Obi guided the cart down the stone road toward Xandelfi as Varga sat beside him on the front bench. Balrik and the others remained hidden in the covered back.

Varga had grown fond of the Tazen. Obi’s warmth and surprising sensitivity stood in stark contrast to his career, but since the dyer incident, their once frequent conversations had fallen into uncomfortable silences. Varga suspected Obi took Levi’s death hard—his close friend had not only betrayed him, but now Obi had to work alongside the man who killed him.

Varga glanced at Obi, hoping to find an opening to start a chat, but the Tazen stared ahead, zombie-like, steering the cart.

Varga sighed and turned his gaze to the green fields of Xandra, his homeland. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until now—the scent of freshly plowed earth, the soft glow of the suns over the wheat fields.

The walls of Xandelfi appeared on the horizon. Varga opened the cloth cover and peaked his head in the back. The crew looked up in unison at the sudden appearance of his face.

“We are approaching the city, Balrik.”

Balrik smiled at the news.

“How long before we arrive?”

“Two, three hours,” Varga replied.

Balrik cocked his head in thought before nodding.

“Very good. Knock on the wall of the cart when you think we are within an hour. One of the guys will knock back to acknowledge we heard you. Don’t look back here. It will be too suspicious if a guard sees you.”

Varga nodded before settling back onto the bench. Obi glanced at Varga with an unreadable expression but said nothing.

Other than a few mounted travelers past them, along with several carts and carriages with more steeds pulling them.

When Varga estimated they were an hour away, he knocked on the wall of the cart. A single knock replied moments later, signaling the others were ready for when the guards would check the cargo. Balrik, however, didn’t need to hide—he could simply turn invisible. Varga couldn’t fathom the power Balrik must feel, concealed from prying eyes in plain sight.

The road merged with three others, and the route became congested with carts, carriages, steeds, and foot traffic. Their progress came to a crawl as they approached the large gates of Xandelfi. Varga wondered why they didn’t enter through the west gates, unofficially dubbed “the Smugglers’ Gate," but never voiced his curiosity.

It took longer than expected to reach the towering stone gates, but once they arrived, a guard quickly approached them for questioning.

“What is your purpose in Xandelfi?”

“Work, sir,” Obi answered before handing the guard a folded parchment.

The guard frowned as he examined the papers and muttered, “I guess they couldn’t find any Xandrans to cater.”

Varga cleared his throat, drawing a scowl from the guard, who rudely cleared his sinuses and spat onto the ground.

“Paperwork looks in order. What do you have in the back? Do you have anything I should know about it before I check? Keep in mind, I hate surprises.”

“Only our supplies for the job and the other Tazen crew members,” Obi answered.

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The guard spat again before walking to the rear of the cart. As they waited, it dawned on Varga that he was unaware of how long Balrik could stay invisible.

Varga felt the cart sway from the weight of the guard climbing aboard. They sat still without a word. Varga could hear the guard’s boots moving about the cart as he searched for contraband. The uncertainty ate at him, and his hand drifted to his sword hilt, loosening it in its sheath just in case. Time seemed to stand still, and finally, the guard returned.

“Everything looks in order. Enjoy your stay in Xandelfi, and stay out of trouble.”

Obi snapped the reins, urging the horses to pull the cart forward. Once they were a respectable distance from the gates, Obi loudly exhaled.

“I thought we were cooked for sure,” Obi said, smiling.

Just like that, the tension between them was gone. Varga guessed the bond of surviving was stronger than the trauma of betrayal and murder.

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

Obi deftly guided the cart through the bustling city, its vibrant colors, clamor, and scents washing over Varga. Xandelfi’s energy was like a raging river compared to the calm creek of Tazen, and to his surprise, he found himself longing for the peace of the creek.

Obi took them to the entrance of the Higher Grounds before turning off the main road. Finally, they arrived at the large, enclosed compound, sitting at the foot of the cliff belonging to the Higher Grounds.

Outside was a small guard booth at the gate, and a tall Xandran guard emerged to greet them.

“May I help you, gentleman?”

“We’re here to cater the event,” Obi said, handing over the folded parchment.

“Right on time. The guest kitchen’s over there,” the guard replied, pointing to a small wooden building near the mansion.

Obi nodded his thanks and urged the horses forward. As they made their way to the building, Varga realized how much his thinking had changed. As a teen, he dreamed of places like this, but now, after prison and Tazen, a guest kitchen felt ostentatious.

The cart came to a stop, snapping Varga from his thoughts. After he alighted from the cart, he took stock of his surroundings. The guest kitchen was large enough to house a medium-sized family. They were in a covered stable for carts and steeds, and Varga heard the rest of the crew starting to unload. Varga rolled up his sleeves and joined the Tazens.

After clearing the cart and bringing most of the goods inside, they unpacked the crates. Varga hoisted bags of flour and salt on his shoulders, carrying them to the prepping areas in the kitchen. The kitchen was made of marble.

Varga set the bags down when Balrik and Fulope walked into the kitchen.

“Tell the brothers to set the burner up here,” Balrik said to Fulope, pointing to a corner in the kitchen. Varga recently learned that Balrik’s bodyguards were siblings but still didn’t know their names.

Balrik noticed Varga and stopped talking with Fulope.

“Do you need something, Master Varga?”

“There was something I was wondering. When do the real caters arrive?”

Balrik glanced at Fulope, who openly smiled at the question.

“Master Varga, we are the caterers,” Balrik said, a smile playing on his lips.

“I know how to wield a sword, not a paring knife,” Varga muttered.

“It’s no different than what I expect of you now—just cut what I tell you to. Alchemy makes recipes child’s play for me. Follow my orders, and everything will go smoothly.”

Varga had to admit the thought of an alchemist of Balrik’s reputation having trouble with a recipe seemed ridiculous once he thought about it.

“Gott und seine unehelichen Sohne!” Balrik shouted, making Varga reach for his sword before he realized Balrik was looking at the meats and vegetables in storage.

“This will not do at all. Master Varga, are you still familiar enough with Xandelfi to navigate yourself to a high-quality market?” Balrik asked over his shoulder.

“I haven’t been gone that long,” Varga said flippantly without thinking, and to his surprise, Balrik barked a laugh.

“The scene in Xandelfi fluctuates hourly, yet somehow never changes,” Balrik waxed poetically before turning to Fulope and saying, “Give him a heavy purse. He’ll need enough to buy the finest ingredients.”

Fulope nodded before producing a heavy-looking coin purse and a folded parchment.

“I trust I needn’t remind you of the penalty for stealing from Balrik,” Fulope added, passing the purse and list to Varga.

Varga nodded in response, but Balrik replied instead of Fulope.

“Good. Now take Obi and go shopping. When you return, we’ll craft dishes… truly to die for.”