Spring, year 565 of the Varakarian Cycle

  After donning his new outfit and eating a heavy breakfast, he headed out to the stables, where he assumed the caravan was being prepared. It was a beautiful day, with a blue sky and small, soft, fluffy clouds. A soft salty breeze ruffled his hair and he could just barely make out the sound of waves breaking on the rocks some forty yards beneath the cliff. There were ten guards in chainmail coats, armed with broadswords and spears, and two dozen horses had been prepared. The mounts were sturdy and nothing like the elegant horses favored by the local lords when traveling the lands controlled by the Lord of Sitch Nar and the neighboring minor lords. Lords were responsible for stability and safety in the countryside though, according to his father, it was a responsibility they neglected. He claimed that if the lords had taken their responsibilities seriously, there would have been no need for guards. The mountains to the north had their share of dark folk and it was not of unheard that a tribe would send raiders to pillage. Rumors of bandits also flourished in Sitch Nar, but they seemed a lesser problem than the dark folk who reputedly not only robbed the gentry but also ate them.

  Akgun was talking to the caravanner and waved Kharg over as he approached.

  “This is Halfur, who has made this trip almost a dozen summers in a row so he knows it by heart. Halfur, this is my son Kharg.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.” The man gave Kharg a faint bow. At first glance, he looked rather old, with gray-white hair, a beard, and a face wrinkled with dark, leathery skin. But his ice-blue eyes held the vitality of a younger man and his movements belied no traces of weakness. Like the guards, he wore a coat of chainmail and had a broadsword that looked worn from use.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Kharg replied with a level voice that betrayed nothing of the fact that he only wanted to return to the Academy.

  “I was told that you have studied battle-magic and even mastered fireballs.”

  “Mastered is an exaggeration, I am nowhere near mastery of it.”

  “How accurate are you? Out of ten tries, how many times could you center a fireball on a human-sized target at twenty-five paces?”

  “Ten.”

  He raised an eyebrow, then smiled faintly. “Ten. And you say you’ve barely touched mastery. Gods help the rest of us.”

  “The mastery lies in how large and strong one can make it and I have barely touched on that kind of mastery.”

  Halfur shook his head, still grinning. “Precision is far more important for us. The usual tactic of the dark folk is to charge in a group from the flank. If we have a mage who can drop a fireball at the center of the pack every time, leaving only a few survivors, the battle is won before it even begins. And if the guards can form a line while you throw fireballs past them without risk of hitting them… well, with you, lad, we could defeat a full warband of three dozen or more.”

  Caught by surprise at the conviction in his voice, Kharg didn’t know how to respond. Hearing the experienced caravan leader speak so casually about being attacked by dark folk suddenly put this journey into a perspective he had never considered. He had never dwelled on the practical application of the battle-magic skills he had spent so many hours on.

  “Ain’t very likely that we shall encounter any dark folk. The caravan has only been attacked twice by dark folk and once we had a group of bandits in the Black Hills that tried to demand a toll. None of those times we faced more than a dozen though. So, you need not fear the trip sir.” Halfur hastened to reassure Kharg when he did not reply. “Would you mind demonstrating the Fireball?”

  “I would be happy to do so.” Kharg replied with a wide grin after having received a benevolent nod from his father. “Perhaps I could direct it upward to avoid causing any harm to the garden.” He grasped the pommel of his dagger and concentrated briefly before he began the incantation as his voice picked up in volume and it sounded as if he became angry and almost growled the words. Fireball was one of the higher spells and even if he would have been supremely skilled in it, the ambient magic would not have been enough to power it, his own mana was needed. As it stood now, he needed to draw deep on his own mana, which he filtered through the amber that served as a pommel in his dagger. Without the stone as a buffer, the draw from the spell would increase the mana requirements dramatically and even exhaust him physically.

  The sense of the magic flowing through him was always accompanied by a thrill that bordered on ecstasy. Heat shimmered from his fingertips as fiery strands spun into existence, writhing like serpents of living flame. With practiced precision, Kharg layered the fire upon itself, folding it tighter and tighter until the roiling mass condensed into a blazing sphere that pulsed with searing energy. He snapped his wrist in a final, sharp motion. The fireball leapt from his hand, streaking away some ten or fifteen yards diagonally into the air before bursting apart in a deafening roar. The sky bloomed with a violent inferno, tongues of flame whipping outward in chaotic streams as if the fire itself fought to escape its brief confinement. The fiery explosion spanned more than five yards, far larger than anyone had expected.

  The shockwave of heat rolled over them in a scorching gust. Akgun and Halfur both staggered back, surprised by the inferno that had erupted so close to them. Even the horses at the far end of the yard, more than fifty paces away, whinnied and shifted uneasily, their ears pinned and hooves scraping against the ground.

  Halfur gave a low whistle as the last sparks faded. “If that’s what you call not mastery,” he said with a crooked grin, “I’d hate to see what happens when you finally think you’ve got it right.”

  Akgun, still brushing ash from his sleeve, muttered, “We’ll need a new gardener.”

  Kharg only gave a sheepish shrug, as though nothing unusual had happened.

