(Charles)

It’d been three days since Charles left Dartmouth. He shifted in his seat again. The cushioned bench of the driver’s box was usually comfortable enough, but nothing stayed comfortable forever. His legs felt restless, his feet tapping out their own irritation. Hours had passed since his last stretch, and he could feel the tension building from being stuck in the same position for too long.

Concern for Vera was the reason for the forced pace of his trip. Charles was sure Nightshade’s animal handlers were adequate, but theropods were clever, and Vera was no ordinary theropod. He was worried she’d grow bored and start hunting regardless of being penned up. Dartmouth had already called for her execution, and he didn’t want her giving them another excuse to put her down.

He’d slept just enough to remain awake as the bramble spawn carried him down the road. One full night’s rest was all he’d managed to get since meeting the off-worlder, Dylan. Running mostly on naps for more than a week took its toll on him.

If he could hold out just a bit longer, he’d reach the local Ebonscale chapter—his former home. There, he’d arrange for the pick-up and delivery of both theropods. He’d still need to secure and pay for Vera’s care for the next three months. Once that was handled, he could finally sleep like a Dylan.

“Hope I’ve got the gems.”

Charles thought it’d be unfortunate if, after he’d finally secured Vera’s freedom, an administrative fee would be the cause for her return to captivity. One advantage in his favor was he knew the lead theropod trainer, Stablemaster Fu-tang, an old torajin.

Fu-tang was the only torajin Charles had ever met. Unlike his own people, the torajin hadn’t officially colonized Xel’oria. They were one of the primal races, like the okamijin—a nomadic people who spread across continents and, eventually, other worlds. Their appearance was beast-like, sharing bipedal forms with fur-covered bodies, soft, rotating ears, muzzles, claws, and even tails.

While okamijin were known for their endurance and canid features—long, thin muzzles and strong, clawed digits—the torajin were more graceful and felid, with shorter, wider muzzles and retractable, razor-sharp claws.

Charles thought back fondly on his time assisting with the theropods. Animals, while sometimes dangerous, followed their own type of logic—instinct. Charles preferred working with them because once he understood their logic, it was reliable. He knew what to expect when working with the creatures.

People were far less predictable, each subscribing to their own enigmatic logic. Just when you think you’ve figured them out, they change. The tenet of Ebonscale, “Power above all else,” created a perpetual state of dissatisfaction. Once a goal was achieved, another had to be set. Obtaining power was only a prerequisite to unlocking an even higher power—a never-ending cycle.

It was a game that never interested Charles. He was tired of being a casualty to ambition. The path to power was paved in betrayal, deceit, and exploitation. Those who faltered on that fickle path were left with blame, denial, and estrangement.

Bitterness descended upon him as the rooftop of the guildhall peeked over the trees. The impossible had happened. After a decade of freedom, he’d finally returned home.

The tree line stopped, giving way to a crystal fence that mirrored the tone of the stronghold it guarded. From his time here, Charles knew the tall, ornate, black barrier encircled the entire compound. Slits between the crystal posts provided just enough of a view to glimpse the formidable guildhall, while preserving mystery and keeping out those deemed unworthy.

Like most obvious defenses, it was for show—a visual deterrent for the simple of mind and means and a display of vanity for the rest. The real protection came from their reputation—a well-earned one, he grudgingly admitted. No sane person would rile up that pollinator’s nest. Yet somehow, Dylan had been a part of the incursion.

Charles peeped at the large lake that sat across from the gated compound. It must have been the one Dylan had landed in during his escape. Fortuitous for Dylan to have that option available to him, Charles didn’t see any other way for him to have made it out. Climbing the fence would have been far too physical a task for the chubby man.

A grand gate stood at the front entrance, serving as a reception point for guests and offering the perfect vantage to present the guildhall. The towering manor reached for the sky, its vertical lines asymmetrically joined to the dormitories, suggesting there were many paths to the same destination, though not all of them equal.

The gate silently swung open at his approach, providing him with three insights.

‘They were expecting me,’ he thought.

First, someone knew he needed to visit this Ebonscale chapter. It’d been over a decade since his last return, and he didn’t recognize the guards’ faces as he rode past.

‘They recognized my transport.’

Second, they had enough information about him to recognize his arborhearth—an exceptionally rare form of transportation. The gate had been opened well before the guards could have made out much more than a dark carriage pulled by two bramble spawn.

‘They had standing orders.’

Third, they had authority over gate access. Even guild members had to stop at the gate before entering or leaving.

Only one individual from Ebonscale had recently been to Dartmouth, knew about his court-issued business, had access to his personal records, and could pre-authorize his entry. The most obvious clue about who had taken an interest in him was that the individual was still alive.

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‘Guildmaster Maeve.’

This possibility kept resurfacing in his mind over the past three days. The best plan, he decided, was to avoid her. However, Guildmaster Maeve had a tendency of getting what she wanted, and for reasons he couldn’t understand, she wanted him to return to the guild.

That wasn’t true; he’d thought of several reasons why returning to the fold would benefit her. The problem was, he didn’t have enough information to determine which was the most likely. Charles had never met her, and he’d like to keep it that way. All he knew about her was circumstantial, which was a terrible baseline to understand her motives.

‘Scaffolding?’ he wondered. The sight of it erected beside the dormitory perplexed him. He’d known about the explosion from Dylan’s retelling. But why were they using mundane repair technology?

‘Where’s the architect?’

There were signs of the architect’s mending ability. Charles noticed some individuals with living stone prosthetics, a known side effect of mending by Bo’cefus’s hand. Bo’cefus, an alabaster-scaled draconi, rarely took contracts that would pull him away from the stronghold. If he’d used his mending abilities, it was likely during the attack.

‘Did Christian Bale kill Bo’cefus?’

