Summer, year 566 of the Varakarian Cycle

  Their galleon, the Howling Wolf, was bound for Varakar in a few days. Kharg had little in the way of preparations, but he visited a tailor, having long since outgrown his old clothes. For an extra silver crown, the order was completed in just two days. The tailor provided him with a deep-blue velvet coat, richly adorned with elaborate silver trim, along with three loose-fitting white linen shirts with tapered sleeves, and two pairs of trousers dyed in complementary tones. By the tailor’s recommendation, he also procured a polished black leather belt with matching black pouches, each finely made yet practical for travel. A cobbler prepared two pairs of boots for him, sturdy yet well-crafted in dark leather, suitable for both market days and long marches on the road.

  Completing his outfit at the local hatter, Kharg procured a wide-brimmed hat in the same deep-blue shade as his coat. It was crafted from soft, durable fabric, accented with a silver band and finished with a single plume in shades of white and violet.

  That afternoon, after returning to his room and summoning Fafne from his usual perch on the windowsill, Kharg decided to seek out Beren, the veteran guard who had trained him with the rapier since boyhood. He found the man in the guard barracks, sitting on a low bench, polishing his sword. Beren looked up, his eyes widening as they fell on the small, silvery dragon settled on Kharg’s shoulder.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Beren muttered, setting aside the blade. “What in the Nine Hells is that?”

  “A companion,” Kharg replied simply, unable to hide a trace of pride as Fafne tilted his head and regarded the guard with violet eyes.

  Beren let out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve seen many things in my years, sir, but nothing quite like that.” He stood, giving Kharg a respectful nod. “What brings you here?”

  Kharg rested a hand on the pommel of his rapier. “I’d like to try something on the sparring field.”

  The man raised a brow. “You want to test fighting with magic?”

  Kharg shook his head. “Not exactly. I want you to gauge my speed and reactions.”

  Beren frowned, intrigued. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “It’s simple,” Kharg said, glancing at Fafne. “I want to see if you notice a difference in my movements when Fafne is near me… or not.”

  Beren chuckled, fastening his own belt. “Strange request, though not the strangest I’ve heard.”

  Together, they walked to the small building beside the practice grounds, donning padded gambesons before taking up wooden practice swords. On the sanded field, Kharg asked Fafne to perch on a wooden scaffold nearby. The dragon obediently fluttered over and coiled his tail around the post, watching with curious eyes.

  They began slowly, circling on the sanded ground while the wooden blades struck together with sharp cracks. Beren moved with the calm assurance of long experience, relaxed and almost casual in his stance. Kharg closed the distance and probed for openings by changing the angles of his attacks, even striking out once with his left fist, but Beren easily swayed out of distance to let it pass his face.

  The pace quickened, but Beren adjusted without effort, his relaxed posture belying the speed and accuracy of his blade. Kharg launched one strike after another. He thrust, slashed, and shifted angles suddenly. Each attack met the older man’s wooden blade with flawless timing. Every parry felt effortless, as though Beren knew where Kharg would strike before the blow was even in motion. From time to time, Beren’s blade slipped past Kharg’s guard to tap his arm or shoulder. Kharg tried to twist or duck away, but he was always a fraction too slow, a silent lesson that speed and strength could not defeat experience.

  Kharg twisted away from one such touch and came back at him with renewed determination. He pressed harder, chaining attacks together in rapid succession, pushing his speed and footwork to the limit. The wooden blades cracked sharply as he struck again and again, but Beren’s defense never faltered. No matter how fierce or relentless Kharg’s assault became, the veteran’s blade remained an unyielding barrier, an impenetrable wall that turned aside every strike.

  They finally broke apart, lowering their practice blades as their breath misted in the cool air. Beren rolled his shoulder once, testing the joint, and gave a small nod of approval.

  “You’ve grown stronger,” he said with a faint smile. “Quicker too, and not so wild with your footing as you used to be. You’ve learned to plant yourself before you strike.”

