I woke up, my chest drenched in sweat, tears streaming from the outer corners of my eyes. An overwhelming feeling pulsed from within my chest and outwards as I gripped my tunic tight, not one of pain, but warmth and comfort. The dreams remained vivid in my mind, and I couldn't shake the thought that they had held a deeper meaning. Then Urax's thundering snores shook me from my half-asleep state, and I forced myself out of bed.

Yarelic had moved the chair, next to the fireplace. There he sat, silently observing the waning flames.

"Well rested?" He asked, as usual without bothering to face my way.

"So and so," I replied, nodding towards the sleeping loudmouth.

Yarelic still didn't turn, but his cloak bobbed ever so slightly in response. "Get ready, young one, we have errands to run. There is little merit in waiting for him to wake. He'll sleep til late with or without our encouragement."

Feeling a rush of curiosity, I was at the door quicker than I believe he had anticipated.

"Why so eager?" he asked, the cloth on his face wrinkling in what I could only speculate to be surprise.

I shrugged as I couldn't fully explain it, there was just this bubbling premonition that something good was fated for the day.

"What errands?" I asked, as we passed through the drinking hall.

Yarelic held up the two slips of parchment we had received the day before, before returning them within the folds of his cloak. "We'll be heading to the guild's main hall, the house Urax pointed out to you when we first entered town."

I recalled us passing by dozens of equally normal houses, there was, I thought, no way I would remember a specific one, even with a guiding finger pointing out the differences. Yet, once we had made our way through already busy streets, and stood before a building just like any other, the wooden plaque above the entrance looked all too familiar. A painting of a screaming goat, chained and pierced by four swords. Even more peculiar, it looked like the beast was spewing flames, and I couldn't help but snicker, just like I had the first time. With a smirk, I followed Yarelic through one of the doors, pushing past a well-armored, and bloodspattered veteran. Straight into chaos.

The space within twisted and played with my head as it expanded. Unmistakably, it appeared larger than one would have thought seeing it from the outside.

"How?" I mouthed, with thoughts spinning. There must be more to the arts than Yarelic has let slip.

"One of the many questions I have asked myself, young one," he returned as he led me on, through and between some of the same people that had been frolicking in the tavern the evening before. Some new faces bore the marks of combat, looking tired and bloodied. Others argued around haphazardly arranged tables, drinks in hand, or huddled up around the long hearth carved from stone at the hall's center.

It was hard to filter out anything noteworthy from all the babbling noise, but the most common topics of discussion seemed to revolve around precious coin and silver. Yarelic walked fleet footed through the brewing pot of warriors and mystics, some graying old, others looking to be about my own age. At one end of the room, I could see a grand mirror, gleaming of faint violet, floating in the air. Many lined up to gaze into the stirring surface, others placed their palms against it, whispering or praying, while a few reached within to pull out small oozing objects, or glinting bits and bobs.

"What is that big thing over there?" I asked, while encircling yet another group engaged in loud discussion.

But before Yarelic, who was heading in the opposite direction, towards a row of humble counters, had the time to reply, a seasoned warrior who must have overheard the question shouted from behind.

"The lad doesn't know what a merging-mirror is, I'd say we have some fresh meat at hand!"

As if arranged in advance, several tables nearby began slamming their fists and stomping their feet in muddled unison, "Fresh meat... fresh meat!" they chanted.

Even though the ruckus soon died down, my heartbeat pulsed all the faster, and a nervous chill ran down the back of my neck as we neared the counter. Little remained of the optimism I had felt earlier that morning.

"Welcome to the mercenary guild of Karham, what can I help you with?" A young man mouthed monotonously from his chair as Yarelic stepped up to his desk.

Without a word, the mystic handed over the two slips of sealed scribble.

"From Barazar I see… well then." the clerk said, mildly impressed.

The clerk stood up and disappeared into a sideroom, before returning with a small tray of coins, a pair of pliers, a rolled up note, and what looked like a piece of silvery glass. He waited for Yarelic to collect the silver before turning his attention to me.

