Over the next few hours, Pirin made his preparations. He returned to his room. It was a large chamber near the top of the palace’s tallest spire, with plain walls and only a few windows—too many windows would let out too much heat. After a nod to the two guards posted outside, he shut the door behind him, then set to work.

If he was too loud, the guards would hear him. He was supposed to be sleeping.

First, he needed to make sure he’d never lose the details of his quest. He couldn’t remember precisely how long it had been since he’d defeated the karebain, and that wasn’t just something he’d forget. The damage to his memories was constant, and details were still leaking.

As quietly as he could, he leaned over the desk in the chamber’s corner. Sheets of parchment and a few tomes cluttered it, but he shifted them aside.

He tore a blank corner off a sheet of parchment, then snatched up a quill and dipped it in a well of ink. On the parchment, he scrawled down exactly what Chancellor Ivescent had told him. Aerdia. Library of Tallus-Brannul. He shook it to dry, then shoved it into his haversack.

As soon as he had written the note, he snuffed the candles with his fingers. Then, scurrying around the room as stealthily as he could, he grabbed a fur cloak and snatched up his sword—a straight, silver longsword. It wasn’t special, and certainly not fancy enough to belong to a king, but it had been a gift from someone. No matter how hard he tried to remember, he couldn’t recall who.

He plucked the other eleven manabulbs out of his pocket and dropped them gently into his haversack, then tossed in the inkwell and quill too. Finally, he tucked his eyeglasses in gently. That should have been everything from his room. He patted down his coat and cloak just to make sure. He couldn’t think of anything else he might need.

Now, to slip away under the guards’ noses…

Being a king, Pirin should’ve been able to command them to let him leave, but it wouldn’t be so easy in practice. They would let him leave, sure. But they’d also tell everyone else, and soon, there’d be an entourage of advisors and guards trailing. Not that they needed Pirin for the country to function, and they knew it. But they needed the idea of him.

If this worked out, he’d turn that idea into a reality.

Pirin ran to the window at the edge of the room and peered out the window. He leaned against the windowsill with his one good arm. The two crescent moons, Cryrsa and Cryrsi, hung high in the sky, beaming pale pink light onto the sleeping city.

He looked down. It was a long, long jump, and at the Kindling stage, he didn’t have any bodily enhancements. If he jumped, he’d surely break his legs on the palace’s dome.

He turned back and stepped softly to the door. When he pressed his ear against the wood, he could hear the guards shifting and breathing.

Moving as slowly as he could, he pulled the door open a crack, until he could see one of the guards’ eyes beneath his ornamental silver helmet. The elf stood in the small hallway outside the room, with his back against the wall. The only light outside filtered through another window.

Pirin pressed his lips tight together. He recounted the arcane techniques he knew. If he could just put the guards to sleep with it, he might be able to get himself out of here. It might take two tries, maybe three. Maybe even ten; a fully sapient creature’s mind was more resilient to his magic than a karebain’s would be. And he could only use it on one guard at a time. The other guard would notice.

No, Pirin needed a different technique, the only other one he knew. Whisper Hitch. It was from the Path of the Reaching Leopard, the old noble Path. It was one of the few techniques that required no Familiar—in theory. It wasn’t stable without a Reyad bond with an animal, either.

He concentrated deeper on the guard’s eyes. The light glinted off them, and the elf’s ears twitched. Pirin ducked deeper into the shadows, but he didn’t break his gaze. He held out his hand, gathering the guard’s mind in his fingers. A swirling gray orb formed above the palm of his hand.

The orb wobbled and faltered. Pirin breathed faster, circulating his Essence around his body as his heart pounded. He blinked, imagining the arcane power flowing through his veins like lightning. Even now, it seemed just a hair stronger—he had already processed a little bit of the manabulbs’ power.

After three seconds, he lost hold of the guard’s thoughts. He kept trying, kept failing, and kept trying again. He lost hold of the guard’s thoughts thrice more before he finally latched on—this time, for more than three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

The guard’s thoughts filtered into Pirin’s mind, mixing with his own. The boy is certainly asleep by now, the guard thought. If I sit, though, Halrand will have my head…

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The thoughts trailed off for a moment, and Pirin almost lost them. He tightened his muscles and concentrated on the breathing pattern. Four seconds in, four out. He caught onto the thoughts again, and felt the guard thinking, Halrand still believes that boy can reunite the Elven Continent. If I even shift the wrong way, he’ll smack me.

The technique was called Whisper Hitch for a reason. Their minds were temporarily joined via Pirin’s Essence channels. Pirin added his own thoughts into the mix. He cycled his Essence up to his own mind, to the thin channels running around and through his skull. Once his head started to buzz, he fed a single thought of his own to the Essence: There’s something by the window. We should check it out.

That thought, of course, was a complete lie. There was nothing out the window, as far as Pirin knew. However, the guard would hopefully respond to the intrusive thought that assaulted his mind.

