Day turned to night. Night turned to day, and again. Well, he supposed the natural process of time passing was pretty self explanatory. It wouldn't been far more conservative in terms of 'word count' if he'd simply said they waited three days, but everyone seemed to use that '3 day' rule for some reason. What am I even thinking about? Wait... Where am I? Hello? Can you hear me? Please, if you can, I don't want to do this any--

Tyr and Nala were patient, but Hastur still hadn't arrived in Milano. They were all ready for it. The nobles, court, merchant princes, and other mages in the city. Celebrating his coming like that of a traveling saint.

Hated everywhere. That's what Tyr had heard of Hastur, but those in the 'know' seemed to know something that he did not. And they would not say. Some 'gift' they had been promised a long time ago.

“He hides.” Tyr growled. It stood to reason that Hastur was skilled enough in the various schools of magic to know they were there. Notably Nala, who would smash him to red ruin as easily as clipping her fingernails. Archmage or not, she was by nature an ambush predator and there was no chance he was that strong. The fact that Tyr had found her was surely some kind of... He'd say divine intervention, but the gods were what they were to him.

He had grown tired of patrolling the city. He was a celebrity here. Famous and infamous in equal measure depending on who you spoke to. When he came – there would be a celebration. A feast laid for him by the various merchant princes. But Nala didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

“And...? Who cares. You need to relax, enjoy the finer things. Come and lay with me, this... What did you call it?”

“Dreamweed.” Tyr replied, irritated but unable to stay so after looking at her. It wasn't her voluptuous frame or long body that pleased him the most. It was the preternatural calm she exuded. Completely relaxed and detached from worldly concerns. He wished he could feel like that, and he did, from a perspective beyond his own. It wasn't enough.

She lay flat on a chaise lounge located in their room. Tyr had balked at the cost before she'd paid for it. Pulling her own weight worth in gold out of a dimensional ring, and this was only a sliver of her incredible wealth. Manticore had little need or interest for money, but it could come in handy, all that she'd gathered over the ages, from people who came to slay her. Thankfully, Tyr was present to ensure she wasn't taken for all she was worth – having no proper business sense.

In her mouth was the long stem coming from a meter tall pipe. A thin wisp of violet vapor framed her body, with a tail of it spilling from her lips. Dreamweed, the processed bits of a certain bud from a flowering plant. Dried and roasted until it resembled tobacco, but it was magical. Typically, one would burn it like incense, but she smoked it directly from the pipe. In enough quantity to kill a man many times over. Or at least put them into a coma.

“It smells like feet.” Feet covered in overly sweet syrup or honey. A sugary tang to it that did not please him, though aesthetically he did find it quite beautiful. Staring into the smoke. Like to her, unlike lesser men, Tyr was resistant to its greater effects. Because of that, he'd been put into a constant state of flip-flopping between peaceful drowsiness and small fits of energy. Causing him to twitch as his body metabolized and summarily rejected the smoke, the same way it did alcohol. Further worsening his mood.

“And it tastes like love. A waking dream, I can see why they call it so. You humans always make the strangest things forbidden. The best things, that is. Why is that?” She asked, eyes low and lazy, voice sultry. A husky, sexy voice, grazing a part of his self he didn't want to feel, not right now. Nala would burst into odd purring and soft moans every few minutes, barely audible. Men might find it irresistible, but it was a very real annoyance to him.

Tyr sat himself across from her in a nearby 'loveseat'. Despite segregating himself from Nala, she followed. Gliding through the air with an almost comedic clumsiness, nearly knocking the contents of the pipe to the ground. Eventually, her head rested in his lap and she began to purr as he stroked her wavy, silky hair. Every time his fingers passed through it, the hue and color would change like that of a bio-luminescent squid.

She was pleased that he did not push her away this time. He was too lost in the unpleasant sensation of the smoke to do so. Like he was on the verge of falling asleep only to be jarred awake. Again and again. “Only powerful mages or things not human can smoke it. There is mana in the smoke and it can drive them mad. Dreamweed junkies eventually turn into monsters. Wretched things that become addicted to the mana and will do anything to feel it again. Or so the rumors go, there aren't many drug dealers in Haran. This place seems far more liberal.”