  “Have a nice trip, my son. This experience will make you grow.” Akgun said and pulled him into a rare embrace. “Remember, the Northmen see no value in bargaining and see such attempts as insults. They sell only their finest goods and using the normal haggling methods with them would impinge on their honor. What they do respect is strength and a man who has a firm handshake while he meets their eyes.” Kharg had heard this dozens of times already but nodded anyway. The Silverwolf House was the only trading house that had been accepted by the northmen and they could not jeopardize this standing. Thus, the tradition of always sending at least one from the bloodline of Dargaard, his great-grandfather, on each caravan north. His older brothers had already been there several times each.

  They got ready in short order, with Halfur and Kharg at the front, flanked by four guards. Kharg’s horse, a shaggy brown mare, gave him a disdainful look as he approached but soon accepted him when he proved his aptitude as a rider. All the mounts looked fairly sturdy to Kharg, but he did not have a very good eye for horseflesh. The grooms at the mansion had been responsible for all handling of the mounts so he had little experience in that area.

  Behind them came the pack horses and the rest of the guards made up the rear. With their mansion on the cliffs north of the city there was no need for them to ride through it. Instead, they headed straight for the Great Northern Road, as it was called. Though Kharg could not see anything especially great with it. As it was still fairly early in the day, they met several carts driven by farmers bringing goods to the city, but the paved road was broad enough for them to pass with room to spare. He hadn’t been in the saddle since joining the Academy, and by noon, he already felt the aches of riding. Luckily, his leather pants had no creases to rub his thighs sore, but his muscles were no longer used to riding. He considered himself to be a fair rider and as they rode in a caravan the horses tended to follow the one ahead. But even so, he had to struggle a little with the stubborn mare as it tried to overtake Halfur’s horse from time to time. To top it all off, the mare was a bit skittish. Every now and then, she twitched at unexpected sights—like a rabbit bursting forth or a bird screeching in annoyance as they passed too close to it.

  The first few hours passed quickly as he tried to recall his old riding lessons. And, if he was completely honest, he felt a thrill at the sense of adventure. He had visited some of the neighboring villages a few times and traveled to both Or?l and Kvatch Nar with one of the family galleons. But this had a completely different feel to it. However, after a quick, meager lunch of some bread and cheese with slices of salted pork they were back in the saddles again and the sense of adventure was being replaced by boredom. He slipped a spearmint leaf into his mouth, chewing absently as he watched the road stretch on.

  His mind began to drift and think of magic again. He could sense the ambient magic around them, and drew upon it as he slowly wove threads of Elemental Air with a whispering hiss that was barely audible to the others. In the palm of his left hand a fist-sized wolf appeared, seemingly made of something that resembled clear water yet had no traces of moisture to it. The power required for the spell was minimal and failed to awaken the passion in his blood that surged when he wrought more powerful magic. But it was thrilling nevertheless. At the academy, they had not been allowed to wield magic without the supervision of more experienced mages, but here, he had no such restrictions. He tried to shape more details into the wolf, such as ragged fur but all he managed were some ripples on the surface. He tried again, but to no avail.

  “Keep your position in the line.” Halfur barked suddenly and broke his concentration. With a start he looked around and realized that his horse had stopped and that he was more than a dozen paces behind Halfur. With an embarrassed smile, Kharg muttered an apology and nudged his horse into a quick trot to catch up.

  After a little while he tried again, this time splitting his focus. As he uttered the words that shaped the spell he pulled once again at the ambient magic and felt it rushing to comply. A glance down at the wolf he had attempted to form revealed a four-legged animal that could have been anything from a cat to a hound. Annoyed, he released the weave and the figure dissipated. After what felt like a hundred attempts later, he had made no great progress and decided to try something else. With a voice that quivered as if unable to hold a tone, he began pulling water toward him. Again, the ambient magic was more than enough to power the spell so he had no need to tap into his own mana.

  “What are you saying?” Halfur’s brusque voice broke his concentration just as the first faint traces of fog began to form next to his hand.

  “Nothing really, just experimenting with a spell.” Kharg replied and tried to keep the annoyance from his voice.

  “As long as your magic does not pose any risk to us, I am fine with it. But you need to talk to me about what you are going to do, before you do it. Otherwise, we will have unpleasant surprises.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What you did just now, it seems like smoke or fog. It’s making several of the guards uneasy. Normal folk rarely see magic wielded, and you've been doing it since noon. This latest one sounded ominous, and we have no way of guessing what it will do.”

  “You may have a point.” Kharg admitted. “I had not thought about it like that.”

  “Let us make a compromise here. Talk to me before you try something and I will tell you if it is acceptable or not. That is far better than me just ordering you to stop altogether, which is within my rights as master of the caravan.”

  Something in his voice told Kharg that he had gone too far so he nodded and went back to working with the first spell again after confirming it with Halfur.

  By evening, they reached N?m, a decently large village that had an inn where they set up for the night. The place was respectable enough, with sturdy wooden beams and the scent of fresh bread drifting from the kitchen. Yet, despite its outward charm, to him the bed was a battlefield, and Kharg awoke to find his arms and neck peppered with red, swollen bites. Fleas, burrowed deep into the straw-stuffed mattress, had feasted on him throughout the night, leaving his skin inflamed and itching incessantly. Scratching only made it worse, but the sensation was unbearable. He ran his fingers over the welts, muttering a half-hearted curse under his breath. The academy had been entirely void of such vermin, its dormitories pristine, and back at home, the family mansion had been kept immaculate by an army of silent, efficient servants. Even the stables had been maintained with care, far better than the so-called ‘best room’ of this village inn.

