Vincent drove the wagon until late into the night. He wanted to push on until he reached the first human village, but his aching eyes and heavy body refused to cooperate any longer.

  He finally stopped near a small river, planning to wash up at first light. For now, he needed to assess the damage. He stripped off his coat and shirt and inspected his body . He was a canvas of dark bruises, but thankfully, his skin was unbroken. Though every muscle screamed in protest, he was relieved to avoid the added worry of infection.

  Seeking shelter, he climbed into the covered baggage area of the wagon. He ignited a small, hovering flame for light and took stock of its contents. What he saw was a genuinely pleasant surprise. As anticipated, a heavy bag of gold coins sat to one side. But the elves had also provided a separate sack filled with dried meats, two carefully labeled pouches of herbs and medicines, and... his weapons?

  A frown creased his brow. His weapons had already been returned to him before the audience.

  Curious, he unsheathed the Zweihander from his back. Its length and weight were perfect, exactly as he remembered. But a closer look revealed a faint, haywire shimmer of mana clinging to the steel—the telltale sign of a spell, and one he did not recognize. Alarmed, he inspected his other arms. Each one bore a similar, though subtly different, magical pattern.

  Though their edges appeared lethally sharp, when he ran a cautious finger along them, they felt disappointingly dull. They had the satisfying heft of quality steel, but when he applied pressure to the flat of a dagger, the blade bent with alarming ease.

  The truth dawned on him. The weapons on his person were clever fakes, imbued with an illusion to mimic the real ones. The princess, in her act of contrition, had not just given him gold and supplies; she had secretly returned his true arms.

  Vincent replaced the fake weapons on his person with the real ones from the wagon. Fearing the fakes might also contain a tracking spell, he systematically broke them and scattered the pieces into the river's current. Only then, his mind finally settling, did he lay on his back in the wagon and slowly drift into a troubled sleep.

  ---

  In his dream, Vincent stood in an abyss of pure nothingness. The world around him was so profoundly dark he couldn't distinguish the ground beneath his feet from the void above.

  Yet, in the immense distance, a single point of faint orange light pulsed like a heartbeat. He felt an irresistible pull towards it and began to walk. In the strange logic of dreams, he covered the vast distance in an instant, now standing close enough to see the source.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  It was a simple lantern, hanging from the curved end of a long pole, held in the right hand of a man whose features were blurred into obscurity. Vincent stepped closer, until he was near enough to touch him, yet he still could not "see" the man's face. There was no stoop to his posture; he stood with a quiet, unwavering stillness that felt neither young nor old, but ancient and patient.

  While Vincent was still lost in trying to perceive the figure, the old man shifted. With a deliberate motion, he angled the long pole itself, pointing it forward like a silent command. The moment he did, color and form bled into the world.

  The void solidified into the peak of a colossal mountain, so high that clouds drifted around their ankles like mist. The air was thin and cold.

  Vincent's eyes followed the line of the lantern's glow, and he saw it: the spires and ramparts of the Holy Capital, Limveil, sprawled in the valley far below. The sight filled him with confusion. Limveil was surrounded by the Emerald Woods; there was no mountain like this anywhere near it.

  "You want me to go to Limveil?" Vincent asked, turning his bewildered gaze back to the old man.

  ...The old man did not respond.

  "Does this mountain have a meaning behind it?" Vincent tried again.

  The old man remained silent, a statue of shadow and faint lantern light.

  "How am I supposed to—"

  Before Vincent could finish his sentence, the old man moved. With a motion too swift to follow, he reversed his grip and thrust the end of the pole directly into Vincent's forehead.

  There was no pain, only a shocking, physical jolt of impact.

  Vincent gasped, his eyes flying open as he jolted upright in the dark confines of the wagon. The dream had vanished. He was awake. Checking outside, he saw the first hints of morning light brushing the sky, washing out the stars.

  Looking at the brightening sky, Vincent turned the strange dream over in his mind, wondering if it held any meaning at all or was just a phantom of his exhaustion.

  Remembering his vow to see the world, he decided to take it as a sign. He would head for the Holy Capital, Limveil. But first, he needed to stop at Limmark, the closest human town to the elven borders. There, he could register with the Adventurer's Guild under a fake name, securing an identity that wouldn't lead back to his noble house.

  He wanted to ride straight for the town gates, but the grime of battle and travel clung to him. A bath was a necessary delay.

  Once he was clean and had eaten a quick breakfast of dried meat, he got the wagon moving. Soon, the fortified walls of Limmark came into view. Vincent took in the barren landscape and the quiet entrance. "Of course a border town wouldn't be bustling. What was I expecting?"

  Though he was not a social man by nature, a part of him had hoped for a busy thoroughfare. After all, what was the essence of an adventure, if not the people you met along the way?.

  Reaching the gates, a pair of guards stepped forward to question him while two others began a thorough inspection of his wagon.

  "What's your purpose in Limmark?" the guard to his left asked.

  "Just passing through," Vincent replied evenly. "I figured I'd rest and register with the Adventurer's Guild while I'm here."

  "You seem heavily armed. Why is that?" the guard on his right chimed in, his eyes scanning Vincent's weaponry.

  "It's a dangerous world. A man would be a fool to travel unprepared."

  One of the guards searching the wagon gave a subtle hand signal. The guard on the right pressed on. "You don't have much cargo. So why the wagon?"

  "I'd heard rumors of unique herbs near the border," Vincent lied smoothly. "I was hoping to gather a haul to sell. The rumors were false, as you can see."

  "And your name?"

  "Vincent."

  The two guards exchanged a look. The one on the left finally nodded. "You're free to go, Vincent. But don't cause any trouble."

  "Sure. Before I go, where is the Adventurer's Guild?"

  "Right. Continue straight. When you reach the fountain at the town square, take a right. You'll see it."

  After being dismissed, Vincent guided the wagon through the quiet, almost empty streets of the border town until the guild hall came into view.

  *Well* he thought, *here's hoping for a good story*