  Kharg straightened, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, the praise carrying more weight than he expected. “High praise, coming from you,” he said with a grin.

  Beren chuckled, resting the wooden sword across his shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re better than before, no doubt about it—but you’ve still got work to do.”

  Kharg gave a short laugh, still catching his breath. “You’re right, I’ll need plenty more practice—but that’s not the goal today.” He glanced toward the scaffold where Fafne perched. “Come closer, Fafne,” he said.

  The faerie dragon spread his silvery wings, gliding down to land lightly on a nearby post. Kharg flexed his grip on the wooden sword, then nodded to Beren. “Again.”

  They resumed sparring, the pace quickening until Kharg was once more pressing himself to his limits. Sweat beaded along his brow as he struck and parried, his movements sharper now, more precise. Beren still turned aside every attack with ease, his experience reading Kharg’s intent before each strike landed, but there was a subtle shift. The younger man’s footwork was lighter, his dodges cleaner, his blade darting just a fraction faster than before.

  When they finally disengaged, Kharg was panting heavily despite the hardened conditioning of his year among the Northmen. Beren tilted his head, a thoughtful smile playing across his lips. “Yes, there’s a difference. Not vast, but noticeable. You’re quicker, and your dodges are sharper and more agile. Though, as I’ve told you before…” He tapped Kharg’s practice blade with his own. “You need to rely less on parries. Work more on evasion.”

  Kharg grinned through his exhaustion, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Anything else?”

  Beren’s gaze flicked briefly to the blade, then back to Kharg. “Maybe your thrusts were a touch more on target. Hard to say for certain. We’ll test that with throwing knives instead.”

  They shed their gambesons, Kharg’s linen shirt clinging to his back, soaked with sweat. Beren disappeared into the barracks for a moment, returning with a pair of balanced throwing knives. Together, they made their way to the round targets set beside the sanded sparring grounds.

  Beren planted his hands on his hips, studying Kharg’s stance. “Start without Fafne nearby. Ten paces should be enough.”

  After catching their breath, Beren gestured toward the targets. Kharg stepped to the line and hefted the daggers, testing their weight and balance. He drew a slow breath, then let the first blade fly. It spun true but struck wide, burying itself in the outer ring. The second followed, landing just beside the first. His jaw tightened slightly as he focused on the third throw. This one struck cleanly, embedding itself in the ring just outside the bull’s-eye.

  “Again,” Beren said, his tone calm but firm. “That was just the warm-up. Mind your elbow, lead with it a bit more. And stop tensing your body. You’re throwing with your shoulders when it should come from the whole arm.”

  Kharg smirked at the familiar critique, rolling his shoulders loose. Falling back into the rhythm of old lessons felt strangely comforting. He listened, adjusted, and let the blades fly in quick succession, each one striking deeper, closer to the center. The training stirred memories of the sessions he had enjoyed before leaving for the Academy, and if he was honest with himself, he had missed them more than he cared to admit. The motions came easier with every throw, muscle memory settling in like an old friend.

  When all three blades began to consistently land in the inner ring, and occasionally the bull’s-eye, Beren nodded in approval. “Good. I’ve got a measure of you now.” He glanced toward the faerie dragon still perched nearby. “Call your… pet, was it? Fafne?”

  Fafne gave an indignant chitter, his iridescent eyes narrowing into a glare that left little doubt as to what he thought of being called a pet. His tail lashed once in clear protest before he lifted off the post with a lazy beat of his wings, gliding over to land on Kharg’s shoulder. The little dragon settled himself with a faint huff, curling his tail loosely around Kharg’s neck as though to make a point of ownership.

  Kharg smirked, raising an eyebrow at Beren. “He doesn’t like being called that,” he said, scratching Fafne under the chin. “But he’ll forgive you this time.”

  Beren gave a faint chuckle and gestured to the target. “Alright then. Let’s see it.”

  Kharg adjusted his stance and hefted the knives again, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. He took a moment to focus, Fafne’s quiet presence brushing against the edge of his thoughts, then began to throw. Blade after blade flew through the air, each finding its mark with smooth precision.