Dylan’s ignorance and lack of delineation during his retelling left Charles with an incomplete picture of that night. But seeing evidence that the stronghold was without an architect, even a week later, pieced together enough to conclude that White and Bo’cefus were indeed one and the same—and he’d been slain at the hands of Christian Bale.

Charles knew to park near the stables on the other side of the guildhall, opposite from the dormitories. He was curious to see what remained of the alchemy lab, but not enough to delay his business and risk an encounter with the Guildmaster.

Previously, Dreadfang had let it slip that the former headmaster of the stronghold was among the dead. Only guilds large enough to warrant multiple strongholds used headmasters; they ran the local chapter, and the only person who outranked them was the actual guildmaster. Intrigue tempted Charles as he wondered who she’d pick to replace the Old Elf.

A young elven girl, barely past her first decade, rushed up to him as he drove into an empty lot.

“Hello,” she called up to him.

“Yes?” he asked, peering down at her from atop the arborhearth.

“I can stable your—” The girl paused. She’d obviously never seen bramble spawn before, but that wouldn’t stop her. “I can stable these beautiful creatures for you, if you’d like.

“No, they’re fine,” he replied.

The girl nodded and stepped back, but lingered nearby; Charles wasn’t sure if it was out of curiosity for the bramble spawn or Fu-tang’s training on proper stable attendance. Most likely, it was a mixture of both.

He stood slowly in the driver’s box, stretching his arms above his head and leaning side to side. Normally, he’d hop down right away and be about his business, but the lack of sleep had caught up to him, and he avoided unnecessary risks. Carefully, he climbed down from the driver’s box, using the small steps attached to the side.

The bramble spawn, eager for nourishment, wasted no time in sending exploratory roots into the loose ground beneath them. As they went about their subterranean work, a scratching sound rose from under the dirt. It wouldn’t take long for them to form a robust network of roots.

“Do you know Fu-tang?” Charles asked the stable attendant.

The girl gave him a curious look. “He’s the best theropod handler in the world… Everyone knows Fu-tang.”

‘Excellent. He’s still here,’ Charles thought, relieved to know he’d be dealing with someone familiar. He glanced back at the girl. “Where can I find him?” he asked.

She thought for a moment and then said, “You might find him at the pond.”

‘That body of water is much too large to be called a pond,’ Charles thought, a faint crease forming on his brow. “Across from the stronghold?” he asked, pointing to the one Dylan had used as a landing pad.

“No, the one behind the guildhall,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction.

‘That’s new,’ he thought.

Noticing the concern on her face, Charles gave a reassuring nod. “They’ll care for themselves. Be sure no one disturbs them.”

That seemed to satisfy her, and she returned to tend to the other stabled creatures. Charles looked up at the guildhall. The most direct route would have been to cut through, but Guildmaster Maeve was likely inside.

He decided against cutting through and instead made his way around the guildhall to the backside of the stronghold, where he found a new-to-him body of water, smaller than a lake but larger than a pool. Pond had been an appropriate description. A dock extended out over the water, with what appeared to be a partially submerged stable nearby. An orange, black, and white-striped torajin stood waist-deep in the water, looking remarkably fit for his age.

Fu-tang’s coat was lighter than Charles remembered, and his bright oranges were fading—a natural sign of age among the primal races. This torajin would be a hundred in just a few more years, considered elderly among his people. The magic of being an adventurer had kept him in his prime for decades longer than most.

Still, Charles knew better than to underestimate him. Whatever time might have taken in speed and strength, it had returned two-fold in experience and wisdom. When you knew how to avoid trouble, fast reflexes were redundant—or so Fu-tang liked to say.

Charles’s footsteps crunched softly on the gravel as he approached. “Charles?” Fu-tang looked up as the rugged elf drew near.

“Hello, Fu-tang,” Charles replied, offering a small, respectful nod.

The torajin waded over and nimbly lifted himself onto the dock. He was soaked from the waist down, water rushing down his shorts, legs, and onto the purple wooden slats.

“I didn’t believe them when they said you were coming back,” Fu-tang said.

“I’m not back,” he quickly clarified, his gaze surveying how the stronghold had changed.

Fu-tang’s expression suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “You don’t know what the future holds,” he said. “As I recall, you specifically stated you’d never set foot on these grounds again. Yet, here you are.”

Charles sighed, looking past the torajin at the pond. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” Fu-tang gave a slight nod, affirming a well-known truth.

Fu-tang was correct. Charles could have chosen to let Vera die, but he’d rather swallow his pride than let her suffer for his actions. He exhaled slowly, recalling how, before he’d left, Fu-tang had cautioned him about thinking in absolutes. To Fu-tang, everything was a teachable moment.

“There are two theropods currently stabled at Nightshade. One of the theropods is yours. The other—Vera, the albino—has been transferred to me as part of resolving a situation involving a refugee.

“I need your assistance transporting them back here. Also, I need a personal favor; I’ve a court order that Vera must remain in your care for three months of rehabilitation. She…” Charles glanced aside, hesitating for a split second, “…temporarily maimed an officer.”

The torajin nodded. “I’ve already dispatched a team.”

“When?” Charles glanced back in the direction he’d come. “I didn’t see anyone from Ebonscale on the road.”

“A quest was made for a flying transport to expedite the team’s arrival. They’re most likely already on their way back,” Fu-tang said.

‘A Quest?’ Quests were issued by guildmasters and headmasters. This wasn’t good.

Guildmaster Maeve had already offered to cover his court debts for reinstating his membership with Ebonscale. He’d declined; he knew everything had a price and would rather pay a high price up front than owe an unspecified debt later. Now, she had invested guild resources in him, so he couldn’t refuse.

Charles let out a slow, measured sigh. “That’s unfortunate,” he finally said aloud.