Pirin couldn’t force him to do anything (that would involve much more Essence, and techniques that he had no idea how to use—if he could use them at all), but he could trade thoughts with the guard. If the transition was seamless enough, it would seem to the guard like it was a natural thought.

“Halrand,” the guard whispered. He tilted his head towards the window at the end of the hall.

“What is it?” Halrand asked in a hushed voice.

“I have a feeling.”

Pirin slipped away from the door and dropped his hand, releasing his connection with the guard’s mind. His arm trembled, and his tunic stuck to his skin beneath his coat—sweat. He wiped his brow.

The guards walked towards the window at the end of the hallway. Their armour clinked and clattered, and it would hide any sound Pirin made. As soon as they passed, Pirin slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind him.

The guards didn’t turn. They both stared out the window, scanning the city. Pirin darted behind them and ran down the spiral staircase. He descended down the spire as far as he could, and soon, he arrived at another large hallway.

From there, he worked his way to the kitchen and raided the pantries. He filled the rest of his haversack with pouches of grain and groats, then a couple dense breadrolls. If he required any other nutrition, he could forage for it. Elves had no aversion to meat, but they didn’t need it the same as men did.

He crept back through the cramped kitchen, dodging stone stoves and cauldrons. Before he could step back into the hallway, another pair of Sirdian guards marched past. Pirin ducked behind a baking tray and dipped his head.

When the guards passed, he exhaled, then ran out into the hallway. His recollection of the palace’s precise layout was growing hazy in his mind, and the harder he tried to remember where the cartographer’s chamber was, the worse his sense of direction was. Instead, he let instinct guide him through the hallways. Down another set of stairs, through a cramped, small corridor…

He found the cartographer’s chamber directly beneath the kitchen and just beside the stables. The room was dark, and it had a low ceiling. Pirin nearly crashed into the long wooden table that ran down the center. He nudged the door open wider to let in more candlelight from the hallway outside. Maps and papers still lay strewn across the table.

He ran down the edge of the table, slaloming around chairs, searching for a map of the entire Elven Continent to guide him in the weeks to come.

Near the larger, ornately-carved chair at the head of the table, he spotted one. The map was old and cracking, and the edges of the parchment sheet were curling. No one would miss it. He rolled it up and stuffed it in his haversack.

That was everything. Pirin shoved his good hand in his pocket and ran out of the room, then down to the end of the underground hallway—towards the stables. There was no door at the end; the corridor opened into a wide and lofty hall. It was more of a hangar than a stable, really. There were no horses here.

Along the stoney edges of the hall, gnatsnappers roosted. The horse-sized, rideable sparrows perched on ledges or hung from the rafters. Some nattered softly, and others tucked deep into their woven nests for the night.

Pirin walked as quietly as he could. Gnatsnappers were easily startled, and he didn’t need to cause a commotion.

A pair of elven birdkeepers walked down the center of the stable, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Pirin ducked out of sight behind a barrel of birdseed, then pulled his hood up. It would be cold outside, and even better, the hood would hide his black hair.

Once the birdkeepers’ footsteps faded, Pirin slipped out from cover and ran to the opposite side of the stable, rolling his heels to keep his footfalls quiet. When he reached the other side, he took a wooden walkway up the rock wall. It ascended a few storeys, until finally depositing him at a ledge burdened with three large nests. Each nest had one or two gnatsnappers nestled in them, their mottled feathers slowly rising and falling. They were all asleep.

At the edge of the ledge, Pirin found a nest with a single gnatsnapper in it. He bent over and pressed his hand against the grey feathers of the bird’s head. Gently, he ran his fingers through them, revealing patches of subtle browns and blacks below. The bird stirred. Its two beady black eyes shot open, and its head snapped upwards.

“It’s me,” Pirin whispered, pressing his wounded shoulder against the gnatsnapper’s flank. “It’s me.”

Most kings had a horse, and that horse was always named something grand or wonderful. Pirin only had a gnatsnapper, and her name was Gray—for her grey feathers, a moderately rare colour for gnatsnappers.

It had been a while ago that he named her, he’d admit that much.

Gray rose to her feet. Her throat rumbled, but she didn’t squawk or chirp.

“It’s time to fly,” Pirin whispered. He walked back to the wall and plucked a leather riding saddle off the wall, then draped it over Gray’s back. The buckles wrapped around her white-feathered chest, but he made sure not to sinch any feathers or restrict her wings. Once the saddle didn’t shift or slide, he clambered up onto her back. His boots fit snugly into the stirrups, and when he laid his hand on the nape of her neck, she chittered softly.

“Quiet, quiet,” Pirin whispered. He didn’t have a Reyad bond with Gray, but if there was any animal who he’d make his Familiar, it would be her. If such a thing was possible.

Besides, he couldn’t go on this journey without a mount. He leaned closer and whispered, “Let’s go.”