“Your hand is healing well, but I’d still like my colleague in Cacoo to examine it. You deserve the best care,” Kokal said, gently cradling his recovering hand with both of hers.

Varga delayed his response, savoring the warmth and softness of her touch just a moment longer.

“If you think it’s necessary.”

Kokal’s smile lit up brightly at his agreement.

“Excellent, it is settled then.”

Varga felt a wave of disappointment as she released his hand.

He was glad to see her smile, and since he already had orders to head to Cacoo for Balrik, the timing worked out perfectly.

“Make sure you see only Mistress Tawik. The healers of Cacoo are skilled, but I do not always agree with their methods, and Mistress Tawik knows my feelings on the matter, so I am confident she will treat you with that in mind,” Kokal explained as Varga gathered his things to leave.

“Mistress Tawik, understood.”

“Please, go quickly,” she added, her voice tinged with a hint of anxiety. Before Varga could ask, Kokal was already ushering him toward the door.

“If it makes you feel at ease, I will leave right away.”

Kokal stopped in her tracks, smiling even brighter than before.

“Thank you,” she said before brushing his cheek with a kiss so light, he wasn’t even sure it happened.

Varga stood still for a moment, caught between the warmth of her touch and the cold reminder of why he truly needed to leave. A dull guilt bloomed in his chest, her soft kiss feeling heavier than it should. He had led her to believe he was leaving for her sake, but the urgency came from his fear of crossing Balrik, not from Kokal’s kindness.

The guilt lingered with Varga as he returned to the inn to gather his belongings. Once satisfied with his provisions, he made his way down to the inn’s bar.

“Master Mikah, could you inform Master Fulope that I will be away for a couple of weeks as per instructions of Master Balrik?” Varga asked the thick Tazen innkeeper, who grunted what Varga took for an agreement. Varga nodded his appreciation before taking his leave.

Varga headed to the stables, where a Tazen stableboy, whose name Varga couldn’t remember, greeted him.

“Master Varga, I shoed your steed as you requested.”

“Excellent. Now saddled Bibi for long travel and fetch her for me.”

The stableboy ran off to do as Varga asked. Varga leaned against the stable’s frame, idly rolling a silver deni across the fingers on his right hand. He wondered if he’d ever regain enough dexterity in his left hand to perform the same trick again.

Before Varga knew it, the stableboy returned with his steed, a stubborn chestnut-colored mare he named Bibi.

Varga rubbed her muzzle before flicking the deni to the stableboy.

“She looks clean and happy. Thank you,” Varga said, climbing into the saddle.

The stableboy grinned and knuckled his forehead as Varga wheeled his horse around and trotted out the exit.

----------------------------------------

The ride to Cacoo was uneventful. Varga camped off the road, keeping to himself, and encountered few travelers—only a merchant and their guards, making their way through the sparse wilderness.

Varga could admit that he was excited to see the City-State of Cacoo. Cacoons were a rarity in the Five Kingdoms outside the most metropolitan trade centers.

When he arrived at the moat of the City-State, a Cacoon guard greeted him. Cacoons were stocky, with skin the color of tanned leather and hair thick and coarse like sheep’s wool. The guard barely came up to Varga’s stirrups. He wore chain mesh over leather and had a short spear and buckler.

“What is your business in Cacoo?”

“I’ve come to seek out your famed healers and herbalists.”

Varga offered his injured hand as proof. He saw no reason to bend the truth—his trip was above board and legal. He realized he had almost forgotten what it felt like to tell the truth.

The guard inspected his hand, letting out a soft whistle. “You’ll find none better in the world.”

The guard then turned and whistled sharply toward the other side of the moat. Varga watched as two guards sprang into action, cranking down the drawbridge and granting him access to the City-State.

Before spurring his steed across the bridge, he asked the guard, who inspected him, a question.

“I am in search of Mistress Tawik. You wouldn’t happen to know where she resides?”

“Mistress Tawik? Of course, let me explain,” the guard replied before giving Varga detailed instructions about how to get to Mistress Tawik’s place.

Varga thanked the guard and set off on his way. There was a stable right as he entered the gates, so he left his horse and headed for Mistress Tawik’s place on foot.

As Varga took in the sights of the City-State, he was struck by the unique architecture. The cottages, with their rounded edges and brightly painted walls, were unlike anything he had seen. Strips of dyed cloth hung from doorways and windows, swaying gently in the breeze and adding vibrant splashes of color to the winding streets. Each home seemed to reflect the personality of its residents, turning the streets into a quiet celebration of heritage.

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Varga was so wrapped up in admiring his new surroundings he almost walked past the cottage the guard told him to find. There was a large bell outside that Varga assumed was for announcing visitors. He rang the bell loudly and waited. After a moment, the door opened, and he saw a young, teenage Cocoon woman. She was short and wore her black, curly hair in two thick braids dropped to her shoulders. She had umber-colored skin and pouty lips.

“Yes?” the young woman asked.

“Are you Mistress Tawik?” Varga asked in return, and to his surprise, the young woman laughed.

“I am not,” she started between laughs. She stifled a final laugh. “I’m her granddaughter. Call me Hally.”

Varga was relieved. It is not that he doubted that a person the age of Hally couldn’t be tremendously talented, but he felt better getting treatment from a person with a little more seasoning.

“Mistress Kokal sent me. She believes your grandmother would have better insight for my hand,” Varga explained, holding his hand out for Hally to see.

“Mistress Kokal? Yes, wait a moment,” Hally said, closing the door before Varga could respond. A few moments later, the door opened again, and Hally ushered Varga inside.

“Mistress Tawik will see you know,” she said, almost pushing him into the room adjacent to the entrance.

