Varga woke up in a comfortable bed, feeling the most rested he had felt in almost a year. Fulope set him up with a decent room for the night, and Varga forgot how much of a difference a good mattress made for getting sleep. Varga took the opportunity to practice his breathing as Agent Aon instructed. It was much harder to do when he shared his sleeping space with others, so having a private room was a gift from the gods.

Varga finished his breathing exercises by checking his pulse. After being satisfied with the results, he finished dressing and headed downstairs to the bar.

At the bar, Master Mikah dried mugs with a rag. He put down what he was doing, walking away from the counter as soon as he saw Varga, and quickly returned with a glass of oziberry juice. Varga nodded his thanks and sipped on the tart juice, wondering what Balrik expected him to do next. Fulope gave him no other instructions besides telling him Balrik would meet him today. Did they want him to wait at the bar all day?

Varga finished his glass of juice and turned to lean on the bar. He almost physically jumped as he saw Fulope standing an arm’s length away from him with a look of amusement on his face.

“Balrik will see you now,” Fulope said, skipping all pleasantries.

“Excellent.”

Varga was unsure what else to say, so he did his best to look unfazed by Fulope sneaking up on him.

“This way,” the Ramon said, walking away before Varga could reply. All he could do was walk behind Fulope as he led them through the inn.

They walked past three thick Tazens, sitting at a table dicing. At least, at first, he thought they were dicing, but they were only rolling the dice, and no coins were exchanging hands. Varga figured they were Balrik’s muscle in the inn and mentally chastised himself for not catching this earlier.

Fulope walked them around the table and behind a partition that revealed a small descending stairway with a door at the end.

“Balrik is in his office. I advise you to knock before entering,” Fulope said, gesturing towards the stairwell.

“I have some home training,” Varga mumbled. Fulope questioningly arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Varga decided that playing the tough guy now would be a mistake and headed down the stairs without complaint. His footsteps echoed as he made his way down the short hall. Varga stopped in front of the door before looking back to Fulope and loudly knocked on the door four times. Fulope smirked, and then Varga a voice from inside.

“Enter.”

Varga opened the door and entered the office. Inside, he saw a short Nawahl leaning against a large, well-polished desk.

The room was thick with the scent of old leather and sweet incense, but beneath that, Varga caught the metallic tang of iron, sharp and unsettling. The dim light flickered across the mounted animal heads of dangerous predators that lined the walls, their dead eyes glinting as if in a silent, desperate warning. Normally, such trophies wouldn’t unnerve him, but here, in Balrik’s presence, they weren’t just decorations—they were a chilling reminder that Balrik was the hunter, and you were the prey.

“The Vestigare has always attracted the finest talent,” Balrik continued, stopping just outside Varga’s reach. “Regardless of their social standing.”

Varga forced his expression to remain neutral, though the deliberate mention of his background set his nerves on edge. “My uncle always said, ‘You can take a man from the trades, but you can’t take the trades from the man.’”

Balrik’s lips curled into a cold, calculating smile. “Indeed. Your family’s reputation precedes you.” His mismatched eyes lingered on Varga, appraising him like a merchant inspecting rare goods. “I didn’t know your father well, but your uncle Alberto—now, he was a standup fellow.”

“I heard you got pinched taking bribes from Raul Del Gato and you took the fall for him instead of ratting him out. You are either very loyal or stupid,” Balrik added.

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“Some would say I am a bit of both,” Varga replied.

“Indeed,” Balrik said, his voice chilling the room.

“If what you say is true, I could use a person like you. However, I am the cautious sort. I am going to need more than a good story.”

Varga shrugged for his response.

Balrik studied Varga for a moment, then walked behind his desk. He returned holding a large metal ring and a quartz crystal as long as his forearm, their surfaces catching the light ominously. Without a word, he unceremoniously dropped the ring on the floor near Varga’s feet, his eyes never leaving Varga.

“Step in it.”

“What is it?” Varga asked, taking a half-step towards the ring.

“Something to give me peace of mind. Step in it.”

