Rania Yulvenir, the third-born dark elf of the Yulvenir clan, right-hand of the Yulvenir patriarch, and mage of the third circle, was lost. It wasn’t a sense of being lost in the way that she did not know where she was; she might have been in the middle of the Grand Lakes, but she knew her exact location in relation to the other cities of the Caliphate. No, she was lost because she did not know where to go.
The Yulvenir patriarch had given her a most important task: to find the pale human who had saved him from the Sultan’s assassination plot. To fulfill this task, she’d first attempted what any reasonable person would: to ask for aid from someone blessed by the Weaver. She who wove the tapestry of Fate would no doubt hold at least some insight into the matter. But that failed right away; seemingly, the stranger was either as fateless as the Yulvenir patriarch had become, or the Goddess herself was seeking to hide this mortal’s presence for some reason.
With peering into fate leaving them so thoroughly blind, her options had begun to narrow down. Other forms of divination were sought and paid for, each one more esoteric and rare than the last. Since they’d known the man to be human, blood-seeking had been the next likeliest match. Humans were scarce in this part of the continent, after all. Then they tried for people who spoke strange, unknown tongues. Then for those who were extremely pale.
Attempt after attempt, each one failing more spectacularly than the last, either giving them too many potential targets, or none at all. Rania had effectively burnt through a fortune in her endeavors, spending months traveling to the four major cities of the Caliphate to contact expert mages and their families. The Yulvenir clan opened many doors, and Rania had used them all.
Their final and most desperate clue had been, strangely enough, through the pink slippers the man had worn. One of the minor noble houses in the city of Vatia knew sympathetic tracking spells, the sort that would’ve normally been deemed worthless in the face of fate-based divination. But it had been their strongest lead, even if it appeared to now have failed them.
“Well?” the dark elf asked the divination mage with a voice cold enough to freeze the warm waters under the barge they sailed. The crooked old elf clutched the pink slipper, smearing aether between his fingers as he traced the knots into the air. His craftsmanship was beautiful, his work precise, his gestures fluid and graceful like a trained performer. The spell curled into existence, an intricate delicate thing that had a flow to it Rania could only assume meant the man was a fourth or even fifth circle mage. Why he’d chosen to rot with his noble family rather than join a more prestigious house was beyond her, but she cared not to ask; the man’s obsession with his bloodline’s secret spellworks had proven a boon in her search.
“The tie between owner and object is strong; I can sense that he is near the waters of the Great Lakes, but…” Wrinkled lips curled. “We are too far to get anything more precise.”
“Near the waters of the Great Lakes, he says…” Rania’s pale brows lowered until they became a singular line. “The Great Lakes occupy a third of the Caliphate’s borders; we might as well be looking at several kingdoms' worth of territory to pore over.”
“Excuse me, my Lady, this is the best I can do without something more closely tied to your target.”
“He is not a target!” Rania roared out, startling every sailor, soldier, and hired help present. “The Yulvenir patriarch owes this man his life, and I will not tolerate any of you besmirching our intentions.”
“If I may speak, Lady Rania.”
A soft voice drifted from within the cabins, a robed figure stepping out into the sunlight. High Priestess Ilana did not appear to be in good health; the elf’s visage had grown paler by the day ever since insisting on joining them in their expedition. After failing to give them any information about the Weaver’s plans, the woman had adamantly insisted on lending aid in any other way she could. The patriarch had agreed to send her off with Rania, if only to decapitate the Church of Fate’s political power within the capital.
“I believe that, in the face of spells failing, we might do well with a more traditional approach.”
“What do you suggest?” Rania had not been thrilled; it was hard to miss that the high priestess had some ulterior motive of her own, but thus far, the high priestess had provided no reasons for them to throw her away. In some instances, she’d even helped open a few doors that might have otherwise remained tightly shut.
“Use the locals.” Ilana smiled demurely, her lips cracking as her sickly visage wavered. “You have the resources; you could either use or establish an information network. If we know he is somewhere near the Great Lakes, then it shouldn’t be impossible to set something up. After all, he is a pale human, not something frequently found in these parts.”
Rania gritted her teeth, not liking the sound of that.