  Adding to his misery, his feet burned from the day’s ride. The boots, fine quality but not yet broken in, had rubbed mercilessly against his heels with the stiff leather cutting into his skin. Each step sent a dull sting through the raw patches where the skin had been chafed away. He had never spent so many hours in the saddle before, and his fingers ached from gripping the reins too tightly, the leather having worn away at his palms. The road had been long, dust kicking up into his face with every gust of wind, his coat offering little protection against the gritty air that dried his throat and stung his eyes.

  With a sigh, he ran a hand through his unruly, dust-matted hair, wincing at the knots forming near his scalp. It had taken only a single day for the journey to strip away the comforts he had taken for granted. And this was just the beginning.

  * * *

  The next day saw them reaching the Black Hills, a barren stretch of land where the wind howled ceaselessly. Rumors claimed that it had once been a fertile pastoral landscape, but a battle between ancient mages had reduced it to ashen earth and jagged, lifeless terrain. Whatever the truth, it was clear that no farmer had tilled this soil in centuries. The few shrubberies and patches of grass they encountered were sparse, clinging to the ground like unwelcome guests. By noon, the sky darkened, and the first cold drops of rain began to fall. Within moments, the wind drove it sideways, soaking through their cloaks and turning the dirt road into a sucking mire. The grumbling in the caravan grew, riders hunching over their saddles as the cold seeped into their bones. Kharg scowled as the chill crept down the back of his neck, his damp coat sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

  Then he remembered. He told Halfur about the spell he intended to cast, as they had agreed, and then began to concentrate on the threads of air around him. He was still not used to working his magic outside the strictures imposed by the academy, but he had learned one spell that could turn this miserable ride into something bearable. It was primarily a spell of minor protection against harm, but he could see how it could be used for something more. With a deft motion, he wove a softly glistening shell of air around himself, a barrier that moved with him and shielded him like invisible armor. The rain splattered against it, only to roll harmlessly away. It took some trial and error to adjust the field around his legs while he was mounted but eventually he got it right. A slow, satisfied smirk crept across his face as he watched the raindrops bounce off, while the others in the caravan grew steadily more drenched. His fingers flexed against the dry leather of his reins, a stark contrast to Halfur's soaked gloves.

  “Useful trick,” the caravan leader admitted, shaking water from his mustache.

  When they made camp that evening, an idea struck Kharg. He had been taught how to summon walls of air to halt arrows, a battlefield tactic meant to protect soldiers in formation. But who said it had to be used only for war? After having explained to Halfur, he paused a moment to center himself before he wove his spell. Stretching his hands toward the sky, he reached for the ambient magic, feeling its presence, then shaped it into a curved wall of air. Instead of forming a barrier along the ground, he bent it into a wide arch over the camp, forming a thirteen-yard-long and three-yard-wide strip that blocked the falling rain. Repeating the spell twice more, he placed the arches side by side, shielding the entire camp from the storm. The only drawback was the duration, each spell lasted only five minutes before it would fade. But now that he had the form in his mind, it took only moments to recast, and even better, he could tap into the surrounding magic instead of his own reserves. It cost him nothing.

  He had never thought much about the passing of time before he came to the academy. The deep gongs from the city had been enough to mark the hours, and folk spoke of “half-an-hour” or “a quarter past” as if those rough measures were all anyone could ever need. But magic demanded more precision. Since beginning his studies at the Academy, he had come to see timekeeping in a wholly different light. Spell durations were carefully defined, though they stretched longer as one grew more proficient, and a mage who failed to track them properly could end up with a shield vanishing in the middle of a duel. So the apprentices were taught small tricks. Rhymes to chant under their breath, one that, when spoken five times, marked a single minute, and another, slower one that stretched to half a minute per verse. Others used beads, shifting them from one hand to the other with each recitation, or measured by their own breathing. Kharg had found himself favoring the rhymes. Their steady cadence had a way of sinking into him, aligning his thoughts to the subtle tick of time itself. Now, as he wove the last threads of the spell, he knew without doubt how long it would last. Five minutes, no more, and the old rhyme stirred unbidden in the back of his mind, ready to be called upon if he needed it.

  The grateful nods from the guards felt almost as good as the dryness of his clothes. The suspicion of magic that had lingered since their departure visibly began to thaw. And when one of the soaked guards struggled to light the campfire with damp wood, Kharg stepped forward, flicked his fingers, and sent a small burst of flame crackling into the kindling. The fire roared to life, and the men around it sighed in relief as warmth spread through the camp. From that point on, the grumbling quieted.

