He reached out and flicked the glass jar. Thunk.
The sound made Narbok flinch.
Zarven ignored Loric and Cillian entirely. He leaned forward, eyes locking onto Narbok with such intensity it felt as if he was being weighed on the scales of fate.
"So… tell me about this kitchen boy."
The Sovereign's Toll! I hope you've enjoyed Caleb/Cal's adventures thus far, and I look forward to sharing more of them with you when Book 2 starts posting on February 9, 2026. If you're impatient to get started the first 20 chapters are available on my Patreon (will advance to 22 chapters ahead by the end of the first week back). <3
Who was your favorite side character of Book 1? (Choose 3)