  After a dozen throws, Beren folded his arms and nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said at last, his brow furrowed as if trying to puzzle out the impossible. “I can’t explain it, but it’s there. Your throws are a little more accurate, somehow.”

  He shook his head in disbelief, still staring at the target as if it might reveal the answer on its own. “Whatever it is boy, it’s real. You’re quicker, sharper… and it isn’t just luck.”

  Kharg glanced at Fafne, who chirped smugly and flicked his tail against Kharg’s cheek as if to claim credit for the result.

  Kharg lowered the last knife and exhaled, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Beren. I’ve found out what I needed to know.”

  Beren shrugged, a faint grin crossing his face. “My pleasure. Always good to see you haven’t gone soft up north.”

  Kharg chuckled, handing back the practice blades before unfastening the padded gambeson. “Trust me, the north won’t let anyone go soft.”

  He gave the older man a grateful nod before heading back toward the manor. Fafne remained perched proudly on his shoulder, chest puffed out as if the results of the test were entirely his doing. Kharg reached up to gently rub the little dragon’s chin, earning a pleased trill.

  “This really is amazing,” he murmured, still marveling at how much quicker and surer his movements became with Fafne close by.

  Fafne gave a smug chitter, wings twitching as if to preen under the praise. He tilted his head upward, eyes glinting with unmistakable pride, and let out a soft, contented chirp as they returned to Kharg’s quarters.

  “Yes, yes, you’re wonderful,” Kharg muttered with a grin. “Try not to let it go to your head.”

  * * *

  By the day of departure, he examined himself in the great mirror in his room. To him, this was simply how one dressed—properly, as anyone ought to. His brothers’ careless approach to appearance had always puzzled him. The almost childish look from before he went north was now completely gone, replaced by a face that had grown leaner. He had long brown hair that hung free down to his shoulders and sported a goatee that accentuated his chin. His twinkling blue eyes went well with the other shades of blue he wore. Casually draped over his shoulders was a heavy cobalt-blue cotton cloak that he had treated with the impregnating liquid the evening before. A silver clasp in the shape of a wolf’s head held the cloak in place. For jewelry, he wore a thick silver chain with an opal the size of a dove’s head hanging down his chest and on his right hand were two silvery rings with gemstones, one with a spinel and one with a turquoise.

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  Cinched to the black belt on his left hip was a rapier of master-forged Sarheede steel, housed in a scabbard of matching leather with silver trim. Alongside it, a steel dagger and a foot-long rod of carved bone were fastened. The belt had a silvery buckle, also with an etched wolf’s head that had a pearl for an eye. A silver hip flask was attached to the right side of the belt. Fafne had taken his customary position on his right shoulder and looped his silvery tail across the shoulders so it hung down the front of his left shoulder.

  On the bed behind him was a large leather backpack bleached to a pale white-gray color. He had filled it with spare clothes, some elk-horn and a carving knife as well as some other items for personal hygiene and felt more than ready to set off.

  They had not discussed it in detail, but he had come to understand that the studies at the Varakarian academy were quite expensive and that his father would not pay for him indefinitely. Still, Akgun had handed him a money pouch with two golden punds, two handfuls of shillings, and a letter of introduction to the head of their filial office in the Varakar harbor district.

  He remembered the way Akgun had weighed the coins in his hand before passing them over, his tone half-warning, half-instruction. “They like their gold thick in Varakar,” he’d said. “One pound there is worth nearly double our marks. Don’t mistake that weight for generosity, it spends quickly. And the silver shilling trades near even with our silver crowns, but don’t expect every vendor to be honest about it.”

  Kharg had nodded at the time, pretending to understand. Only now, with the pouch on his belt and no merchant house steward beside him, did the weight of that explanation truly sink in.