  But when the food was finally passed around, Kharg’s expectations plummeted. One of the guards offered him a hunk of coarse brown bread, a leathery strip of salted pork, and a wedge of hard cheese that crumbled more like chalk than curd. Everything had been chosen for practicality, with supplies that were dense, long-lasting, and completely unremarkable. A tin cup of tea followed, steaming faintly in the firelight, its flavor barely more than bitter heat. Kharg chewed slowly, suppressing a grimace. The pork was too tough, the bread tasted faintly of dust, and the cheese was so salty it made his eyes sting. He sat quietly, warming his hands against the tin, wondering how long his stomach could endure this kind of nourishment. Back in Sitch Nar, dinner had been a course-by-course affair, with sauces, herbs, and choices. Here, it was fuel. Necessary and joyless. The guards, however, devoured it with contentment, their laughter already returning as the firelight danced across their faces. Kharg took another bite, uncomfortably reminded that in this place, comfort was earned rather than expected.

  That first night under the open sky, Kharg quickly learned that magic could only do so much to ease the misery of travel. His arches of air shielded the camp, allowing the men to set up their tents and eat their evening meal without the downpour soaking everything. Though still uneasy about his sorcery, the guards appreciated the warmth of the fire and the food, uncommon blessings in the wilderness. But the spells required constant refreshing every so often, and by the time the last embers of the fire dimmed, exhaustion crept into Kharg’s bones. His magic was not infinite, and the prospect of staying up all night just to keep the rain at bay was unthinkable. With a final glance at the dark clouds rolling overhead, he retreated into his tent, a borrowed canvas shelter damp with moisture from the air.

  The rain began to drum against the fabric the moment he lay down, leaking in through small gaps where the material sagged. Water pooled at the edges, soaking his already damp boots. The cold crept in soon after, settling into his sore limbs like an unwelcome companion. The ground, unforgiving despite the thickness of his bedroll, pressed into his shoulders and hips. No amount of shifting could find a comfortable position.

  It was a long, restless night, but thankfully the rain stopped by sunrise.

  By morning, his back ached, his clothes were clammy, and his fingers were stiff from gripping the damp fabric of his blanket in an attempt to stay warm. His boots, still wet, rubbed raw against his heels as he forced them back on. The small discomforts that had seemed trivial in the academy or his family’s home were now constant, gnawing at him. Still bleary-eyed, Kharg reached for his pouch and tucked a spearmint leaf under his tongue. The sharp flavor woke him faster than the weak tea ever could.

  The farther they rode into the Black Hills, the more the land seemed to hollow out. Kharg squinted into the wind, his scarf doing little to keep the dust from his mouth. Each gust brought a bitter sting, sharp against his cheeks, and the cold slipped through seams in his clothing no matter how tightly he wrapped himself. The ground beneath the horses shifted constantly. Loose stones clattered underfoot, sending jolts through the saddle with every awkward step. One of the mounts nearly lost its footing on a sloped rise of shale, and the rider muttered a curse.

  Kharg glanced around, trying to focus on anything but the ache in his legs. The hills rolled around them in layers of gray and ochre, cracked open by old wounds that had never healed. The soil was a dull, ashen gray, cracked and dry, as though it had been scorched and forgotten. Twisted husks of trees rose like bones, their trunks blackened and gnarled. Many leaned at impossible angles, as though half-melted and then crystallized. Brittle shrubs, their leaves a pale, sickly yellow, provided the only evidence that life could endure in such desolation. No birdsong broke the silence, and no creatures stirred among the empty branches.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The road, if it could even be called that, was uneven and treacherous. Loose stones and broken earth made the horses uneasy, their hooves kicking up small clouds of dust that hung in the stagnant air. Riding through it was exhausting, every jolt in the saddle sent a fresh ache through Kharg’s already stiff muscles. He shifted in his seat often, but it was impossible to find comfort. His chafed hands, sore from gripping the reins, stung every time he adjusted his grip. The constant swaying and bouncing left his thighs aching from strain. It was a hostile, unyielding landscape, and yet, strangely beautiful in its ruin. The hills rolled in sharp ridges, their dark slopes giving way to occasional craggy outcrops, where winds had carved strange, hollowed formations into the stone. When the light hit just right, some of these weathered scars glowed faintly, as though a remnant of forgotten power still lingered beneath the surface.

  By the second day, the guards had stopped paying much attention to his spell practice.

  At first, they had watched him with thinly veiled unease whenever he lifted a hand to weave the air. But as the days stretched on and nothing disastrous came of it, they relaxed. He no longer needed to ask permission before conjuring small dart-like spikes of air, though Halfur still expected him to give a warning before trying anything new. Kharg took full advantage of this growing acceptance. As they rode, Kharg honed his precision, summoning razor-sharp air darts that flickered invisibly through the still air. Each one struck with pinpoint accuracy, severing dried grass stalks, shaving splinters from cracked stones, or slicing cleanly through twisted shrubs along the path.

  One of the guards, a grizzled man named Oren, watched him with growing curiosity. “Not bad,” he muttered one evening as they made camp. “Could be useful if you learn to do that a little bigger.”

  Kharg glanced at him briefly, then raised an eyebrow. Without a word, he slipped his left hand into view, the Alexandrite ring catching the firelight. As he drew on its power, a deep shudder of pleasure ran through him, an involuntary sound escaping his throat as the mana coursed through his body like liquid fire. The next moment, he swept his right hand downward in a swift chopping motion. A shimmering blade of compressed air erupted into being, scything cleanly through a branch as thick as a man’s arm. The severed wood thudded to the ground, the cut surface smooth as polished stone. Kharg gave the branch a fleeting glance, then calmly returned to his usual target practice, sending more darts into the night air as if nothing remarkable had happened.