Anything that altered the mind to feel things that it couldn't experience naturally were bound to be addicting. Alcohol, tobacco, or more enigmatic substances.

“Will that happen to me?” She giggled. “Will I become one of these so called junkies? You shouldn't judge so heavily. To escape from the torments of reality is a goal I can well understand. As will you one day.”

“I doubt it.” Tyr replied, leaning back into the sofa he sat on and doing his best to relax himself, feeling his neck growing hot. He was forced to swallow, courtesy of the saliva building up in his mouth so as not to drool. “Your mana is superior to the dreamleaf. That must be the key.”

Those who over indulged would fall sway to it. Normally, archmages and the like would burn it when performing some massive spell that would normally suck them dry. There were potions to heal, but not to refill mana that had been expended. This was the next best thing. And the burn was controlled rather than pulling directly from an infused gem or mana crystal, apparently there was a difference.

It didn't take them long to fall asleep like that. Nala acted very much like the cat she was, and Tyr found her warmth soothing. As the smoke cleared, his body adjusted, sinking him into deep slumber.

When they awoke, it was night. Nala had somehow managed to curl her entire body onto his. A feat unto itself considering their near identical size. “What did you dream of?” She rose and stretched as soon as his eyes had opened. It had been a peaceful sleep, with her position indicative that he hadn't fallen into a fit this time, and that was good. Iscari had said that Tyr did that near nightly. To thrash about in his dreams and whisper in a tongue he was unfamiliar with, calling it creepy. Whether he was joking or not, as he claimed, was anyone's guess.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Wolves.”

“Wolves?” She arched a brow, moving across the suite and pouring herself a glass of blood-wine, another of those 'substances' not meant for ordinary men. “As in the predatory mammals? Ancestors of your hound?”

“I always dream of them.” Tyr replied. “Not quite, though. These are different. One creates a sun and the other devours it. On and on they go, forever. Do you know what it means?”

Nala rolled her shoulders, stretching her long frame again and groaning in contentment. No shame to her, revealing far more than most women would be comfortable with. “Your interpretation of the cycle of balance. Creation and destruction, maybe. A fel omen.” She mused with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh? And what did you dream of?”

“We don't.” She answered softly. “Chimera cannot dream. I see nothing but black. Do you know why?”

Tyr shook his head, washing himself clean with the assistance of the spellbreakers and changing his clothes. He no longer wore the academy uniform so as to not be so easily identified. Realizing that he had taken for granted its self cleaning enchantments.

“Because we have no gods. I've met a hydra once, a beast who dwells in the great canyon to the east. He claims its because we do not have gods as you do. Since we were created by a man. A great man, but still an inferior lifeform. No spirits watch over our fates and we lay apart from the will of the world. In essence, we shouldn't exist, but we do.”

“You could always try praying.” Tyr offered. “Maybe one will listen to you, but I wouldn't count on it.”

Nala chuckled. “I figured him a fool, regardless. Gods do not exist. Not truly.”

“They exist.” Tyr said softly. “Something exists. Not sure if you'd like what you saw should you ever meet one.”

Thanatos had said he'd be watching, but Tyr had heard nothing from him since. Not human, not natural. He was absolutely sure of that. Something greater, beyond human understanding. Others too, if Jurak was really a 'god'. The shepherd of death had mentioned others, calling them his kind and assuring the prince that they existed. Tyr remained uninterested in calling to them. He'd tried once, in desperation, and had been ignored. He remembered his promise to them and always would, and though his ire had not dimmed, he looked at it from an outside perspective.

As if to ask what he would have done in their shoes. He didn't know, couldn't say with any level of confidence.

