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Echoes of Duplicity
13-The Twenty Percent

13-The Twenty Percent

With Balrik out of town for the past few weeks, Varga found himself with an unusual amount of freedom—freedom that made him uneasy. No one explained Balrik’s absence, and Varga didn’t dare ask. He had long since learned the dangers of curiosity in Balrik’s crew: Balrik told you what he wanted you to know, and you either accepted it or suffered the consequences.

During his downtime, Varga visited the Tazen mender as much as possible. At first, he thought their relationship would be awkward, but their shared circumstances brought them closer. In Kokal, Varga found a kind of understanding that he hadn’t realized he was missing. She didn’t press him with questions or judge his silences; instead, she offered a quiet reassurance that made him feel like he could be something more than just another tool for the Vestigare or Balrik to use.

That trust made her examination room feel like the safest place to practice his breathing exercises. Part of him was concerned that someone at the inn might interrupt him, but truthfully, he didn’t need much of an excuse to see Kokal as often as possible.

Varga walked downstairs and found Master Mikah and one of the thick Tazen guards talking at the bar. They went silent when they noticed him.

“Morning, Master Varga,” Mikah greeted.

“Morning, Master Mikah,” Varga returned.

Varga was on his way to the exit when the guard spoke.

“Where are you going?”

“To see the mender,” Varga answered, flexing his left hand.

“That thing hasn’t healed yet?” Mikah asked.

“Almost, but can’t be too careful,” Varga muttered, feeling the weight of their prying eyes.

The two Tazens exchanged a glance, and Mikah chuckled.

“Don’t tell me you are sweet on this mender,” the guard said, barely holding back his laughter.

“If Tazens are your thing, I can find you some companionship. Trust us, it will save you some heartache,” Mikah added.

“You guys got it all wrong. I am just making sure my hand is as flexible as it was. Might be the difference between life and death for me.”

The two exchanged glances again.

“Sure, Master Varga,” Mikah said. This time the guard couldn’t hold back his laughter.

Varga left, wondering what they meant by saving him some heartache.

He arrived at Kokal’s hut and loudly knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Kokal’s voice called from within.

Varga entered to see her sitting at her writing table, scratching on a parchment with a pen. Varga wanted to ask her what Mikah and the guard were referring to, but he didn’t want to ruin the level of comfort their relationship had reached, so he refrained from asking Kokal for now.

Kokal looked up with a smile.

“I was wondering when you would show up.”

“The guys at the inn were chattier than normal,” Varga replied with a shrug.

“I find it hard to imagine,” Kokal started with a laugh, “I suppose you will want to get to your practice.”

Varga nodded before sitting cross-legged on the floor. Since he had started coming to Kokal’s hut to practice regularly, he felt much more in control of the exercise than when he did it in his room at the inn.

Varga steadied his pulse, his breathing falling into a practiced rhythm. He channeled his ley inward—into his lungs, his heart, his mind—guiding the energy as smoothly into himself as if he were a magikal object. He could feel each breath, each beat of his heart, syncing perfectly with the flow of energy.

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This practice had helped him overcome the stomach ailments, easing the discomforts until they were barely noticeable. Now, with each session, he felt his control expanding beyond just his breath, as if he were finally mastering the rhythms of his own body. The nausea that once accompanied the stress of his missions had vanished, replaced by a calm, focused clarity.

As he became more attuned to his practice, Varga often lost track of time. Though he remained aware of his surroundings, time seemed to move differently when he meditated. Today was no exception. He noticed Kokal approach him, but it was her gentle shake of his shoulder that brought him back from his trance.

“It has been hours. I need to serve people, and you should return before Balrik’s people worry about your whereabouts,” Kokal said.

“You are correct,” he replied, and for one foolish moment, he imagined leaning in to kiss her. However, the weight of unspoken consequences held him back, and as he left her hut, he felt a lingering sense of missed opportunity.

Lost in regret, he returned to the inn, still pondering the encounter. “Glad to see you back,” Mikah said, pulling Varga from his thoughts.

“Balrik wants everyone to meet outside of town. He said you’d know where to go.”

This was unusual; Varga had never seen Balrik rely on Mikah for his schemes before.

“I’d better not keep him waiting,” Varga said, nodding his thanks to Mikah before heading out.

As Varga headed toward the abandoned dyer, he debated whether to warn Kokal and flee. Balrik’s unpredictability and his habit of calling sudden, impromptu meetings were nothing new, but involving Mikah like this felt reckless—even for him. It was a dangerous combination, one that left Varga tense, wondering if this was how chickens felt when marched to the chopping block.

Varga entered the dyer’s workshop to find his four Tanzen companions, Levi, Renzo, Abdo, Obi, and the young Arzan, Randi, nervously standing in front of Balrik and his three Tazen bodyguards from the inn.

“I’m glad you finally joined us, Varga. I was starting to worry about your loyalty,” Balrik said, his back still turned. The bodyguards shifted, keeping Varga in their sights but staying where they were.

Varga noticed that both Balrik and his guards were wearing leathers and were armed.

“Now, join the others,” Balrik added.

Varga saw little choice but to join the others. He squeezed past Randi and stood next to Obi. The air felt thick with dread, as if something inevitably horrible awaited them.

“Bring the table,” Balrik said, his gaze fixed on them. One of the bodyguards hurried to the corner of the room, retrieved a small table, and set it down between Balrik and the others.

Balrik set six vials of cloudy pink liquid on the table and began his explanation. “I’ve discovered there’s a traitor in my crew, leaving me no choice but to take measures I’d rather avoid.”

He gestured to the vials. “These potions will force you to answer truthfully. I didn’t use them when I recruited you for two reasons: the ingredients to create them are extremely rare and costly, and some individuals react violently to them.” He then produced a healing potion, holding it between his thumb and index finger. “The risk of a severe reaction is about twenty percent, so I have a potion on hand for those who might be unlucky. Now, drink up.”

Varga reached for his vial, and the others followed suit.

“I want everyone to drink their potion at the same time. Do not test my patience by attempting to hide the potion in your mouth or something equally silly. I will know,” Balrik said, pulling another potion from his belt.

The six of them uncorked their vials, exchanging nervous glances with one another before draining their vials in near unison.

Balrik also uncorked his vial and drank the dark purple liquid inside it.

As soon as Varga drank the potion, a wave of pressure slammed into his skull, and his heart raced as if he had sprinted up a steep hill. He glanced up to see Balrik watching them with a predatory grin, making Varga feel like a mouse under a cat’s paw.

“You might experience some cranial pressure and heart palpitations. These are normal effects of the potion,” Balrik said, his tone disturbingly calm.

A revelation struck Varga: this was what Agent Aon had been preparing him for. He fought against the potion’s effects, focusing on his breathing and channeling his ley inward.

Balrik turned his attention to Randi, his gaze cold and calculating. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Balrik stood in front of the young Arzan, intensely staring at him as if he could see through him.

Suddenly, Randi’s mouth fell open, his eyes rolling back to reveal only the whites. He collapsed, his body convulsing violently as he frosted at the mouth. His thrashing shook the room, the old floorboards groaning under the strain. Varga could feel his desperation in the air.

Balrik watched with a chilling detachment, idly rolling the healing potion between his index finger and thumb but making no move to aid the writhing Arzan. The sound of Randi’s tortured gasps and the sight of his spastic movements created a visceral, nauseating spectacle that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Time seemed to slow to crawl before Randi’s convulsions finally ceased, leaving him motionless on the floor.

Balrik’s gaze shifted to Varga, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory anticipation. “Well, I guess you’re next.”