"I'll walk you through how this works. Our guidelines and recommendations, you'll find, are written on the parchment. Now what is your name?"

"Euran," I replied.

"Son of?"

I didn't have an answer. My father? I thought, feeling sheepish. Sensing my confusion, the clerk continued, "Just Euran then," before moving his finger in an intricate pattern in the empty air between us. As he did, bright scribbles took form where his finger had passed, and at the same time appeared on the piece of glass.

"While merging with the shard, you 'the applicant' may experience some discomfort. It is however of utmost necessity that you follow through with the procedure." The words poured out with tangible indifference, as if recited hundreds if not thousands of times. After a quick pause to draw breath, the man continued.

"Once successfully welcomed into the guild, mercenaries are granted full access to the merging-mirror, may enjoy a discount of food and refreshments, both in this locale and at the subsidiary tavern and quarters. All matters regarding requests and rewards shall be handled within the guild's premises, unless otherwise stated by an officer of the guild." The rambling went on for a while, and my attention waned. Still, I caught enough of it to understand that this was the central hub for all mercenaries in town.

My gaze wandered and was drawn to a tattered, spindly looking man standing at the counter twice over. He was carrying a bundle of small, contorted heads in his hand, droplets of blood falling onto the stone tiles as he argued with the lady across the desk.

"...would you be so kind as to give me your hand?"

The clerk, audibly annoyed, repeated the question and snapped me out of my absent-minded examination. Embarrassed, I did as instructed.

"Ready?" He asked, while grabbing the glinting shard with the pliers.

He had my hand in a firm grip, palm up, and I nodded, not expecting what followed. To my horror, he pushed the sharp edge straight into the center of my hand without as much as blinking, and as it pierced my skin and dug into the flesh, a cold, searing pain rallied up my arm. I screamed out in agony. Immediately the chanting returned around the tables, accompanied with loud laughter and cheers, "Fresh meat... fresh meat!"

Cold sweat sprung from my forehead as the clerk let go of the shard, yet it still sunk deeper on its own volition. I could feel it melt, melding itself to the inside of my hand. I refused the urge to claw at it, dig it out with my free hand and free myself of the pain. Once it was over, a small cut remained in the midst of my palm, but bar that, nothing felt different. The clerk moved his thumb over the cut and whispered forth a soft, golden glow, and soon a single smudge of red was all that remained.

"All done. Now hold up your palm in front of you and state your name."

I did as instructed, arm shaking as I shuddered, cold with sweat. "Euran," I said meekly, but as I did, and to my surprise, a soft violet hue like that of the grand mirror, began emanating from within my palm.

"Know that anyone who holds their hand high and greets you with their name is a friend. We of the Mercenary Guild welcome you into our ranks. For anyone not well versed in combat, please keep to requested tasks within, or around the borders of Karham. For others, please test your prowess in the shallow ends of the Wolagh cave system before venturing out for higher ranking requests."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Baffled, I looked on as the soft glow dissipated.

After I had thanked the clerk, Yarelic nudged me in the side for me to follow. "You're one of us now, young one," He said, as we once again made our way through the rabble. The words, although casually spoken, filled me with a sense of belonging I hadn't felt, even in my father's home.

A few veterans looked our way as we passed. Some cheering me on, others taking note of my company with disdain written all over their faces. Among them, Koliakk. The man, who we had encountered in the western woods the day before, stared at me from across the room. For a moment, I wished we could have shaken Urax to life and brought him with us. His daunting presence would have been sure to dampen at least some of the more blatant glares.

"Will you make do with flame, or do you care to arm yourself?" Yarelic asked as we left the twisting room behind.

Disoriented, and with a slight nausea, I first gathered my thoughts before returning the question with another. But Yarelic didn't seem to have heard me.

"What do you mean?" I repeated, louder this time, as once again the streets were filled to the brim with people and noise.

