Monday morning dawned with a clear, crisp sky. The air crackled with a different kind of energy – the nervous excitement of countless aspiring mages making their way to the Sovereign Spire. Or at least, that's what it felt like to Rhys. He ate a quick, quiet breakfast with his father, who was unusually subdued, though he tried to mask it with exaggerated cheerfulness and a truly ridiculous hat adorned with miniature, sparkling constellations.

  Elmsworth, his eyes a little moist but his smile wide beneath the ridiculous, star-adorned hat, gave him a final, firm hug outside the bookshop. He pressed the small, leather-bound journal into Rhys’ hand. "For your observations, my boy. Every journey is a story waiting to be written. Remember what I told you. Potential, Rhys. It's all about potential." He ruffled his hair. "Now, off we go! Don't want to be late for destiny, do we?"

  A sturdy, if somewhat plain, cart awaited a short distance down the street. It was piled high with a few of his father's 'essential' travel-sized historical texts, his modest luggage, and the provisions Mrs. Abernathy had insisted upon, drawn by a speckled white mare with a dusty mane named Daisy. Elmsworth helped him climb into the back, then settled himself in at the helm, adjusting his spectacles before giving the reins a gentle flick. With a slight snort from Daisy, the cart began to move, and the journey was underway.

  The first day of travel was a comfortable blur. The cobbled streets of his town quickly gave way to the winding country roads, flanked by rolling green hills and scattered farmhouses. Rhys and his father talked, mostly of books and the history of the regions they passed through, Elmsworth occasionally pointing out a particularly ancient tree or a curiously shaped rock formation, weaving tales of old. Rhys spent a good deal of the time with his nose in one of his own books, finding solace in its pages, pushing Mrs. Gable's unsettling pronouncements further from his immediate thoughts, though everything he shut his eyes, they loomed. From time to time he would switch places, steering the cart along the quiet paths while his father snored noisily behind him.

  As dusk began to paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, Elmsworth pulled them over to a small, bustling inn in a bustling village called Swift Haven, the slightly weathered sign naming the inn similarly. The air was filled with the welcoming scent of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and ale. "A fine day's progress, wouldn't you say, Rhys?" Elmsworth declared, stretching as he stepped down from the carriage. "Nothing quite like the road to clear the mind! I believe a hearty stew and a comfortable cot await us." His own body aching as he stretched, and legs a little numb, Rhys couldn't agree more.

  The inn was a rustic, two-story affair, its timber frame dark with age, its windows glowing warmly. Inside, a lively din of conversations, laughter, and clinking mugs filled the common room. A stout, red-faced innkeeper wiped down the counter with a practiced ease, while a few travelers and local farmers huddled around a crackling fireplace. Elmsworth, ever the cordial sort, immediately engaged the innkeeper, arranging for rooms and a meal. Meanwhile, Rhys stood for a moment just inside the door, taking in the bustling scene, the lingering scent of Mrs. Gable's cottage finally beginning to truly dissipate from his senses, replaced by the wholesome aroma of the inn.

  This was his first time truly leaving his quiet hometown, and the contrast was stark. The Swift Haven Inn hummed with a raw, earthy energy quite unlike the subdued murmur of any establishment back home. He pulled his simple travel cloak tighter around himself, the woven fabric a small shield against the unfamiliar faces and boisterous laughter. Moving to hover slightly behind his father, his fingers nervously fiddled with his dark bangs, ensuring they provided a protective curtain over his eyes.

  Yet, despite his unease, a part of him was quietly enthralled. The common room was a vibrant tapestry of life. Most patrons were human, their conversations hearty and uninhibited. But here and there, through the smoky haze, he swore he glimpsed figures that were distinctly not. A glint of stony skin near the fireplace, perhaps a Kithian traveler, or the faint, iridescent sheen of scales on an arm as someone raised a mug – a fleeting hint of the Malakor, perhaps? The world, he realized, was far larger and more varied than the familiar confines of his father's bookshop.

  Elmsworth, meanwhile, had successfully secured his accommodations. He turned back to Rhys, a satisfied grin on his face. "Excellent! Two cots and a promise of Helena's famous venison stew. Come, my boy, let's find a table. A good meal is just what we need after a day on the road, and I believe my stomach is already composing an ode to the culinary arts!" He began to navigate through the crowded tables towards a small, unoccupied one tucked near a window, gesturing for his son to follow. The innkeeper, a burly man with a booming laugh, waved a hand in their direction, already turning to another customer.

  Rhys turned, a little distracted by the subtle glimpses of non-human patrons, to follow his father toward the designated table, his thoughts still drifting between his father's surprising capability with people and the intriguing diversity of the inn. Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice the figure stepping out from behind a group of boisterous travelers near the bar. He bumped directly into them, his shoulder colliding with theirs. Startled, he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his mouth in a gesture of immediate apology.

