Pirin stood up. He steeled himself, then approached the two lonely patrons of the speakeasy. They had nestled into a booth in the far corner of the tavern, far away from prying eyes, and that only helped Pirin, too.

Before Pirin drew too close, he grabbed a handful of silver coins from his haversack. They would be his most valuable bargaining chip.

The ostal had long brown hair and yellow eyes, like most of their race. And the horns, he couldn’t forget the horns. But this ostal’s horns seemed to droop with his head. He just looked tired. His tunic was rumpled, his vest was tattered, and he only wore a single shoulder pauldron—it helped support the quiver of arrows he wore on his back.

The moment Pirin stepped within arm’s reach of the table, the ostal tapped his dragonfolk companion’s shoulder.

“Good…evening,” Pirin began, keeping his voice soft and gentle.

The dragonfolk man hissed, turning toward Pirin. A mane of scaly sinew hung off the back of his head, and whenever he made a noise, it rattled.

Pirin took one more cautious step, but the dragonfolk reached for a hammer resting against the bench. His snake-slit eyes accused Pirin of something—Pirin couldn’t decide what it was, though.

Pirin opened his mouth, then tried, “I—”

“We’re not interested, whatever it is,” said the ostal. He rested a hand on the bow beside him. It was an elven bow, as far as Pirin could tell—fashioned with elegant curves and a string that seemed to sparkle even in the dim light.

Even though the ostal still leaned casually back on the bench, Pirin didn’t doubt his ability with the bow. Or, for that matter, his ability to draw an arrow from his quiver and fire quickly.

“I can pay well,” Pirin stated. “Fifteen silver pieces now, and fifteen when you get me and my gnatsnapper where I want to go. Provided you own your own ship, of course.”

The ostal and dragonfolk looked at each other. The dragonfolk hissed softly, and the ostal finally said, “We own our ship, boy. And that’s quite the payment, though I suspect it’s ‘cause the destination isn’t exactly easy. You know what we do?”

Pirin grimaced. He assumed that, since the ostal taking the lead, he was the captain. Maybe the dragonfolk was the first mate, but it didn’t make it any more nerve-wracking when the dragonfolk’s heavy leather armour shifted or when his mane rattled.

Wrenching his gaze away from the dragonfolk, Pirin focussed on the ostal. He said, “You’re smugglers, I hope. I need to get across the Tallas-Brannul lake.”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

“It’s a fair price,” Pirin insisted. “Nearly enough to get you a new boat.”

“But we’re not sailing a boat, elfy,” said the ostal. “And that’s the only reason I’d agree to take you there.”

Pirin blinked. “Not a boat?”

There was only one alternative, if it wasn’t a boat.

“Airship,” the ostal said, and the dragonfolk let out a couple hisses—which sounded like agreement. “I’ve got the best sky-sailer in this half of the world. We’ve outrun and outmaneuvered the fastest Dominion seaships. An Imperator-Felgrade class, not just the piddly cargo convoys that they send to Aerdia.”

“You’ve…disobeyed the Dominion?” Pirin breathed.

“What, you wanted a ‘smuggler’ ”—the ostal made quotation marks with his fingers as he said the word smuggler—“who was with them? Doesn’t sound like I’d do a very good smuggling job, if you ask me.”

Pirin winced. “No, I just meant—”

“An ostal, I know, I know.” Leaning back in the chair, the ostal stroked his thin beard. “Well, I’m not with my people’s empire, nor am I with their vassal elves. Brealtod is my employee, I’ll have you know. And it’s probably for the better that you do know, if I want that silver.”

The dragonfolk hissed twice.

“Yeah, yeah,” said the ostal. He tilted his head towards the dragonfolk. “Brealtod here says he trusts you. But I’m not sure.”

Pirin gulped. The Ostanor Dominion and the Aerdians often worked closely with one another, even if the Dominion’s homeland was far across the sea. The ostal people were the founders of the Dominion—even if now, they had many other nations and people enslaved into their service. Trusting them wasn’t wise.

Wise? Maybe, maybe not. But it wasn’t as though he had much of a choice. He pressed his hand down on the table, presenting fifteen silver coins. He nudged them towards the ostal and the dragonfolk, then lifted his hand. “Half now, half when we reach the library.”

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The ostal leaned forward. His eyes narrowed.

“Is there a problem?” Pirin asked.

“Sirdian silver, elfy.”

“It’s still silver.”

“It’s marked with the Leaf of Mransil.” The ostal pressed one of the coins and tapped the engraving on the coin. “You’d be executed just for carrying that, here.”

The dragonfolk, Brealtod, let out a set of fast hisses. After a second, the ostal chuckled, and grumbled, “We…we can melt it down.”

Good. They were desperate. Pirin asked, “So you’ll take me?”

“Not so fast,” said the ostal. “We’re gonna need all hands on deck if we want to make it to Tallus-Brannul lake. I need to know that you’ve got what it takes to make it. If you get incinerated by a lightning wraith or dragged off by a razorthrush, I don’t get the rest of that silver. Or worse, if the cargo inspectors find you and haul you off.”

