While Pirin slept, his mind drifted.

He walked down a street, surrounded on all sides by young men and women around his age. They wore raggety, lowly clothing—just like him. He could barely see over their heads, but every few seconds, he caught a glimpse of silver-armoured soldiers lining the edges of the street and the ramshackle buildings behind them. Everything else blurred. He didn’t know what city this was, though it was a city; the street was cobblestone and tall wattle and daub buildings lined the edges.

It was two years ago. He could remember that much. He couldn’t recall anything else—not where this was, nor why he was dressed in such raggedy garb.

Pirin kept walking, holding his head down. Snowflakes fluttered down from the sky, landing on his drawn hood. He and the others marched to the end of the street, soldiers flanking them, until they reached a small plaza at the end.

In the plaza’s center was a stage, though from this angle, it looked more like gallows. A few cages rested near the edge, and each one of them had an animal inside it—a presumptive Familiar.

One by one, the youths approached the stage. A soldier reached into a vat and produced a plain steel cup filled with golden liquid. Pirin’s eyes widened. Ichor, the lifeblood of the world. When ingested and cycled, even slightly, it would begin the bonding process.

Every year, the youth who would turn seventy seasons old—eighteen years—would be tested for a Reyad. Very few were found. Someone with Bloodline Talents would be guaranteed a Reyad, but if their Talents had been strong enough to manifest before forming a bond, then they’d already have been taken to fancy academies and nurtured.

Pirin’s Talent hadn’t yet manifested. He approached the stage and took a cup. This was his chance to get a Familiar. He wanted one. He needed one.

He took a sip from the cup. He couldn’t remember how the Ichor tasted or how it felt in his mouth, only that he had taken a sip.

Nothing. He breathed in, trying to make his blood stir. Still nothing.

He took another sip, then another, and another, until the soldier snatched his cup out of his hands and pushed him away.

image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_5e221995337243e6a7d4250b55d3aeea~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_280,h_232,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/embercore%20sigil.png]

Pirin woke up early to the sound of thudding footsteps and a fist pounding on wood. He shot upright in his cot and threw off his blankets, and instinctively, his head whipped around. Morning light seeped through the window, but there was nothing outside. The walls were plain, but he saw nobody nearby.

He looked at the door. It shuddered and shook. Someone was here for him.

He grabbed his coat and cloak off the end of the bed and tossed them over his shoulders, then grabbed his sword and ripped it out of its sheath—with his one good hand. The straight silver blade glinted in the morning light.

He crept toward the door, toward the pounding noise, then threw it open and pointed the weapon’s tip at the invader.

The…innkeeper?

Pirin rubbed his eyes and took a step back. He let his sword slip out of his hand. Suddenly, the pounding sound he had heard didn’t seem as loud or aggressive, and…it hadn’t been all that hostile, had it? The innkeeper raised his hands and said, “Tea and bread down in the tavern. I’m sorry to wake you, but if you don’t get some grub quick, the loggers will have it all.”

Rubbing his head, Pirin grimaced. “I’m terribly sorry. I—I didn’t mean…” He ran his hand through his hair, and—

His hair. As quickly as he could, he pulled the hood up over his head. It was too late. The innkeeper had already dropped to a knee. He said, “Your majesty, forgive me. I didn’t realize last night—it was dark, and I couldn’t see you. I meant no disrespect, and it certainly wasn’t because of your Embercore.”

Pirin grabbed the innkeeper by the shoulder and tugged him into the room, then shut the door behind them. It wasn’t a large room, but there was enough for the two of them to stand comfortably at the foot of the cot. The walls were wood, and there was no decoration, unless he counted the mould stains near the roof. The morning light filtering through the window was still tinged with the orange of the sunrise.

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“I wasn’t here,” Pirin asserted. “I wasn’t. Please, sir, you can’t tell anyone you saw me.”

The innkeeper’s mouth opened a touch. “You’re…leaving?”

“I have a quest.” Pirin raised his good hand defensively, even if the innkeeper hadn’t shown a touch of aggression. The innkeeper thought he was abandoning Sirdia? “I swear on the Eane, I have a purpose.”

“A quest?” The innkeeper slowly rose up to his full height. He was an average height, about the same as Pirin, but his shoulders were broader and his belly was rounder. He adjusted his apron and cleared his throat. “There’ve been foul folk in these lands. Dark things from the mountains, and whispers of mysterious travellers. Looking for something, I’d say they were. Or someone, I s’pose. They wouldn’t dare go near Northvel, but down here…”

“Which is all the more reason to stay quiet,” Pirin whispered. He set a hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder. “Sir, this quest, it’s for the good of Sirdia.”