  After hugging his mother and sisters, he set off for the harbor with his father. It was a beautiful day in the early summer and almost no wind, which meant that the ocean was nearly still. As they approached the city, the lack of wind soon showed its downside. The heavy stench of the city lingered in the streets as the wind failed to blow it farther away. After navigating the streets down to the harbor they met up with a heavy black-bearded man in a black coat and a sabre at the hip. Akgun introduced Captain Lamar, who couldn’t take his eyes off Fafne at first. He said that he had heard of the lord’s magician-son and was quite curious about what he could expect during the trip. Evading a lengthy explanation, Kharg instead ensured Lamar that he had had proper training and that he had been on the family ships before. And that as soon as they left the harbor, he would show it.

  The galleon had two masts and appeared to be well-kept. A dozen sailors were doing chores on the deck but there were no porters hauling goods so it had likely already been loaded. When they boarded Lamar showed Kharg to his quarters by the aft. Behind him he could hear the buzz of the sailors who commented on Fafne but he did not know how to handle this very well. The northerners had been amazed and impressed by his rare bonding with a faerie dragon but soon taken it in stride. The guards on the caravan home had taken a few days to get used to it and Kharg had only had to explain that it was a familiar like many mages had. This had of course prompted more questions as they had not known about that custom either. But when Kharg explained that many mages had a bonded animal several of them nodded with sudden realization as they had indeed seen this before but not thought more about it. Deciding that this was probably the best way to handle it, Kharg inspected his tiny cabin and left the backpack inside before he headed out again. By then the captain had already given the orders to depart and the sailors were busy untying ropes and unfurling sails. Two longboats had been hired to tug the ship out of the harbor, as Sitch Nar had very little in the way of tides to assist with departures.

  In a surprisingly short time, the ship cleared the piers and the longboats turned back after Lamar tossed a small leather pouch with coins to them. Then he headed up the stairs to the elevated quarter-deck, where the helmsman stood. Kharg followed him, but was blocked by a grizzled old sailor.

  “That’s the captain’s area, no one enters less he says so.”

  “Ease off, Gunthar. That’s Lord Akgun’s son there,” Lamar said with a wry smile.

  With a grunt, Gunthar moved aside and let Kharg pass. When he came up, Lamar explained that Gunthar was the first mate.

  “You asked me about my magical skills. Today appears to be an excellent day to show you, I can summon a fair wind for us.”

  “How long can you keep it up?” Lamar said, a sudden interest showing in his eyes.

  “Depends on how strong I make it. If we get in trouble, I could double the wind but I would prefer to keep it at a medium strength as it would otherwise strain my elemental stone.”

  “Strain the stone?”

  “Feats of strong magic have to be channeled through an elemental stone. The reason for this is a much longer explanation that will go deep into magical theory.”

  Lamar hummed in thought, fingers running through his beard as Kharg continued.

  “That is why you see many mages with gemstones like I wear, sometimes embedded in their staffs or otherwise on rings and necklaces. Anyway, I could summon a wind that would equal that of a day when the wind is strong enough to commonly cause white horses on the waves.”

  “That will be more than enough. And you say you could double that?” he asked, giving him an appreciative grin.

  “Yes, for a day or so,” Kharg replied, feeling a bit proud and pleased by the sudden respect that was shown in the captain’s eyes.

  “I begin to understand why the so-called navigators are so sought after by some trading houses. It seems they can cut the travel time by half at least. Feel free to enter the quarter-deck at will.”

  Wind had always been his strongest element and was very easy for him to wield, so with barely more than a gesture and a few words he summoned a wind that quickly filled the sails, and the galleon began to pick up speed. The sailors who saw this gaped, though the first mate barked orders for them to climb the rigging and set full sails.

  In the early days of the voyage, Kharg spent much of his time on the quarter-deck alongside Captain Lamar and the first mate. Even when the sea lay glassy and still, Kharg kept the sails full, summoning a steady wind that carried them onward. The sailors quickly grew accustomed to the strange constancy of the breeze, though a few still muttered superstitiously when they thought no one heard.