  He glanced up at the person he’d collided with, and his apology faltered in his throat, dying unspoken. It was a taller man, perhaps only a year or two older than himself, dressed in simple but well-maintained traveling clothes. His features were sharp, with an aristocratic nose and a firm jawline. His hair, a striking, vibrant red, fell in loose waves to his shoulders, catching the flickering lamplight. At first glance, he appeared human. But then his eyes drifted downwards, and he saw it: a long, sleek tail, covered in fine, dark scales, swishing subtly behind him, ending in a small, elegant tuft of black fur. He was clearly one of the Malakor, a lineage he had only read about in dusty tomes, often whispered about in the shadowed fringes of history. It was a very rare sight in his hometown, making him freeze in place.

  Rhys's eyes widened, staring at the tail with an open, unmasked fascination that was undoubtedly rude. The man's expression, initially one of mild annoyance at the unexpected collision, shifted to something cooler and more guarded as he noticed his gaze. His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of unease crossed his face. He subtly shifted his stance, as if instinctively shielding the tail from further scrutiny. He paused, a beat of silence stretching between you, as if waiting for his apology or for Rhys to avert his gaze.

  It took a moment for the shock of seeing a Malakor so close to truly register, overriding his ingrained sense of politeness. Realizing his gaffe, he quickly snapped back to reality, the blood rushing to his cheeks. He stammered out a clumsy apology, his voice a nervous mumble. "O-oh! I... I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there. I... I wasn't looking where I was going." The apology hung in the air, awkward and inadequate, the silence amplifying its failings. The Malakor's expression didn't soften. In fact, a flicker of something akin to amusement twisted his lips.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  "Yeah," he said, his voice smooth but with a sharp edge. "It's rather difficult to see where one is going when one's eyes are ridiculously covered by a curtain of hair, wouldn't you agree?" His gaze flicked pointedly towards his dark bangs, which, in his startled state, had fallen further forward, almost completely obscuring his eyes. The other paused, letting the silence stretch again, a clear indication that he was waiting for Rhys to elaborate or perhaps simply to move out of his way. His eyes glittered with an unsettling mixture of amusement and thinly veiled irritation. The tail twitched slightly behind him, a subtle sign of his growing impatience.

  Rhys frowned, a small, habitual gesture, and instinctively pressed his bangs down slightly, almost defensively, before dropping his hand. His gold eyes, still mostly hidden beneath the dark curtain, glinted with a nascent defiance. "I mean, I was walking in a straight line," he grumbled, the apologetic tone in his voice fading completely, replaced by a low, annoyed murmur. "You could've moved too." The words were out before he could fully consider them, a flash of petulance asserting itself. The Malakor's eyes, dark and sharp, seemed to bore into his obscured face. The subtle amusement vanished, replaced by a cold, appraising stare. His head tilted almost imperceptibly, and a faint, dry chuckle escaped his lips – a sound devoid of warmth.

  "Sure," he drawled, his voice now flat and dangerously quiet. "A straight line. How predictable. And I guess I should simply have anticipated a blind man's path?" He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his presence suddenly more imposing, scoffing softly. "One might think that in a busy inn, or even in the wider world, a tiny bit of awareness is expected regardless." He looked him up and down, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on his hidden eyes, then on his simple robes, as if sizing him up. The tail behind him, which had been subtly twitching, now held perfectly still, like a coiled viper. "Perhaps," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "your 'straight line' is not quite as obvious as you think, kid.” He emphasized the word with a subtle sneer, making it feel less like a descriptor and more like a challenge.

  Rhys felt his jaw tighten at the last part. He knew he looked a little young, but kid?!

  Despite the difference in height, a surge of indignant pride made him raise his chin sharply. The word, dripping with condescension, stung. This guy couldn't be that much older than him, yet he spoke as if Rhys were a child. "You weren't paying any more attention than me though, or you would've dodged," he retorted, his voice holding a surprising edge of defiance, considering the circumstances. "So what's your excuse?"

  As his head lifted, his dark bangs, usually a carefully maintained curtain, shifted just enough. For a fleeting moment, a hint of his vibrant, unnatural golden eyes was visible, catching the flickering light of the inn. The Malakor's cool demeanor faltered for a fraction of a second. His dark eyes, which had been fixed on his face, widened almost imperceptibly as they caught the sudden flash of gold. His posture, previously rigid with controlled annoyance, became utterly still, every muscle tensed. The tip of his scaled tail twitched once, sharply, against the floor. His gaze snapped back to his face, no longer dismissive or irritated, but suddenly intense, scrutinizing, as if he had seen something profoundly unexpected. The air around him seemed to thicken, and the low hum of the inn's common room faded slightly in his perception, replaced by a sudden, chilling silence between the two of them.