Inside, an older woman sat in a high-backed chair, eying him as he entered. She had the same umber-colored skin as her granddaughter, but her hair was pure gray she wore up in a tight bun.

“I can see now why Kokal was so concerned about you. You are easy on the eyes,” she commented as Varga came closer.

“Mistress Tawik?”

“Indeed,” Tawik replied before standing from her chair.

“Mistress Kokal was worried about my hand and recommended that I see you,” he explained.

“Do not worry, Master Varga. Your hand is fine,” Tawik said.

“Fine? You didn’t even look at it.”

“You are not here to see me,” Tawik added.

“What do you mean?” Varga asked.

“As I said, it's not me you’re here to see,” Tawik said, her gaze sliding past Varga’s shoulder. A prickling unease washed over him—there was someone else in the room, their presence as quiet and heavy as a predator lying in wait.

Varga whirled around, eyes widening as they landed on the hulking figure of a Grang standing too close for comfort. His moss-green scales caught the dim light, and it took Varga a moment to recognize the familiar yet fearsome form of Agent Aon.

“Thank you, Mistress Tawik. I will take it from here,” Agent Aon said, glancing past Varga at the Cacoon healer.

The older woman walked past him, giving a motherly pat on his shoulder as she left.

Agent Aon settled into the healer’s chair. Though Varga never admitted it, the Grang in general always unsettled him. Aon’s broad shoulders and sheer size only intensified that feeling, making him a looming presence that Varga couldn’t ignore, even in a room as small as this.

“Varga, I’m sorry for the deception, but it was necessary. It’s the only way to ensure your safety and the mission’s success.”

The agent’s words triggered something in Varga’s brain.

“Kokal,” Varga said before he could stop himself.

“She agreed to help,” Agent Aon answered Varga’s rhetorical statement.

“She wasn’t involved with this from the beginning?” Varga asked, and Agent Aon shook his head in reply.

“Why would you involve her?”

A white-hot surge of anger pulsed through Varga. His hands twitched at his sides, the urge to leap at Aon barely contained. He forced himself to stay rooted, though his blood thundered in his ears.

“It would behoove you to calm down, young man,” Agent Aon started before folding his reading spectacles and placing them on the table.

“First of all, you are not a bandit or a gangster. You are an undercover Vestigare asset. I understand you must be so convincing that sometimes the line between who you are and who you are pretending to be becomes muddled. That is another reason why these visits needed to happen. To help you remember who you are.”

Varga unclenched his fists. He didn’t realize that he had clenched them until now.

“Second, your friend, Kokal, seems to care for you genuinely, but she is being paid handsomely for facilitating these meetings. Also, she is in minimal danger. Also, wouldn’t you rather have the only person you connected with in years be the person who has your back?”

Varga felt all of the anger drain from his body. Agent Aon was right, every word. Finally, Varga nodded in response.

“Excellent, now what do you have for me?”

Varga recounted how he managed to get closer to Balrik until the day he met his crew at the abandoned dyer.

“This part might sound crazy, but Balrik suddenly appeared out of thin air,” Varga said, wondering if the agent would believe him.

“Yes, that is consistent with what we know about Balrik,” Agent Aon replied.

“What? How is that possible?”

“As I’ve explained before, Balrik was a valuable Vestigare field agent and one of the greatest alchemists of our age. But like many geniuses, he felt shackled by morality.” Aon’s voice dropped, his words weighted. “His obsession with alchemical enhancement was only the beginning.”

Varga shifted in his seat, realizing he had been holding his breath.

“To push his work further, he needed living subjects—real people. The Consul and the Academy condemned his experiments as inhumane, but by then, it was too late. His thirst for knowledge had consumed him, and he turned to slavery to find his test subjects.”

As the gravity of Aon’s words sank in, Varga was starting to imagine the horrors Balrik caused. Before he could fully process the implications, Aon pressed on.

“Balrik created a slavery network, using his Vestigare status to keep his operation safe. I found out what he was doing, but by the time I busted his slave ring, he had already discovered how to extract the essence of beasts in the form of a potion, and if an individual drank that potion regularly, they would gain aspects of the beast. I am unsure how it all works, but as I understand, the more magikal the beasts were, the more aspects of the beast one would gain.”

Suddenly the last piece of the puzzle slid into place for Varga.

“Your Balrik problem is about to escalate. He’s planning to steal a dragon egg. Whatever he has planned for it can’t be good,” Varga warned.

The confusion on Aon’s face made it clear he didn’t understand. Varga recounted the strange exchange he had with Balrik after the others left.

“Dragon egg?” Aon asked, his tone measured but his brow furrowed. “That’s a far cry from the beasts he’s dealt with before. What could he possibly be planning?”

Varga shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I doubt he’s raising it for a pet.”

The weight of Varga’s revelation hung in the air, and for a moment, Aon said nothing. His gaze drifted downward, deep in thought. Then, without warning, he shifted the conversation.

“Have you been practicing the breathing techniques I taught you the night you agreed to this assignment?”

“Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Every day?”

Something about the intensity of Aon’s voice made Varga pause and carefully think before answering.

“There are some days when I can't practice, but I try to get some time every day I can.”

The older Grang looked at Varga in a way that Varga could only describe as pity.

“The words I told you that day are as true today as they were then. These techniques are your only defense. Balrik’s paranoia will surface sooner or later—he always suspects betrayal eventually. Always.” Aon said before getting out of his chair and sitting on the floor cross-legged.

“Sit, and we will practice before you return.”

Varga was still unsure how this would help, but Aon’s conviction was convincing, so he sat, reviewing the breathing techniques for hours with the eccentric Grang.