Varga paused, a cold sweat forming on his brow. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he knew there was nowhere to go. Balrik’s eyes were on him, unblinking, waiting, judging. With a deep breath, Varga stepped into the ring, praying to whatever gods would hear him that whatever came next wouldn’t be his end or something worse than death.

Balrik’s brow furrowed in deep concentration, and the ring on the floor flared to life. The now visible runes etched in its body, casting a vivid blue glow that bathed the room in an eerie light.

Varga felt the air around him grow thick, almost suffocating, as a wave of magikal energy washed over and through his body. The sensation was electric, every hair on his arms standing on end, as if the very essence of his being was laid bare to some unseen force.

Balrik’s eyes flicked to the quartz crystal in his hand, now pulsating with the same unsettling blue light as the runes on the ring. “It seems you’re not being tracked or monitored,” he remarked, his tone betraying no emotion, though the undercurrent of suspicion still lingered.

Abruptly, the glow from both the ring and the quartz ceased, plunging the room back into its dim, oppressive atmosphere. “That’s enough. Come here,” Balrik ordered, his voice sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.

Varga stepped closer to the former Vestigare agent, his heart pounding with mounting dread about what Balrik had in store for him next.

“Let me see your hands.”

Varga’s mind raced, struggling to make sense of Balrik’s command. He wondered if his own face betrayed the confusion he felt. Balrik stood there, arms folded, his expression a cold mask of indifference. With no other option, Varga held out his hands as instructed.

“Put them on the table.”

Varga swallowed hard before complying with the odd command. The moment his hands touched the table, Balrik’s expression twisted into a sneer. Before Varga could register what was happening, Balrik brought the quartz crashing down onto Varga’s left hand.

The force of the blow was brutal. A sickening crack echoed through the room as the delicate bones in Varga’s hand shattered. The pain was so intense it drove him to his knees, his world reduced to a blinding, relentless throb.

“Who sent you? Speak,” Balrik rasped, his voice devoid of emotion. His grip tightened on Varga’s wrist, pinning it to the table with a ruthless, almost predatory force.

“No one!” Varga screamed, his voice cracking with pain.

Balrik’s response was immediate and vicious. He brought the quartz down onto Varga’s hand again with a crushing force.

“Don’t lie to me, boy. The Vestigare? Are you their rat?” Balrik’s voice was cold, and with each question the quartz slammed into his hand with a steady rhythm.

“No. I am only trying to survive!” Varga finally was able to cry out, his voice breaking. He tugged at his hand, but Balrik’s grip was like iron, unyielding and relentless.

“Was it that damn lizard, Agent Aon?” Balrik’s eyes blazed with a dangerous fervor as he smashed Varga’s hand again, his actions precise and calculated.

“No. I don’t know who that is!” Varga’s voice was a whisper now, his strength ebbing and tears streaming down his face as his vision blurred.

Without warning, Balrik abruptly released his grip on Varga’s arm. The suddenness of it was almost as shocking as the violence that had preceded it.

“Enough. Get up,” Balrik ordered, yanking Varga to his feet.

Varga cradled his shattered left hand with his right, a mix of fear and hope swirling within him. Would this torment finally end?

Balrik pulled a small coin purse from his belt and dropped it onto the table. “Get yourself fixed up and buy something nice with the leftover coins. I’ll have work for you once your hand heals,” he said, his tone final, cutting off the impromptu interrogation.

Varga snatched the coin purse and shuffled out of the room, the throbbing pain in his mangled hand echoing the turmoil in his mind. The purse felt heavy—not just with coin, but with the weight of an unspoken contract forged the moment he accepted it. As the door slammed shut behind him, the air seemed colder, the shadows deeper.

He had walked away from Balrik today, but he knew better than to mistake it for mercy. The Nawahl’s nature was one of calculation, not forgiveness. With each jingle of the coin purse, the truth settled deeper in Varga’s gut—this wasn’t an apology; it was a down payment. Perhaps on his skillset. Or perhaps his grave.