Varga winced as the Tazen mender cleaned the deep gash on his brow, disrupting his focus. The breathing techniques Agent Aon urged him to master would have to wait.

For the third time, Varga found himself back in the mender's hut, nursing fresh wounds from yet another brawl in the town.

“You need to be more careful,” the mender, Kokal, mentioned as she stood, inspecting her handiwork from afar.

“I think it will heal fine,” she murmured, leaning over Varga and pinching the wound together. Varga grimaced from the pain of the gash. Suddenly, it felt like someone dunked his head in a bucket of ice water.

Varga lost track of time. The icy numbness not only took away the pain of his gashed forehead, but it also momentarily pushed away the simmering anger he carried. When Kokal released him, he gasped for air, his chest tight with a mix of relief and the familiar, unwelcome tension he had developed since his Fulope brought him to the City-State of Tazen.

Varga touched his brow, feeling smooth skin where the gash used to be.

“Just a light scar,” Kokal said, smiling at her work.

“Thank you,” Varga mumbled as he stood from the cot.

“You are lucky that you didn’t have any significant injuries, or your body would need much more rest. It would be best to remember while healing is magik, all it does is accelerate your body’s natural healing process,” Kokal explained. Varga was not an expert on magik or healing, but he learned during his time at Vestigare basic training that one could receive magikal healing and still die.

Varga pulled out three silver denis from his coin purse and handed them to her.

“Master Varga, listen. I know it’s not my place, but you’ve got to get a handle on that temper of yours. Whatever’s eating at you—it doesn’t have to win,” Kokal said, looking him in the eye.

Varga felt a rare sense of calm as he looked into Kokal’s eyes. She made him feel safe—like maybe he mattered to someone in this cursed place and was more than only the Vestigare blunt instrument to take down Balrik. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to, one that unsettled him as much as it comforted him.

Kokal was tall enough to look him level in the eyes with smooth, onyx-colored skin and large almond-shaped eyes, and she wore her jet-black hair up in multiple buns.

“I believe in you,” Kokal added, pulling Varga from his thoughts.

“But until you can, make sure you don’t get yourself killed, and I will help you.”

“As long as I have silver, right?” Varga quipped, gathering his jacket.

“Silver helps,” Kokal replied, laughing heartily at the exchange.

Kokal’s laugh was warm, genuine, and infectious. Before Varga knew it, he was laughing too—a rare, unguarded interaction. He didn’t realize how much he missed such moments until now.

“Also, I am unsure why your stomach is bothering you so much if you are not drinking as you say. It could be from stress. Regardless, drink a glass or two of oziberry juice to keep inflammation down,” Kokal explained. Varga was sad to see her radiant smile replaced with a look of concern, but he was grateful for her help.

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“Thank you. I’ll be back,” Varga said, making his way to the hut’s exit.

Kokal looked at him slyly, and before he left, she said.

“I know you will be.”

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Every step was a struggle, the thick mud clinging to his boots as if the Stew itself was trying to drag him under. Varga felt the eyes of the desperate on him as he pressed forward. Slowly, the buildings grew sturdier, the air slightly less oppressive, telling him Varga neared the border where the slums gave way to the city proper. Varga paused to catch his breath and glance back at the squalor he was leaving behind. No matter how often he crossed this threshold, the shift from misery to a semblance of civilization was always jarring.

Varga knew better than to cross into the city proper, so he turned toward the one place where the line between the two worlds blurred: the Fifth Member. The inn stood like a sentinel on the edge of the slums, its worn sign swaying slightly in the breeze. It was a haven for the lowlifes of Tazen and Balrik's headquarters.

Varga made his way across the common room and found a stool. He noticed a thin Arzan leaning against the bar as he sat. The thick Tazen bartender, Mikah, approached him, wiping his meaty hands with a filthy rag.

“Master Varga, I am glad that gash healed. What can I get you?”

“Thank you, Master Mikah. Get me a glass of oziberry juice.”

Mikah nodded, and without another word, he went off to get Varga his drink.

“Oziberry juice?” the Arzan asked, snickering.

“Yes. The mender suggested I drink a few glasses a day for my stomach,” Varga answered, doing his best to remain calm as Kokal wanted.

Mikah plunked the glass of juice on the counter and went off to do something else.

“Mender? I always thought Xandrans had more sense than to believe in backwater witchcraft,” the Arzan said, chuckling.

Varga’s knuckles whitened around the ceramic mug, the Arzan’s snide comment pounding in his head like a war drum. He downed the oziberry juice in one long gulp, its bitter tang doing nothing to quell the rage simmering in his gut.

He thought to walk away, but the Arzan’s smug expression pushed him over the edge. Without thinking, Varga lunged, shattering the ceramic mug on the side of the Arzan’s head.

The Arzan screamed, falling backward and clutching his face. Varga tackled him, taking them to the floor. From there, Varga mounted the Arzan and started raining punches down on him. Varga lost track of how long he beat the Arzan, but he didn’t stop until a meaty hand grasped his reared-back fist from behind.

Varga turned, expecting to see Mikah, and was surprised when he found himself face-to-face with Fulope.

“Enough, lad,” Fulope said, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. He pointedly glanced at the Arzan’s battered face. “Point made.”

Varga could feel the Ramon fixer guiding him to stand, so he went along. Once up on his feet, Fulope looked him up and down, sighing before he spoke.

“You have to get a new hobby.”

Varga clenched his fists as the blood continued to pound in his ears, but Varga still had enough sense to keep his mouth shut when Fulope spoke to him.

“I get it. You are young and mad at the world, but Balrik has important visitors who come here. Individuals with deep business connections to him. Do you understand?”

Varga nodded in response.

“There are some individuals who come here that you can’t touch,” Fulope started before gesturing to bloodied Arzan on the floor. “This gentleman is someone you almost can’t touch, but luckily for you, Balrik also finds him annoying.”

Varga let out a breath that he was unaware he was holding.

Fulope looked over his shoulder at the bartender.

“Master Mikah, clean this mess up for me if you please.”

“Should I take him to a mender?” Mikah asked.

“No,” Fulope started, looking at the Arzan thoughtfully, “this should remind him to keep his opinions to himself.”

Fulope turned his attention back to Varga.

“Good news. Balrik wants to meet tomorrow. Until then, stick around. What were you drinking?”

“Oziberry juice,” Varga answered.

The corners of Fulope’s mouth twitched as he visibly fought a smile, but he said nothing and ordered Varga his drink.