  The guards next to him stared in awed silence.

  Oren finally spoke. “He said he wasn’t strong in magic, right?”

  Another guard let out a disbelieving snort. “Aye. And I once saw a Guild-certified mage do that same trick. Took him three tries… and the branch was no thicker than a spear shaft.”

  A third guard shook his head slowly. “If this is him not strong, I’d hate to meet the one who is.”

  Kharg, still focused on his next dart, muttered absently, “I’m really not that good at this yet.”

  The three guards exchanged a long look.

  “Gods help us all,” Oren muttered.

  The days passed slowly, each one blending into the next. The road was long, the nights were cold, and the wear of travel settled deep into his bones. His clothes were stiff with dust, his skin dry from wind and sun, and the constant aching in his muscles had long since become a dull, ever-present thing. Even the rations were difficult to stomach. The cheese was like salted stone, the bread either crumbled apart or refused to yield, and the meat was so dry it mocked the idea of nourishment.

  The shift from the Black Hills into the plains came slowly. For three more days, they pressed on through the blasted landscape. Scarred earth and shattered ridges stretched before them without end. The trail twisted through gullies and stony rises, still flanked at intervals by the skeletal remains of trees, their warped shapes leaning like tired watchers over the path. These grim sentinels thinned gradually, losing their grip on the land as the hills began to fall away behind them.

  Only on the fourth morning did the horizon truly begin to stretch open. The oppressive gray of the hills gave way to gentler slopes and rolling fields. The air lightened too, no longer thick with grit, and the wind no longer stung quite so sharply. To the east, rocky outcrops rose like ancient spires. A narrow ridge extended south from the Stormspire Ridges, its jagged form cutting sharply against the open landscape ahead. The rocky finger became more prominent as they rode. What had started as scattered bluffs turned into a ridgeline, low at first, but growing steeper and darker with each passing hour. By midday, it loomed beside them—sheer cliffs rising several hundred yards, their faces scored with dark veins and mineral streaks. The formations were jagged and strange, not the kind shaped by gentle erosion but torn into shape, as if the earth had been forced apart and left to harden that way.

  To the west, the land told a different story.

  The soil turned darker and soft underfoot. Fields of grain stretched out beneath the sky, bending gently in the wind. The brittle shrubs were gone, replaced by pastureland and fences. Small farms started to appear along the roadside. First came a lone cottage, then another, each displaying a weathered roof or a garden plot. Smoke curled from chimneys, a few cows grazed near a low wall, and the road improved with the land as it widened and smoothed, showing fewer ruts and loose stones, with milestones standing here and there by the roadside. At one bend, a merchant wagon passed them heading east, the driver nodding in greeting.

  They spent two days crossing these plains, the journey at least felt easier than before, though by now Kharg’s aches and discomforts had become an unshakable part of existence. His clothes were stiff with grime, his boots worn from constant riding, and the itch of his unshaven chin had grown into a persistent irritation.

  But nothing could have prepared him for Isam.

  The town sat at the base of the Stormspire Ridges, wedged between steep slopes. Even from a mile away, the thick haze of smog was visible. It hung like a dull, grayish-black stain over the rooftops. He could see a narrow trail that led north, winding into the mountains toward the deeper mining outposts, but that was not their destination. The air changed as they drew closer, turning heavy and acrid. The moment they entered, the stench hit him like a hammer. The scent of burning coal and wood clung to everything, thick and unrelenting, mingling with the stench of unwashed bodies, animal waste, and rancid beer. It was so different from Sitch Nar. There, the sea breeze carried away the worst of the smells, and the city council paid street sweepers to keep the roads clean.

  Here the filth seeped into the stones, clung to boots, and refused to be ignored. The streets were caked in mud, a viscous mix of dirt, soot, and whatever waste had been tossed into the alleys. The buildings themselves were functional but uninspired, built more for necessity than aesthetics. The blackened rooftops of miners lodges and coal warehouses loomed over the narrow, congested streets, their windows fogged with smoke residue. The few markets and taverns visible through the gloom were cramped and dimly lit, their doorways framed by soot-streaked wood.

  Kharg pulled his coat closer, but it did little to block out the filth that seemed to settle into his very skin. If he had thought the Black Hills were unpleasant, Isam had just redefined misery.

  The caravan pushed deeper into the town, their horses splashing through the thick, blackened mud that coated the streets. Every step sent ripples of filth outward, the stagnant pools reeking of damp rot and waste. The sound of hammers striking metal rang out from distant forges, and rough voices shouted over the din of work and trade.

  Halfur led them toward an inn near the central marketplace, a low, soot-streaked building with a sagging roof and a weathered wooden sign that swayed on rusted chains. The name, barely legible through the grime, read The Broken Anvil, a fitting name for a place in a mining town. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the stale stench of spilled ale. The common room was crowded with rough-looking miners, their faces blackened with coal dust, their clothes grimy and worn. A few turned to look at the newcomers, their gazes hard and unreadable, but most went back to their drinks, too tired or too drunk to care.

  Halfur spoke quickly with the innkeeper, a bald man with a pockmarked face who barely spared them a glance as he wiped the rim of a chipped mug with a dirtier rag.