Whether his quest would help, he didn’t know. But no other elf had the Bloodline Talent he did. Without it, how was he supposed to do anything?

“My lips are sealed if you command it.”

“I…don’t command it.” Pirin lowered his head. It didn’t feel right to command anyone. However, for a moment, he was thankful that the innkeeper was willing to be ordered.

The moment passed, and Pirin’s heart dropped. An order was only necessary because the innkeeper didn’t otherwise want to do what Pirin had said—and would only obey because the order came from a king.

“A—alright, fine,” Pirin said. “I command it. Don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Now, please, cut out the whole ‘my lord’ and ‘your majesty’ deal—that’s not keeping it subtle.”

The innkeeper nodded, then backed towards the door. “Is it true, then? That you’re not from the old noble family? Chosen by the Eane, rather than your blood?”

“We’re not going to keep talking about this,” Pirin said, in as assertive of a voice as he could manage. He blinked a few times, but despite his foggy memories, he could still recall what he was.

He remembered the dream—walking down the crowded street, surrounded by common folk, and dressed like one himself. He cleared his throat, then added, “But…yes, it’s true.” He grabbed his eyeglasses from the small table and put them on as quickly as he could.

Before setting off again, he wanted to eat, and if he didn’t go fast, he’d miss a meal. He snatched up his haversack and stepped around the innkeeper, then hauled the door back open and marched out into the hallway. The smell of bread wafted up the stairs at the end of the corridor.

Pirin took the stairs two at a time down to the main floor tavern. Making sure his hood was still firmly up over his head, he approached the counter. The innkeeper followed close behind, and said, “Take what you need.”

“Please don’t make exceptions for me,” Pirin whispered back. “I can pay.”

“You paid more than enough to cover everything last night.”

Pirin stepped onto the bottom floor. This morning, the tavern was packed with elves. They were tall and slender and most of them wore thick cloaks that gave them a broader physique. While they couldn’t grow beards, their scarred faces and heavy gazes still made the look old. They set down their mugs of tea or toasted bread on the tables. Soon, all eyes turned to Pirin.

“Uh…good morning.” Pirin gave a cautious wave. His hood was still up; they only stared at him because he was a stranger. Pirin picked up a mug, and the innkeeper filled it with tea.

“That’s for you, son,” said one of the elves, a brown-haired statue with a heavy logging axe on his back. He motioned towards the one plate on the counter, stacked with a few slices of browned bread. “Figured you’d need a good breakfast, wherever you were headed, so we saved some.”

Pirin’s mouth slipped open for a second, then he dipped his head and said softly, “Thank you.” He looked at the innkeeper, then said, “You didn’t tell them anything?”

“Seems they all woke up on the right side of the bed this morning,” the elf replied.

Pirin took his food and sat down at a table in the corner. Everyone went back to their business—talking warmly and eating, and he couldn’t help but feel a glow in the pit of his stomach (and he hoped it wasn’t his core acting up). This kindness, this was the home that he loved. Not condescending city guards or power-hungry retinue.

He ate quickly and continued cycling the manabulbs’ power into his own Essence, trying to recall where his instincts with a sword came from. His mind, however, produced nothing helpful.

As soon as he was finished, he brought his plate back to the innkeeper. “Again, thank you. I’ll be on my way, now.”

“Very well, traveller.”

Outside the inn, drifts of shin-high snow filled the streets, but the sky was clear and the air was clean. He retrieved Gray from the stables and climbed back onto the saddle.

He tightened his legs. Gray ran down the center of the street, and once she’d built up enough speed, she took flight. The frigid morning air rushed around them, and Pirin pulled his sleeves down over his hands.

“Good morning,” he whispered to Gray, leaning as close as he could to her feathery neck. “Sorry about the long-distance flight. I know it’s not your specialty.”

He felt her neck rumble—she had chirped—but the wind whistled so fast around his ears that he couldn’t hear it.

They turned south and flew over the snowy forests. Logging camps blurred past below, alongside a few trails.

It would be a couple days’ flight just to reach the border, but that wasn’t all bad. It meant plenty of time to cycle the manabulbs.

Soon, he’d have a Reyad, and he’d be a proper wizard. No more being pushed around by soldiers or commanded by countylords and chancellors.

No more of this weakness.