“Open doors!” someone, probably a guard, bellowed. Something in the walls, or perhaps the ceiling, clicked, and a deep, resounding thud vibrated the world. A moment later, a sliver of light appeared between the heavy iron doors of the prisoner release unit. Varga squinted as the light of the twin suns hit him in the face while the entrance to the prison he had called home for the past eight months slowly opened. The warm, dusty air filled his lungs. He took a deep breath, savoring the taste of freedom, and thanked the gods he survived to see the day of his release.
As he stepped beyond the iron threshold, he felt a rush of energy surge through him. It was as if the world itself was waking up inside him, the ley lines that the prison denied, now filling him with life. The blue sky stretched above him, vast and infinite, a stark contrast to the gray walls that had confined him. For a brief moment, he just stood there, absorbing the feeling and letting it sink into his bones.
Varga’s silent moment of appreciation was interrupted when he noticed two large carriages with several Xandrans toughs standing around them. They exploded into applause as soon as he made eye contact with them. They signaled him over. Varga figured it was his contact, and as he approached them, he saw that his hunch was correct as one of Xandelfi trades’ bosses, Carlos Del Gato, alighted from a carriage.
“Varga! Get over here, boy,” Carlos said, smiling widely. Varga quickened his step. The last thing he needed was to upset the one other person in the world who knew he was an undercover agent. Carlos embraced him as soon as Varga got close. After an awkward hug, Carlos grasped Varga by the shoulders and looked him up and down.
“Look at this guy. It is like he is chiseled from oak,” Carlos said over his shoulder to his men, referring to Varga’s physique.
“Prison has a way of tempering a person, I suppose,” Carlos murmured, his eyes narrowing as they scanned Varga’s face. There was a flicker of something behind that smile, something cold and calculating. Varga met his gaze steadily, knowing better than to flinch under the scrutiny.
Carlos turned away, his demeanor shifting as he addressed his men with a brisk command. The transition was so seamless, so practiced, that Varga couldn’t help but wonder how many faces Carlos wore and how Varga had better master the skills that Carlos possessed if he expected to survive this lifestyle.
“Get this man some clothes. I have seen beggars in better rags than the prison provides,” Carlos said, inspecting Varga’s prison attire.
One of Carlos’s men scrambled to follow the request. He disappeared into one of the carriages and reappeared almost immediately, holding a neat bundle of clothes wrapped in twine.
“Change behind the carriage,” the Xandran tough said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the carriage. Varga walked behind the carriage and changed into the clothes provided for him. They were simple black trousers and a white shirt, but they felt like fine silks compared to the scratchy tunic he wore in prison. He walked back to the other side of the carriage.
“Chuck those rags, and let’s go. You ride with me,” Carlos said, boarding his carriage before Varga could even acknowledge his orders.
Varga climbed into Carlos’s carriage and was surprised to find that the inside was plush but not overly extravagant. The bench seats had thick cushions sewn onto them and looked more comfortable than your standard bed. He closed the door and sat across from the Xandran trades’ boss. Once inside, Vargas immediately noticed the smiling face Carlos wore outside was replaced with an unreadable expression. Suddenly, the carriage lurched into motion.
“I am sure your experience inside prison gave you some insight into how things work in the trades and the other areas of the underworld throughout Cordizal,”
Varga nodded in confirmation.
“There’s one thing you need to know before we meet Balrik,” Carlos said, leaning forward as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
Varga instinctively straightened in his seat, meeting Carlos's gaze.
“Balrik is not like the others,” Carlos continued, his tone carrying a soft, cold edge. “He’s unpredictable. Dangerous. Most of us in the trades operate with a code—a set of unwritten rules. However, Balrik…” Carlos paused, allowing the silence to stretch long enough for Varga to feel the weight of his words. “He makes his own rules. And if you cross him, or even if he believes you crossed them, there are no second chances.”
Varga felt a chill crawl up his spine despite the warm, dry, stale air in the carriage. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Don’t misunderstand. I am not telling you this out of the kindness of my heart. I need you to succeed. Or at least, I need you not to be questioned by Balrik. If he suspected the Vestigare sent you there to infiltrate his operation, he would extract the information from you in the most unpleasant ways imaginable, and the results of your torture would put me in a compromising position,” Carlos explained.
“I am under no delusion that we are friends or that you have any stake in my personal safety outside of the need to protect yourself, so I have to ask, why are you doing this? Why risk alienating Balrik or a rumor of working with the Vestigare?” Varga asked, allowing his curiosity to defeat his common sense.
Carlos silently sat, intently staring at Varga for a moment before sighing audibly. “I suppose there is no reason why we can’t be candid with one another during this trip. I am doing it because Balrik is a rabid animal that needs to be put down.”
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“Don’t you work with him?”
“Yes and no. Our spheres touch from time to time, but I do my best not to be associated with Balrik,” Carlos answered, turning his face toward the window. Varga took the gesture to mean their conversation about Balrik was over.
As they rode in silence, the sway of the carriage lulled Varga to sleep, but his mind remained restless. The world outside the prison felt both familiar and foreign, a place he once belonged but now viewed through a different lens. The mission weighed heavily on him, the stakes higher than ever. However, beneath the surface, there was a constant nagging of doubt—a question of whether he would ever return to the Five Kingdoms, and if he did, would the man he became be someone else entirely?