To establish a network could take months, even years, but did she have any alternatives aside from having to report her failure to the patriarch?
“Very well. Do you recommend we start anywhere in particular?” The question was asked as Rania pointed at the crude drawing on the map she’d acquired of the Great Lakes.
Ilana smiled bitterly. “In times like these, where all options are equal, I often use the most rudimentary form of fate-reading possible.” From her robes, she pulled out a simple object: two six-sided dice.
“Chance?” Rania scoffed.
“Fate works in mysterious ways; sometimes one just needs to trust the Weaver’s designs, even if one cannot see it.” She rolled the little cubes.
“And what do your dice say?” The dark elf raised a brow.
“A six and a five.” Ilana carefully moved her fingers over the map, segmenting it into six columns and six rows, then picked one on the far end, a section that was in the sixth row and fifth column. “Doeta.” She picked the dice back up.
The others shared glances, and Rania scowled. “That’s on a far corner of the Great Lakes, it doesn’t make sense to go there, if he shows up elsewhere, we wouldn’t be able to respond in time.”
“And the dice could have just flailed and pointed at water, that would’ve been the likelier outcome after all.” Ilana’s smile was a brittle one. “But fate rarely makes sense until observed in hindsight.” The high priestess gingerly pocketed the dice. “In the end, it is not my choice to make.”
“But you would endorse going to Doeta.”
“Seeing how we have no clues leading anywhere else? Yes.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Rania glared at the map for a moment longer. “Fine, Doeta it is.”
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Imani Sharpclaw woke up to a grand hangover, her head throbbing with such intensity she might have suspected someone had trapped a rampaging brufol within her skull. She blinked blearily, the world focusing into stark sharpness even though her body felt numb and lethargic.
A great heat washed over her, and the sound of crackling fire drew her attention.
The sight of the burning house brought back memories, and suddenly everything snapped into place. She realized all six of her limbs were tied, her four paws clumped together and immobilized, while her arms were placed against her lower back.
“Before I untie you, I need to check something first,” the voice came from beside her, boots crunching against dirt, and the pale human crouched in front of her. “Do you recognize this?”
He held a tiny ball of black fluff in his hands, a rabbit. The little prey was eating a leaf, its eyes blank and distant, like all prey. Imani scowled at it, unsure of the origin of this question. “I… attacked you.” The memories were hard to put together, blurred through the same impenetrable fog from having drunk too much.
“You were possessed,” the man answered, putting the tiny beast on his shoulder. “One of the items contained something dangerous, it drove you to a bout of madness.” His gaze focused on hers. “What’s your name?”
“I told you my name,” she frowned.
“I must ask. There might be some lingering effects and I’d sooner keep you tied for another hour than take the risk.”
Imani bristled. This human had bested her in combat!? That shouldn’t be possible. She’d smelled the weakness clinging to him like rot. Even now, she could sense no threat coming from him, the man was as devoid of killing intent as the rabbit on his shoulder.
The mercenary struggled, trying to break free of the bonds. Yet as she struggled, the rope dug deeper into her flesh, and with a yelp, she froze, realizing that if she kept at this, she might cut off her own limbs. “What have you done?”
“I tied you up, and I plan to free you, once you tell me your name.”
“Imani Sharpclaw,” the leonid hissed through gritted teeth.
Shame welled within her as the human moved closer. With but a flick of his knife, the ropes were broken, and Imani instantly jumped away. Her eyes lingered on his body, gaunt and weak, thin and wiry, she’d heard of humans, but had never seen one herself. He wasn’t too different from an elf, she concluded, and by the standards of elves, this human was far frailer than the average.
She would’ve mistaken him for a noble of this land were he not dressed like what a child would imagine a hunter of monsters to look like. The thought was tossed aside when she noticed that night was falling. She glanced at the corpses of her companions and employer and grimaced. “I must perform the rites on my own.”
Liam didn’t argue, giving her space.
Steeling her resolve, Imani approached the people with whom she’d been traveling for the past three moons. One by one, she put down the objects she thought were of importance to them, gathered from the belongings found within the tiny caravan. One by one, she knelt in front of them, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine what they would have wished for in life.