Pirin could see where this was going. He glanced around. Not everyone here hated the Aerdians, and not everyone here hated the Dominion. If they caught him using Arcane techniques, they might report him. Especially techniques of a wizard-king.

Then he had to make sure no one noticed. He slipped his hand behind his back, then wrapped it up in his cloak. Still, if he made any sparks of Essence, people would still see it.

But this was his last chance. It was now or never—he might never make it to Tallas-Brannul. Placing a few extra thoughts in the ostal’s mind would do the trick. He could let himself bow out of this absurd contest without lifting a finger.

“Is that really necessary?” Pirin said, buying time for himself. He locked eyes with the ostal and breathed deeply. No blue sparks, no blue sparks, he begged himself, hoping it would work. As long he didn’t push it too far…

“I see you’ve got that sword, but I’ve got no idea if you know how to use it—or if you’ll accidentally chop one of your own fingers off. You trained at any of the sword schools, hm? Any of the elven Âya-dells?”

Between cycling breaths, Pirin said, “What, you want to head outside and…fight? That doesn’t seem…necessary.” It was hard enough to maintain a cycling pattern, let alone while talking. The dragonfolk, Brealtod, narrowed his reptilian eyes.

The first time, Pirin’s Essence failed to flow properly. It didn’t explode, but it did bite his hand. Hard. He winced.

The ostal didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t comment. He shrugged and continued their conversation as if nothing had happened. “Inside should do the trick.”

Pirin inhaled sharply, then resumed his breathing technique. “I don’t even know your name, and you want to fight?”

“That sounds like an excuse,” said the ostal. “I’d punch you and I don’t know your name.”

The moment the ostal finished, a slight, pleasant heat built in Pirin’s hand. He felt the ostal captain’s thoughts—a little bit of them, at least. The ostal, first and foremost, wanted to be prepared. He had heard plenty of tales and stories. There were creatures and challenges awaiting them above Tallas-Brannul lake…

It must have been one hell of a library, then.

Pirin focussed his thoughts on peace, on urging a resolution to this situation—one that didn’t require them to make a scene. He let them infuse the Essence, flow towards his hand, and…

And they stopped, like they had just collided with a wall.

The ostal’s mind wouldn’t let his technique in. No matter how hard Pirin pushed, he couldn’t get his thoughts to integrate with the ostal’s. The ostal had a strong will—stronger than Pirin’s own magic could overcome.

They were doing this the hard way, then. But that didn’t mean Pirin couldn’t use his magic to help—he knew more than one technique. He kept the ostal’s mind gathered in the palm of his hand. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew the small gray orb was still there.

“What’s the challenge?” Pirin asked, clenching his teeth. Any second now, his grasp on the ostal’s mind might fail, and he’d have to try again, losing precious time.

“Make me surrender.”

A little jolt to the mind would be enough, Pirin figured—no need to put the ostal to sleep, but just daze him. “Alright.”

When he exhaled, he pushed a thin tendril of Essence up out of the palm of his hand. It struck the ostal’s mind like a whip striking a horse. There wasn’t enough of it to do any lasting damage, and he was too strong-willed to go unconscious.

But his eyes still glazed over. Pirin abandoned the breathing pattern and let go of the technique. He ripped his sword from its sheath.

Pirin set the blade against the ostal’s throat. Brealtod had snatched up his hammer and lifted it like it was a twig, but he stopped as soon as Pirin’s sword touched the ostal’s throat.

“Does that work?” Pirin asked. He backed away, wary of a few turning heads. Any more, and he’d cause a scene—if he hadn’t already.

The ostal raised an arm and rubbed his eyes. “How many glasses am I on, Brealtod?”

Brealtod held up a clawed finger and gave a single hiss.

“Well, elfy, it’s your lucky day,” said the ostal. “You caught me tired. But a deal’s a deal.” He held out his hand, and Pirin shook it.

“I’m Pirin.” It was a common enough name for Sirdian or Aerdian elves, but the ostal couldn’t go on forever calling him ‘elfy’.

“Alyus Tebrunne,” the ostal pointed at himself with his thumb. Then, he pointed across the table at Brealtod, and introduced the dragonfolk again—perhaps expecting that Pirin hadn’t caught the dragonfolk’s name earlier.

“Nice to meet you,” Pirin said.

Alyus chuckled. “Yep, mhm. Now, unless you want to sleep in this filth, I’d suggest we get back to the Featherflight.”

Pirin sheathed his sword and stepped back, away from the table. He allowed himself one last nervous look around the speakeasy. There was nothing unusual inside, but through the slats in the window, he spotted a patron of the illegal tavern speaking to one of the soldiers waiting in the plaza outside.

The man with a bright red scarf. The same man who bumped into them outside.

“We…should get going sooner than later,” Pirin said.

Alyus stood up and brushed off his vest. “I’d like to set sail before the last of the twilight is gone, yeah. If you’d be kind enough to follow me…”