  Fafne perched on Kharg’s shoulder most of the time, his iridescent eyes constantly watching the ship’s activity with keen interest. More than one sailor cast furtive glances at the little dragon, and Kharg caught snippets of whispered speculation drifting up from the main deck. Yet no one dared approach him with questions. Instead, it was Captain Lamar himself who finally broke the silence one calm morning as Kharg stood beside him, shaping the wind to keep the ship moving.

  “What manner of creature is he, if you don’t mind my asking?” Lamar said, his weathered hands resting lightly on the wheel. His tone carried curiosity rather than fear.

  “A faerie dragon,” Kharg replied, reaching up to scratch Fafne under the chin. The little creature chirred softly at the attention. “We’re bound together. He’s as much companion as he is part of me.”

  Lamar nodded slowly, eyes still on the horizon. “A rare sight, even for a man who’s seen his share of strange things at sea.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I suppose it’s no stranger than you conjuring a wind out of nothing.”

  Kharg gave a small grin, glancing out over the vast expanse of ocean. “I’d say it’s more honest than spending weeks drifting when the winds fail.”

  That earned a low chuckle from Lamar. Over the following days, the captain shared fragments of his seafaring knowledge in quiet moments between commands. He showed Kharg how the shape of the clouds foretold storms, how the color and pattern of waves revealed hidden shoals or the direction of the currents. “The sea talks to you if you know how to listen,” Lamar said one evening as the sun dipped low. “Most men never learn her language, but once you do, you’ll never forget it.”

  Kharg found himself fascinated by the rhythm of shipboard life. Sailors scrambled up the rigging to check lines and spars even though Kharg’s steady wind made constant trimming unnecessary. Others crouched along the gunwales, pressing fibers into the seams and sealing them with tar to keep the sea out. Buckets of seawater were hauled up to scrub the deck, leaving it shining and salt-slick in the sunlight. On quieter days, they sharpened hooks and knives, or patched torn lines, always busy with some small task to keep the ship seaworthy.

  Meals were taken on deck when the weather allowed, simple fare of salted fish and hard bread, softened in ale. Some nights Kharg joined the crew on watch, the air filled with the creak of timbers and the crash of waves against the hull. He found a strange sense of belonging in those moments, the moonlit sea stretching out endlessly while Fafne curled up on his shoulder, half-asleep and softly humming in his mind.

  When the ship was quiet, and only the creak of timbers and the hiss of waves filled the air, Kharg would look up at the heavens. The sky at sea was unlike anything he had seen in the south. With no hills, no trees, no city lights to mar the view, the stars stretched endlessly above them, sharp and innumerable. The larger moon, Lunara, bathed the deck in pale light, casting long shadows across the rigging. Now and then, the fainter Ceryth revealed itself, its blue-tinged glow barely visible beside its brighter companion.

  “Ceryth’s a fickle one,” the captain said with a faint smile. “Only graces us for a few weeks at a time before vanishing again, and on land, you’ll almost never see it. Its light’s too faint next to Lunara’s glare. Some sailors say it’s a watcher of fates, that it brings omens when it shows itself at sea.”

  Those nights under the twin moons felt almost otherworldly. Kharg often stood at the rail during those hours, Fafne curled on his shoulder, feeling the pull of the wind and the endless depth of the world around him. The starlit vastness and the twin moons made the sea seem both eternal and alive, a reminder of just how small he was in a world far greater than anything he had known.

  With Kharg’s magic holding steady, the Howling Wolf moved with unrelenting speed. The first mate muttered more than once that it felt like they were cheating the sea, but Kharg noticed the quiet relief in the sailors’ faces. There were no sudden lulls in the wind, no long days spent tacking against unfavorable gusts. The voyage was smoother, swifter, and far less taxing than any they had known.

  By the second week, Lamar confided to Kharg that such a journey would normally take almost a month. “Shifting winds, calms, and storms,” he said, leaning on the rail as he watched the horizon. “They make fools of even the best captains. But with you aboard… well, I suspect we’ll be seeing Varakar sooner than any of us expected.”