It was a role she had not wished to take, to pray to the Warden of Souls and describe the deepest desires each of these strangers held. Umari, the archer, had described his love for a family, aspiring to start a farm one day. Fory, the client, was a merchant, seeking to build a fortune so that he could one day marry a noble. And a dozen other names joined the list. On and on, Imani scoured her memories, trying to provide as accurate a wish as she could. She wasn’t certain if the Warden might think them undeserving, but it was not her place to judge. Though they were not friends, these were strangers who had done her no evil, and she was, in part, responsible for their untimely deaths. To not pray for their happiness would have been dishonorable.
After she’d prayed for each of them, she lit the pyre and stepped away.
With the first part of the ritual done, her time for contemplation began.
Imani closed her eyes in meditation.
As the ways of the Sharpclaw demanded, she drew upon her life as a warrior, slowly reviewing each battle she’d lived through. From the first time she’d trained with her father to the bandits she’d hunted on her twelfth birthday, all the way to the chase and murder of the collector. One by one, she savored them, confirming that she was staying true to her path. The victories were seen through the lens of experience, drawing in details from what she’d gained. The losses were looked at through more critical eyes, attempting to squeeze out anything that might help her survive the next encounter.
Each memory served to forge her into a better warrior.
And then she reached the last battle, the one she clearly lost.
She remembered Liam rescuing her, the subsequent revenge, and then helping him extract items from the collector’s abode. But everything after that was a vague sense of frustration and blurred concepts within her mind.
Imani’s hackles rose, her temper flaring.
Her eyes snapped to the human as he watched the pyre burning.
Rising to her paws, she approached, intentionally stepping with a slight twist so that the ground would crunch underfoot. The sound drew his attention, and as she prepared herself to demand they spar at sunrise, something tickled at the back of her mind.
“You know of my people,” she declared, certain she’d heard him call out the name of one of the holy rites of her tribe.
“I’ve read a bit about them,” he shrugged nonchalantly, turning to look back at the pyre. “I’d like to accompany you to Doeta, and once you finish your contract, I’d like to hire you.”
Her first instinct was to turn him down, but Imani was mature enough to recognize the impulse was childish. The annoyance she felt was out of the humiliation of being defeated, surely she’d learn more of how she’d been beaten given time. “What for?”
“Mostly? I’d need your help to find and hire mercenaries and laborers.”
Imani looked at him skeptically. “How many?”
The human shot her a smirk, standing up and heading towards a cloth-covered pile that had not been there last time Imani checked. The human pulled at the cloth, revealing several chunks of gold, each one at least twice the size of the human’s torso. It glittered under the firelight of the pyre and the house, scattering odd flickering golden lights in every direction.
Imani choked on air. “Where… where did you get this? It was not inside the house; it couldn’t have been!” She’d checked the place over already, enough to be certain that such a ludicrous amount of gold could not have been hidden there.
“You did say that asking questions wasn’t in line with your job.” He patted the mound gingerly, chuckling in amusement. “But to answer your question, a powerful friend of mine is in need of as many helping hands as she can get. I’m just playing the middleman.”
The amount of wealth on display in front of her was greater than what she’d be able to gather within a decade of well-paying mercenary work. There was enough of it that she felt a worrying thought worming its way through her mind, asking herself why this man would willingly show it to her.
Did he not know how easy it would be for her to kill him and take it all?
Yet, as she met his gaze, she found something worrying within the confines of those dark eyes, a flicker of blue that made her wince at a memory of pain.
Imani’s gaze drifted down to her tunic, to the spot where the memory originated. There was a scorch mark, not even wider than her thumb, a spot that felt tender to the touch. Despite her memories being foggy, this singular jolt of pain became clearer the more she thought of it.
The human had used lightning without a spell, the only possible explanation for such an ability being that he carried the blessing of a God.
It was only upon thinking this that she noticed the rabbit on his shoulder, the black creature with luxuriously dark fur, that had not moved from its spot as it kept the entirety of its focus on her. But as she looked at it, truly studied it, she realized that the creature had no heartbeat, did not breathe, nor did it have a scent.
Imani’s eyes widened with shock and apprehension in equal measure, dawning horror creeping in.
The rabbit grinned.