“We are almost there,” Carlos said, waking Varga with a start.
“How long was I asleep for?” Varga asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“Almost about thirty hours.”
Varga looked out the window to see the twin suns setting, casting long shadows over the rugged landscape. The terrain had changed drastically since they left the prison, with the barren plains giving way to rolling hills and the distant glimmer of the ocean. They were heading toward the borders of Arza and Nawahl. The air was cooler and carried the scent of brine.
Carlos pulled out a hunk of crusty bread and a wineskin, handing them to Varga. Varga took them, nodding with gratitude before eating and drinking greedily. The wine alone made it the best meal he had had in months.
They rode for an unknown amount of time, filling the silence with small talk. Finally, the carriage began to slow down. Carlos locked eyes with Varga before speaking.
“Follow my lead. If the fixer becomes suspicious, your mission will be over, and maybe our lives as well.”
“Understood,” Varga acknowledged as the carriage came to a stop.
Carlos gestured for Varga to exit first, which made sense, considering that Varga was supposed to be Carlos’s underling, so he alighted without protest. Outside, some of the men who greeted him upon his prison release were there, along with a few Arzans and a rotund Ramon with the thickest walking cane Varga had ever seen.
“Carlos, good to see you again,” the Ramon said as soon as Carlos exited the carriage.
“Fulope! It is a pleasure,” Carlos returned the greeting. Varga noticed that Carlos’s jovial demeanor was back. He was impressed at how the Xandran could change emotions on demand.
The Ramon waddled forward in an effort to meet Carlos halfway, and to his credit, he made a third of the way before Carlos got to him. The two clutched forearms, smiling and making small talk. Varga was surprised that Carlos was on such friendly terms with a Ramon but then remembered that Carlos was passing a mole over to the Ramon, so their relationship must not be genuine.
As the two men stood next to one another, Varga took the opportunity to compare them. Carlos had long, black hair, pulled into a ponytail, and the tawny skin of their people, but he was short and lithe by Xandran standards. Fulope, in comparison, had sandy-brown hair cut in Ramon legionnaire fashion and an olive complexion. He was meaty and tall, making the two men almost complete opposites.
“Fulope, this is Varga,” Carlos started as Varga approached them. Fulope made eye contact for a polite greeting but kept his attention on Carlos.
“I need you to know that this man is like kin to me. He is from good Xandran stock and very reliable and loyal,” Carlos said.
“He is a former Vestigare agent, is he not? How loyal can he be?”
“His family has ties to the trades. Varga joined the Vestigare to protect his people, and I will not tolerate such slander to his name again,” Carlos hissed, his voice low and dangerous. Fulope’s smile faltered, just for a moment, before he raised his meaty hands in a placating gesture.
“At ease, my friend,” Fulope said, his tone light but his eyes wary. “You have to see it from my point of view. A former Vestigare agent could be a tremendous asset or a tremendous risk.”
Varga was impressed by the Xandran’s performance. He would have believed they were age old companions if he hadn’t met him just yesterday.
“Just so. Unfortunately, in Xandelfi, there is too much attention on Varga for me to put into the trades in the capacity that he deserves. I thought you or your boss could use a good man for a few years. Consider this a favor to me.”
Varga noticed the Ramon frown at the word boss but did not correct Carlos.
“How good are you with a sword? Sword arms are always useful. I assume you fenced in Xandra at some point.”
“I believe I could hold my own against most in a fair fight,” Varga answered carefully.
“I am not sure if that was modesty or overconfidence. Either way, I like it,” Fulope responded, laughing loudly at his wit.
“So, I can trust you to take care of him?” Carlos asked after Fulope finished.
“Of course, old friend. But I cannot promise that Balrik will take him, so I will need something to cover his living expenses until we find a way for him to start earning,” Fulope replied.
Varga suspected Fulope would have asked for the coins regardless of whether he knew Balrik would take Varga on.
“That goes without saying,” Carlos said, producing a bulging coin purse and handing it over to the Ramon. Carlos turned to Varga, clapping him on the shoulders like they were age-old companions.
“I will see you in a few years. Take care and be safe,” Carlos said before saying his farewells to Fulope and leaving Varga alone with the Ramon.
“So, what did Carlos tell you about me?” Fulope asked as they watched Carlos’s carriages ride away.
“Not much. Carlos only told me that you work for Balrik,” Varga answered truthfully.
“I work with Balrik, but those are some semantics for some other time. Come along now. I will catch you up on what to expect,” Fulope said with a chuckle before turning toward his carriage.
“By the way, where are we going?” Varga asked as he fell in beside the waddling Ramon.
“We are heading to the City-State of Tazen, lad. You wanted to meet Balrik. Now all you have to do is hope that he wants to meet you,” Fulope answered ominously.
They boarded the carriage, with Varga wondering if he would return to Xandra as a hero. Or if he would end up buried in a shallow grave, remembered for the infamous deeds crafted by the Vestigare. The road ahead was uncertain, and the shadows stretching across the land seemed to whisper of dangers yet unseen. However, Varga knew one thing for sure—whatever awaited him in Tazen would test him in ways he had never imagined.