  “We’ll take a few large rooms for the night,” Halfur said. “Somewhere to store the goods and keep the men dry.”

  The innkeeper grunted. “Payment up front.”

  Halfur handed over a pouch, and with a quick nod, the man jerked a thumb toward the back of the building. “Stables are in the yard,” he muttered. “Rooms are up the stairs. You’ll be wantin’ the ones at the end. Less lice that way.”

  Kharg doubted that was true.

  They led the horses to the stables, where a thin stable boy with straw- colored hair and a missing tooth met them. He shuffled forward, hands outstretched for coin. Halfur tossed him a few copper bits.

  “Keep ‘em fed and watered,” Halfur ordered, “and don’t let ‘em get filched.”

  The boy gave a brisk nod, stuffing the coins into his pocket before vanishing into the shadows of the stable.

  Once the horses were taken care of, the real work began. The caravan’s cargo had to be brought inside for safekeeping. There were no separate storage rooms, so they stacked everything in their rented space, clearing a patch of floor where they could unroll their bedrolls for the night. By the time they were done, Kharg’s arms ached, his fingers numb from gripping rough leather packs. The air inside the stifling, cramped room was thick with dust and the lingering scent of damp wool and mold. Kharg wrinkled his nose. The mixture of sweat, ale, and smoke clung to everything—walls, sheets, even his hair. He would have given anything for a clean shirt and a basin of water deep enough to wash properly. Instead, he felt like the city’s filth had crept under his very skin. Still, it was better than sleeping in the mud outside, perhaps.

  The common room of the inn was loud and restless, the sounds of clinking tankards and boisterous laughter echoing against the low, smoke-darkened ceiling. Miners and smelters crowded the long tables, swearing over dice games and drinking cheap ale like it was water. A few already slumped in their seats, heads lolling forward, their exhaustion catching up with them. Kharg and the others stuck to themselves, eating a meal of overcooked meat and stale bread at one of the side tables. The food was barely edible, the ale thin and bitter, but it was something warm in his stomach.

  A few drunken men eyed them from across the room, but no one made a move to start trouble. Even rough miners knew better than to pick a fight with a caravan crew that traveled armed.

  Halfur, ever watchful, gave a quiet warning as they finished their meal. “We keep to ourselves. No fights.”

  No one argued. They retired early, leaving the rowdy laughter and clatter of dice behind.

  By dawn, Kharg was more than ready to leave. The night had been uneventful, but the beds were crawling with fleas, and he had spent most of it scratching at bites and trying to ignore the damp stench of sweat and mildew. The snores of exhausted men echoed through the walls, and the straw in his lumpy bed scratched and prickled until he could hardly bear it, leaving him sleepless and miserable. When the first pale light of morning seeped through the grime-streaked windows, Kharg was already pulling on his boots, eager to put Isam behind him. But breakfast awaited, and if he had hoped for anything better than the night before, he was quickly disappointed. The porridge was lukewarm and gluey, the bread was dry and hard enough to chip a tooth, and the tea was so weak that it tasted more like warm water than anything else. Still, it was food, and he forced it down without complaint.

  When he had eaten, he pulled out a spearmint leaf and began to chew as he went outside to take a look. He found a town blanketed in heavy morning fog, the thick haze mixing with the ever-present smog, turning the air humid and chilling. The nearby buildings loomed like gray silhouettes, their edges blurred by the mist, while footsteps echoed eerily from unseen figures moving through the streets. The humid air clung to him and as he reached up and touched the cheek the hand came away with fingertips partly streaked with soot. He sighed inwardly as he realized the fog was mixed with smog which would quickly make their already dirty clothes also streaked with soot.

  The fog was in some ways a blessing, shrouding their departure and lowering the risk of watchful eyes following their movements. Still, it meant they had to remain wary, just in case someone tried to use the cover of the mist to follow them unnoticed. He went back inside to help pack the horses, and soon they were ready to depart. Before he knew it, he was back in the saddle, and they left Isam behind. But by all the known and unknown gods, the cold was miserable. It clung to his coat, crept beneath his collar, and sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

  Then, he remembered something.

  With a small gesture, he wove a thin layer of elemental protection, a spell meant to ward off minor chills. The effect was immediate as the damp no longer sank into his bones and the chill, though still present, lost its bite. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the quiet of the shrouded morning, the way the mist rolled across the streets and curled around the hooves of their horses like living tendrils.

  Or he would have, if not for the persistent rawness of his legs.

  Days in the saddle had left his inner thighs rubbed raw, the constant friction of riding turning every shift in his seat into an irritation. No spell could fix that without stopping, at least, so he gritted his teeth and bore it. With a final glance at The Broken Anvil and the soot-streaked streets, he guided his horse forward, following Halfur and the others as they made their way through the fog-covered town. As they passed through the last of Isam’s streets and emerged onto the open road beyond, Kharg took a deep breath, eager for air that wasn’t thick with soot and decay.

  Whatever lay ahead, it had to be better than this.

  By midday, the fog had finally broken, lifting to reveal a bleak but open landscape. The air was crisp and dry, a welcome contrast to the smog-choked streets of Isam, and the sun cast long shadows as it cut through the lingering damp.

  Halfur signaled for two of his men to split off from the group.