Night turned to day, where they ate and played. Sampling yet more of the sprawling city of fluted pillars and constant frivolities. People in Milano were a different breed, but friendly. Soft men with kind eyes and soft bodies. Unused to war or the predilection to remain prepared for it that pervaded the empires. Here on the peninsula, few threats existed. The sea was reportedly patrolled by a nation of mer-people and sirens, monsters or beastkin – Tyr didn't know.

He'd not seen one, but they kept the shores and beaches safe, living in treaty with the Milanese in return for some small tribute and sole rights over specific fishing waters.

But eventually, after many more days – their own frivolities would come to an end. As expected, Hastur arrived to great fanfare, making it so much easier. Tyr and Nala were ready, given ample time to prepare – but they'd forgo the planning. They were both predators in their own way, operating by instinct rather than a plan that was bound to grow awry.

It was that same instinct that told him that something was wrong. Nothing apparent or visible. People were relatively cheerful and the city was as busy as ever. A drunkard thrown bodily through the door of an inn by a hulking minotaur. A minstrel dancing and strumming at his lute for spare coppers or the odd paper 'dollar'. Nothing he saw communicated the world was anything but fine, but he felt it. Some kind of foreboding, a rock in his gut that he couldn't shake.

Nothing appeared out of sorts. Milano was serene, calm, and beautiful. It was built high, with streets far wider than they needed to be, everything decorated with gardens and fountains. Statures of merchant princes, the cities founders, and innovators. Just with a glance one could see how insanely wealthy the state was, building a city out and over the water, the southern edge of it consisting of neat canals and botanical displays. Even at night it was alive, everyone in a rush to be about some business.

“Something is wrong.” Tyr whispered. They walked alongside one another, blending into the crowd with hoods pulled low. Magic tailored cloaks that Nala had said would aid in shrouding them. Loomed from 'embercloth' and inlaid with all manner of 'Alfen' runes woven in spun silver. As powerful as the artifacts might be, Tyr did not know what an alfen was, nor embercloth. It'd have to do, if she was confident – he was.

“I agree.” Nala replied. “There is a bird that appears to be dancing on the awning over that financial institution.”

“A dancing bird is the problem...?”

“Yes.” She nodded with absolute certainty. “You see, I hate birds. They are the worst. All they do is scream obscenities and defecate. Disgusting, foul creatures. Get it? Foul, but fowl?” Tyr was stony faced and flat on the lips. “These words are pronounced the same in your tongue, are they not? Foul and fowl. Fowl like the bird? You do not get it?”

“I get it...” Tyr hissed, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. She wouldn't get much time to practice for the impending launch of her budding comedy career. Hastur was here. Tyr could see him from the raised causeway separating the upper and lower districts. An old man, gray and wrinkled, liver spots on his face. He had a soft smile on his lips, but his steel gray eyes were as cold as the metal their color would be attributed to.

He could smell it. With that sense of his, to sniff out sin. See his soul. Hastur's was black all over – like a gaping void without any of the starlight common in the souls of average people. He was surrounded by a crowd that cheered him, walking casually through it all, his left hand carrying a twisted staff of gnarled oak.

Hastur didn't expect him. Didn't expect Tyr to leap from the twenty meters separating him from the platform and cave in his skull with a steel shot boot. Enough force to break both of their bodies, but the prince was quick to rise, healed from the wounds of the fall within a dozen seconds. Splattered with the mans blood and disconcerted at how masterful his assassination was. He expected to win, naturally, but not so easily. Nala didn't even get a chance to act.

“Er...” Hastur's corpse was a mess, people were screaming and milling about in a panic. Not much was left besides a pile of knobby limbs, snapped like dry twigs and a loose robe of black satin. “That was easy...?” Nala joined him wordlessly, ensuring the corpse of a mage throwing about forbidden magic was properly disposed of. To do things only the father should was sacrilege.

“Indeed.”

“Not what I expected from an archmage. Sorry for stealing your kill.”

“We were equally offended. It is understandable, and I accept it. What would you like to do now?”

“Get something to eat I guess...” The city was in a relative panic, but all Tyr felt was that cold and empty feeling of getting exactly what he wanted. Again, and it had made no difference at all.