Yarelic sighed, "Nevermind, come with!" He moved down the road with haste, and I did my best to keep up.

Twisting and turning, through alleyways and past shops of varying kinds we went. Wherever we were going, there were stops to be made along the way, and I soon found myself shouldering a small backpack within which lay good amounts of dried meat, hard cheese, dense brown bread, a leather pouch filled with water, and a small knife. Rolled up and bound to the side was a rough, but warming blanket.

"You won't be needing either torches, nor flint steel..." Yarelic mumbled as we entered a small discreet shop, well hidden within the shadows of a cramped alley.

"Who goes?" A brash voice met us, as we ducked to fit down a shallow staircase.

The room stunk of dust and mold, and the only light was that of flickering candles. As my eyes adapted to the dim light, a disfigured, mean-looking creature stared back at me from behind the counter. For a moment there was an aura of suspicion about him as he studied us, then, as Yarelic stepped into the light from a nearby candle, he burst out into cackling laughter.

"Yescherack, yack arich amil!" He blared, words rough and foreign.

"Yeseraa, boarch asara. Bes'dera pafchour."

To my surprise, Yarelic returned the words with ease and equal delight. For a while, the two were absorbed in mysterious chatter.

"Egheral..." The creature raised a finger and disappeared down behind the counter. Once he appeared by its side, I understood why. No taller than a rattar, in fact shorter still, the strange man stomped towards me while chuckling to himself.

"Young one, you have a great teacher to have brought you here!"

Yarelic gave me a push in the back and then turned his attention to a dusty shelf filled with equally dusty books. I hastily bowed and greeted the shopkeeper as he looked up at me with a curious smirk.

At a closer glance, he wore normal clothes, but his feet, bare, were large for his height and grossly dirtied. His face, while not of monstrous kind, was not fully human either, and the hand he reached up to grab my chin was grayish in color, and surprisingly calloused and strong.

"Usha..." he mumbled, "...kind eyes, I like it. Let's hope they stay like that for some time."

He waddled back towards the counter, stopping to rearrange a few toppled trinkets on a shelf while mumbling irritated phrases under his breath.

"What can I do for you, young one?" he asked once done.

Unsure what our matters were, I looked to Yarelic, who of course hadn't bothered to clarify.

"Yescherack, still with the bad habits..." The shop owner scoffed before exerting another cackling laugh, "...young one, it matters none. I can guess as to why he brought you to me."

A rumbling reverberated throughout the room from above, and bookshelves and cabinets vibrated and swayed. The trinkets, just sorted, promptly toppled once again.

"Sabassa!" He yelled with his fist raised at the roof above. "...I apologize. The alchemist upstairs has been having breakthroughs for the past week and this ruckus has been nonstop! Now, what would be your tool of choice? Spear, axe, dagger, sword... heck, a big gnarly stick?"

Finally, I realized what we were doing in the murky shop. Strange. We passed at least two smithies and well-stocked weapons traders on the way here. I didn't share my thoughts but reflected on the question for some time. I hadn't really planned to get myself a weapon, but seeing as every ruffian around carried something pointy or brutish by their side, it would undoubtedly come in handy sooner or later.

"I don't have any silver for such," I said, hoping that Yarelic would open his pouch once more.

Instead, the shopkeeper shook his head, "Don't worry young one, I don't deal in silver, I deal in favors..." He cackled again, then added "...besides you couldn't afford what I sell anyway."

He took a good, long look at all that was me. "I guess you are new to all of this, a fledgling of sorcery I take it. Not short, but not particularly tall either for your age."

He turned to Yarelic, "...a bit on the scrawny side, no?"

But the mystic didn't answer, instead flicked through a book, thickly bound. The shopkeeper sighed, "I think I have some good options, wait here," before disappearing through a cloth-covered doorway. When he returned, he carried a short scabbard along with a few other items.

"Now I wasn't sure..." he began while placing the weapons neatly spaced on the counter, and waving for me to come closer, "...what might fit you best. The shortsword is great, easy to use and flexible, while both the handaxe and shacksa can be just as deadly even in unskilled hands."