  “Hide in that grove,” he instructed, pointing toward a stand of scraggly trees just off the road. “Watch for anyone following us. If you see anything suspicious, find us by nightfall.”

  The two men gave brief acknowledgments before riding off, disappearing into the trees. The rest of the caravan pressed on, but there was an unspoken tension in the air, a subtle awareness that until those scouts returned, they couldn’t fully relax.

  By late afternoon, the scouts rejoined them, their expressions relieved.

  “No sign of anyone,” one of them reported.

  Halfur grunted his approval, and a subtle shift passed through the group. The men sat a little easier in their saddles, their conversations less wary. Whatever paranoia had gripped them since leaving Isam began to loosen its hold.

  For Kharg, however, discomfort remained a constant companion.

  The flea bites, small but persistent, itched relentlessly, no matter how much he tried not to scratch. Combined with the growing soreness in his thighs from days on horseback, it was a miserable existence. But he refused to complain. Instead, he kept busy, helping with small tasks—gathering firewood, checking straps on the pack animals, or preparing simple meals.

  That evening they made camp beside a narrow stream that trickled down from the mountain slopes. The water was clear and bitingly cold, fed by snowmelt higher up. It wasn't much, but it was the first chance they'd had to wash properly in days. Kharg knelt by the bank, wincing as he peeled off his boots. His socks were damp and stiff, and his shirt clung to him with a sour, greasy sheen. He wrinkled his nose. The smell was worse than he’d admitted even to himself—stale sweat, smoke, and dust ground into every seam. He hadn’t been clean since long before Isam, and the air out here, fresh and sharp, made the stench all the more obvious.

  Stripping down to his skin, he stepped into the shallows. The cold hit him like a slap, and he had to grit his teeth as he ducked into the current. For a long minute, he did nothing but breathe through the chill, then began scrubbing himself with a flat stone and a handful of coarse moss. Dirt ran off in dark swirls.

  Back at the bank, he toweled off with a rough cloth and dug into his pack. One clean set remained after this. Just one. He dressed quickly, relishing the feel of fresh linen against his skin even as he knew it wouldn’t last long. He paused as he fastened his belt and pulled out a spearmint leaf. The breeze had picked up, and the mountains stood quiet under a wide sky. For a moment, the world felt still and he experienced a rare sense of contentment. Clean and fresh, everything felt just a little easier.

  * * *

  They followed the mountain range westward for another week, the rocky peaks looming over them to the north, their jagged edges catching the light like the teeth of a great beast. The journey was slow and methodical, winding through narrow paths, avoiding open stretches where they might be seen. The days blurred together, each mile spent in the saddle grinding against Kharg’s sore legs, while the nights offered only brief respite.

  Though his body ached constantly, he found ways to make life just a little more bearable.

  Each evening, as they made camp, he wove a low, invisible wall of air around their resting area, cutting the worst of the wind. The nights could be brutally cold, and while the flames of their campfires helped, gale-force gusts often stole the warmth away. His air walls didn’t last forever, but it was enough to take the edge off, keeping the chill from cutting into them during the evening dinner. Water, too, was a constant necessity, and while they carried ample supplies, there were times when they needed more. Kharg had learned, in his studies, a spell to pull moisture from the air and condense it into liquid form. On more than one occasion, he sat by the fire, cupping his hands over an empty pot and drawing water into it, drop by drop, until it filled. It took a few minutes, but by the end he had a pot full of fresh, clean water. A small convenience, but one that spared them from worrying about finding a nearby stream.

  And then there was the matter of eating.

  For the first few days of the journey, Kharg had resigned himself to eating from the same tin plates and rough-cut wooden utensils as the rest of the men. They were scratched, dented, and often questionably clean, a far cry from the elegant silver and thin lacquered clay plates he was accustomed to back home. The idea of scraping dried stew from a tin bowl, or drinking from a cup that still carried the faint scent of someone else’s meal, had been a silent frustration.

  It wasn’t until halfway through the journey that he remembered something obvious. Why was he bothering with these crude utensils when he could simply make his own? That evening, as the others scraped their tin plates clean, Kharg quietly wove his fingers through the air, shaping something unseen. A moment later, a plate of solidified air materialized before him, translucent and weightless, yet firm. He did the same for a spoon, a fork, even a drinking vessel. No more cleaning, no more using questionable camp utensils. He saw a few of the guards glance his way, but no one said a word.

  Then a scout returned with a deer he had managed to shoot, and for the first time the camp buzzed with genuine cheer. The meat stewed over a low flame in a battered iron pot, filling the air with a rich aroma that stirred even the weariest of travelers. Tin bowls clattered as portions were handed out, and men laughed with greasy fingers while waiting their turn.

  Kharg accepted his share with polite thanks, but the first bite made his lips press into a thin line. The venison was stringy and overboiled, the broth thin and barely salted. Whatever herbs they had tossed in did little more than add bitterness. To call it bland would have been generous. The idea of seasoning, proper seasoning, seemed utterly foreign to these people. He ate slowly, forcing each spoonful down with a long sip of tea, already missing the delicate spices and tender roasts of home. By the time he finished, the others were laughing around the fire, their bowls scraped clean, bellies full, and mugs of tea or thin ale passing from hand to hand.