  "My excuse?" he repeated, his voice now a low, dangerous murmur, entirely devoid of its previous dry amusement. His eyes narrowed again, but this time with a sharp, unsettling focus, as if he were looking through his physical form. "Maybe my 'excuse' is that I wasn't expecting to run such... unusual company in this humble establishment." He took another slow step forward, closing the distance between them. He wasn't overtly threatening, but his presence was suddenly overwhelming. His gaze remained locked on Rhys’ face, specifically where his hair now mostly covered his eyes once more. He seemed to be searching for something, a deeper confirmation.

  Rhys felt his mind spin, and then abruptly halt. Unusual company? Was- was he being flirted with or threatened?! His hand twitched at his side with the sudden overwhelming urge to shove the Malakor away, but the other piped up once more before he could. "Whats your name, kid?" he asked, the term still condescending, but now infused with a new, sharper curiosity, almost a demand. Meanwhile, Elmsworth, having finally caught the attention of a server, was gesturing wildly at the menu, completely oblivious to the intense confrontation unfolding behind him.

  A muscle worked somewhere in Rhys’ jaw. He glared back, the defiance in his stance a stark contrast to his usual quiet reserve. "Yours first," he shot back, squaring his shoulders, refusing to be cowed by his sudden intensity. The Malakor's gaze hardened, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous light. For a moment, a tense silence descended between them, thick enough to be cut with a knife. The guy seemed to be weighing his audacious reply, his expression unreadable. The subtle sounds of the inn, the clinking of mugs, the distant laughter, seemed to mock the quiet standoff. Then, a faint, almost predatory smile touched his lips. It was not a friendly smile.

  "Fine, oh mannerless one, let me educate you,” he purred, his voice dropping even lower, barely audible above the general din. "My name is Hamlin Godric." He enunciated his name with a slow, deliberate cadence, as if expecting he to recognize it, or perhaps to fear it. His dark eyes, still piercing, flicked towards his father, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with the server about the precise cut of venison used in the stew. Elmsworth remained oblivious, completely engrossed. "Now, your turn," Hamlin demanded, his voice returning to a low, insistent tone, his focus entirely on Rhys. "And maybe an explanation for... that," he added, his gaze dropping pointedly to the area where his golden eyes had briefly been revealed, a clear, unsettling implication in his words.

  Hamlin Godric. The name meant nothing to him, but the man's demeanor suggested it should. Gods, he'd be happy never to deal with him again. "Rhys Thorne," he stated, offering his name with a reluctant grumble. His hand flinched, instinctively rising to fix his hair, ensuring his golden eyes remained hidden from Hamlin's prying gaze. The familiar trickle of discomfort, the unease that always surfaced whenever anyone mentioned or seemed to notice his eyes, crept in, heightening his anxiety. "And it's none of your damn business," he added, his voice laced with a defensive hostility. "If you'll excuse me-”

  Without waiting for a response, he moved to shove past Hamlin, his shoulder deliberately knocking into him slightly with the force of his hasty departure. Hamlin didn't yield, but neither did he retaliate. He stood his ground, his body a solid barrier as Rhys brushed past, but he didn't attempt to stop him. His dark eyes, however, followed his every move, an unreadable expression on his face. As Rhys hurried away, he heard Hamlin's voice, low and laced with a strange, unsettling amusement, cutting through the din of the inn. "Rhys Thorne," he murmured, almost to himself. "We’ll see about that."

  What did Hamlin mean by that? He didn't look back. He pushed his way through the crowded tables, his heart hammering against his ribs, until he reached his father's side. Elmsworth, still cheerfully oblivious, beamed at him. "Ah, Rhys! There you are! I've secured us the finest venison stew this side of the Whispering Woods! Are you quite alright, my boy? You seem a bit... flushed." He raised a quizzical eyebrow, noticing his disheveled appearance and the lingering tension in his shoulders. He gestured towards the steaming bowls that had just been placed on the table. "Come now, dig in! A hearty meal will set you right. And I'm quite eager to continue that bit on Archmage Thistlewick's theory of planar gastronomy. I think I finally have a counter point for you!"

  Rhys bristled, still simmering with indignation, as he practically shoved himself into the wooden chair opposite his father. He immediately dug into the steaming venison stew, the warmth and savory aroma a welcome distraction from the lingering chill Hamlin's gaze had left. He thanked the gods for his father's blissful obliviousness. Elmsworth, sensing his mood and perhaps attributing it to travel fatigue, simply nodded and launched into a detailed, if utterly irrelevant, discourse on Archmage Thistlewick's theories of planar gastronomy, complete with hand gestures and dramatic pauses. His familiar prattling, a comforting constant in his life, began to work its soothing magic. Slowly, the tension eased from his shoulders. He found himself nodding in the right places, occasionally offering a noncommittal "Mmm," as he finished his stew. The image of the red-haired Malakor, Hamlin Godric, and his unsettling gaze began to recede, shoved to the back of his mind among all his other worries.