  As the Howling Wolf cut through the rolling waves a keen-eyed lookout stationed high in the crow’s nest suddenly shouted, “Land ho!” His voice carried over the sound of the wind and waves, drawing Kharg’s attention as he peered out toward the horizon. Emerging from the distant mists, the majestic silhouette of the white tower of the Varakarian Academy of Magic pierced the gray sky, gleaming brightly despite the overcast day. The tower rose high above the city, dwarfing all other structures, its pristine facade gleaming like a beacon of knowledge and power. Kharg felt a thrill surge through him at the sight. This was the destination he had dreamed of for so long, a place where he could expand his magical horizons beyond what he had learned in Sitch Nar’s academy.

  “Captain, we’ve sighted Varakar!” Kharg called, his voice filled with excitement as he clutched Fafne, the silvery faerie dragon, who perched comfortably on his shoulder. Fafne flicked his delicate wings in response, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

  Lamar, the stout captain, gave him a smile. His beard, a wild tangle of dark hair, swayed in the breeze as he beamed with pride. “Aye, lad! That’s a sight any sailor can appreciate! And far faster than we would normally have made the trip. Prepare the crew—we’re set to make dock!” His command echoed across the deck, stirring action among the sailors.

  The crew sprang into motion, and Kharg felt a rush of purpose coursing through him. He moved to stand alongside Lamar, drawing on the winds as he had been trained to do. With a flourish of his hand, he summoned the subtle breezes that filled the sails, guiding them closer to the harbor. The Howling Wolf cut through the water with newfound speed, churning the waves beneath her hull.

  As they neared the harbor entrance, a deep, resonant gong rolled across the water. The sound was so powerful that Kharg felt it reverberate in his breastbone, a steady pulse that seemed to carry the weight of the city itself. One more beat followed, its echo mingling with the cries of gulls overhead.

  He looked ahead and took in the breathtaking sight of Varakar. The city sprawled out before them, the vibrant colors of rooftops contrasting against the gray sky, while the protective piers formed a sturdy barrier against the swelling tide. Fishing boats bobbed gently in the water, their nets glistening with the morning catch, as the distant shores revealed quaint fishing cottages nestled together like old friends.

  Before long, a cacophony of sounds filled the air, laughter and shouts from the dock workers, the cries of gulls swooping overhead, the slap of waves against wooden hulls. The intensity of the harbor came alive to Kharg’s senses, a stark contrast to the isolation of the open sea he had become accustomed to during the voyage. As they sailed into the harbor, the Howling Wolf navigated through a labyrinth of docking piers. Kharg watched with fascination as the half-timbered buildings that lined the waterfront became more distinct, their weathered beams and bright flower boxes inviting travelers, merchants, and sailors alike. His eyes were drawn to a particularly striking establishment, a large building marked by a grand sign of the harbor master. The ship’s fees were apparently a lucrative business.

  “Steady now!” Lamar’s voice boomed over the noise as he directed the ship toward an empty dock. “Gunthar, ready the lines!” The grizzled old first mate, with his sun-weathered face and salt-crusted beard, responded with a sharp nod, moving to ensure everything was in order for the docking.

  The sharp tang of brine mixed with the earthy scents of the city filled the air as they neared the dock, a vivid reminder of Varakar’s vibrant life. The Howling Wolf bumped against the pier, and the creaking of wood and tightening of ropes announced their arrival. The crew sprang into action and tied the ship down while Lamar shouted orders with the confidence of long experience. Kharg felt a mix of excitement and nervousness as he prepared to step ashore. This was the start of something new, a journey into the grand Varakarian Academy and the adventures that awaited him within the city’s sprawling walls.

  When the gangway was lowered, and the crew began unloading provisions, Kharg took a final moment to take in the city. It pulsed with energy, standing bright and alive under the gray sky. Fafne fluttered his wings, mirroring Kharg’s anticipation. Drawing a steadying breath, he stepped onto the dock, ready to face the opportunities and challenges Varakar had to offer. Lamar had provided clear directions to their trading house’s office, so Kharg set off with purpose.