Besides the more familiar tools of war, lay what looked like an angled, much smaller version of the sickles used by farmhands during harvest.

"Shacksa?" I asked, curious to know more.

"The weapon of choice for my people!" He proclaimed with great pride in his voice. "Now that's a splendid pick, my child!"

I had meant it as a question, not a decision, yet I did feel somewhat drawn to the vague familiarity of a farmer's tool. Such irony, I thought to myself. It looked to be a cross between the other two, a sword curved inwards with a blunt backside, and near the handle, a nasty spike. The little man quickly, and with great enthusiasm, gathered a few items from cupboards nearby and placed them by the shacksa. Oil, cloth, and a small, black whetstone for sharpening. He brought forth a leather sheath to be strapped across the bladed edge, but left it lying on the counter.

He placed a hand on the weapon and stared deep into my eyes with a mischievous smile. "And now for the fun part!"

His hand remained on the glinting metal as he closed his eyes and began whispering. At first, not much happened, but after a while, bright particles of silver began to appear. They danced around his fingers, and lingered in the air, before sinking into the metal itself. Beads of sweat ran down the man's wrinkled forehead onto the floor, his nostrils flared and the whispering intensified. Then he gasped for air, and the remaining glitter of silver flickered and disappeared.

Carefully, after having wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he put the sheath in place and pushed the collected items forth for me to take.

"Don't make this a bad investment, young one!" He chuckled, pinching my cheek. Although it had come across as a joke, there was a weight to his words.

Yarelic had another short exchange with him in the strange language, while I bowed and thanked before taking to the stairs.

I couldn't help but let the questions flow. Yarelic, more weighed down by the barrage of questions, than the townsfolk milling about, eventually surrendered.

"He was an Impling..." he explained. "...craftsfolk of the deep, cunning and aged beyond the both of us."

"What did he do to the shacksa, was it like our arts, magic?"

"No..." he answered. "Implings have their own sorcery. They speak to tools and rock and precious metals. How, I know naught!"

It was clear that his patience was running out, but my curiosity knew no bounds. Relentlessly, I pelted him with questions until he resigned once more.

"What he did to your weapon is a mystery to many. Young one, just know that you could not have asked for a better tool. Implings rarely share their ways with humans, and I suspect he saw something in you much like I do..."

We turned a corner and continued through the northern gate, leaving the noises and smells of Karham behind.

"...one day he will ask you for something in return, just make sure whatever it is, you see it through."

It was almost evening when we broke off from the northern road, onto a winding path leading through speckled forest and rocky hills. Yarelic had stubbornly refused to explain why we so suddenly left town, at least until now.

"Continue on this path, young one, until you reach a large entrance in the rock. The caverns of Wolagh are just ahead." He instructed.

I looked at him in a moment of confusion. "Caves?"

"Why do you think we got you all this equipment? To laze about in the tavern?" His voice was demeaning, deliberately taunting me.

Payback for barraging him with questions, fair enough, I thought, still clueless about the sudden expedition. "Why are we heading into the caves then?"

But Yarelic shook his head and took a few steps back the way we had come. "Not we, young one, you!"

My jaw dropped, 'Wolagh', of course! I should have recognized the name from the clerk's explanation earlier that morning.

"Don't come bothering me or Urax until you've earned enough silver to repay us for today's expenses, consider it your next lesson..." as an afterthought he added, "...and be on guard, I care not for a disciple of mine to be ended by the likes of Sculks."

Once he was fully gone, and I had found within me a sliver of composure to continue alone, the road ahead soon turned into a messy hodgepodge of footprints and marks of scuffles past, some human, others less so. Dried blood ran red scars across nearby stones, while the wind whistled between them, and more than a few bones peeked through the grass from undug graves. When the gaping hole in the rock inadvertently bared itself to me, it was safe to say, I wasn't smirking anymore.