  It took less than a week before his magic became an accepted, if unspoken, part of their routine. No one flinched when he drew water into a pot or wove a windbreak around their camp. No one even commented when he ate from plates that flickered like glass, yet weighed nothing.

  Then, one afternoon, Halfur raised a hand and called for a halt.

  Kharg blinked at the surrounding terrain. It looked unremarkable, just another stretch of rock-strewn hillside where the land rose sharply to their right as the mountains pressed in. But there was something deliberate in the way Halfur studied the surroundings, as if checking familiar landmarks.

  “This is it,” the caravan leader muttered.

  Kharg had read descriptions of the location in his father’s journals. But now that he was here, he doubted he would have been able to find it on his own. It was well hidden, just another rugged outcrop along the base of the mountains, nothing to draw the eye. They dismounted and led their horses carefully up the steep, gravel-strewn mountainside, each step chosen cautiously to avoid slipping. When they reached a group of large, weather-worn boulders, Kharg spotted a narrow, shadowed crevice. A cave entrance lay hidden between the rocks. One of the scouts immediately turned back, erasing their tracks to conceal the route. Meanwhile, Halfur unpacked several oil lanterns, lighting them carefully. The flames flickered weakly, barely enough to illuminate their surroundings, casting long shadows that seemed to amplify rather than dispel the gloom.

  “This will be dark and narrow, it’s my least favorable part of the journey,” Halfur muttered, eyeing the darkness ahead. “But these lanterns will have to do.”

  They stepped cautiously into the cave, lanterns held high. The wavering glow proved inadequate, stubborn shadows pooling thickly in corners and recesses. Each footfall echoed softly as their boots scraped against the uneven, rocky floor. The horses snorted nervously, unsettled by the confined darkness and unpredictable footing, and Kharg found himself squinting, wishing they had better illumination.

  After about a hundred paces, the tunnel branched into two narrow paths. Halfur paused briefly, considering, before leading them down the northeastern route. “Stay close,” he warned, his voice low.

  Soon, they heard the soft murmur of running water, and the air turned cooler and damper. The path inclined gently downward, eventually reaching a shallow underground stream whose surface shimmered weakly under the lanterns' dim glow. The bank was just wide enough for them to navigate carefully alongside the water. The sound of their cautious footsteps mingled with the trickling of water, amplified by the stone walls. Kharg lost track of time as they trudged through the darkness but eventually, a thin sliver of natural daylight appeared ahead, offering welcome relief.

  The narrow passage opened into a dramatic chasm flanked by immense cliffs rising sharply to frame a distant streak of sky. The underground stream continued through this natural corridor, winding gently between mossy banks. Kharg paused, awestruck by the sheer scale of the cliffs. His father had mentioned tales of an ancient mage shaping this remarkable formation, yet now, witnessing its raw majesty, Kharg felt inclined to believe that only nature and countless centuries could have sculpted something so impressive.

  Halfur continued forward without hesitation, guiding the caravan along the stream's path. Taking a final lingering glance, Kharg moved on as well. Gradually, the towering cliffs gave way to softer slopes, opening onto a verdant mountain vale. Grass blanketed the hillsides, swaying gently, dotted here and there with mountain goats calmly grazing. Halfur halted the caravan momentarily, gesturing toward the goats with satisfaction.

  “We’ll rest here for a while. A fresh meal wouldn’t hurt.”

  Two of the men, seasoned hunters, unslung their curved hornbows and dismounted without a word. They began stalking toward the herd, moving low and slow, their soft steps silent against the grass. Meanwhile, the rest of the group set about making camp. Bedrolls were unfurled, packs loosened, and the horses checked over carefully. The animals had endured a rough passage through the cavern, and now, some of them favored a hoof or stood uneasily, sharp stones still embedded from the jagged cave floor.

  Halfur grumbled as he knelt beside one of the horses, running a calloused hand along its leg. “These poor beasts need a proper rest before we press on. Wouldn’t do to have a lame horse in the middle of these mountains.”

  Kharg took a long breath of crisp air, grateful to be out of the confined, damp darkness of the cave. The vale was peaceful, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the hills. But just as he was about to stretch his legs with a short walk, Halfur’s voice cut through his thoughts.

  “Keep your eyes open and don’t wander too far from camp,” the caravan leader warned, his tone serious.

  Kharg turned to him, noting the way the older man surveyed the ridgelines.

  “There are dark folk in these mountains. Normally just small bands of goblins, but they hate the daylight and won’t venture far from their holes. Still, if they spot a lone man, they might make an exception.” Halfur tossed a glance in Kharg’s direction, his expression dry. “You don’t want to end up as their dinner.”

  Kharg let out a short chuckle. “I suppose I’ll stay put, then.”

  He had, admittedly, been thinking about a bit of exploration, but the thought of stumbling into goblin hands was enough to deter any foolish wanderlust.

  Halfur gave a knowing smirk and stretched his arms. “Smart choice. We move by daylight and cloak our camps in the evenings. That’s kept us out of trouble so far, though I reckon the sight of ten armed men helps just as much.”

  Kharg’s eyes flicked over the rolling slopes, his expression unreadable. The vale was quiet now, but it was a false sense of peace.

  For now, at least, they had a brief moment of rest.