In the darkness, the boy could not see his pursuers, but knew they were there nonetheless. At first it was just one. Then, a whole pack of the beasts. Snarling. The snap of their jaws. Their footfalls pounding right behind him.

The boy dared not look, else he might stumble and be consumed by those claws and jagged teeth. He focused on one thing only—the blue light rising in front of him, growing closer and brighter with each labored step.

In his chest, the boy’s heart beat with the fury of a wardrum. It filled his head with blood, making it difficult to think. He felt himself tiring. Slowing. Struggling to breathe. Yet, his hunters didn’t seem to lose a step, and the light was still so far away…

The howls were at his back now. As claws ripped into the soft flesh in his arm, the boy screamed—

And awoke, drenched in sweat.

The boy found himself in a bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. The room was dark, dimly lit with a few iron-wrought lanterns along the wall. His bed was comfortable, his pillow stuffed with feathers.

There was pain, also. Not the hot, searing kind, but a dull ache. He reached over and felt his arm, where the monsters had gashed him. It was bandaged carefully, as was his head. Though he could not see, he knew more bandages had been wound around his legs.

“Don’t worry, you are quite safe,” said a voice.

On a nearby bed sat an old man with his back against the wall. He peered at the boy over round-rimmed spectacles curiously, but his gray eyes were not unkind. The man’s arms were folded over his robes. He seemed relaxed, as if he had been sitting there for some time.

“You’ve caused quite a stir, young one.”

The boy said nothing.

“I am Master Ilhan, and you are in the healing chambers of the Inn of White Spire. I assure you, I mean you no harm.” The man slowly brought his legs over the side of his bed to face the boy directly. “Do you have a name?”

The boy opened his mouth to answer… but closed it again, frowning. His name? The boy closed his eyes, tried to concentrate… but though vague sounds swirled in his head, nothing came forward. What was his name?

After a moment, Master Ilhan spoke again. “That’s okay, that’s okay. Can you, ahhh, tell me how you got here?”

Again the boy searched his mind, but it was like digging through a hole being filled with sand. As soon as something was about to emerge, it was covered up again. As much as the boy tried to bring his memories into shape, they crumbled into a million tiny indiscernible fragments, spilling through his fingers.

The boy shook his head.

“I see. Well, at least I know you can understand me.” Master Ilhand paused and stroked his wispy beard, seeming to search for the right words. “The captain of the guard seems to think you are a demon.”

“Am not!” blurted the boy, his brows furrowing under the bandage wrapped around his head.

Master Ilhan laughed. “No, I did not think so either. You don’t exactly look like a demon,” he said, eyes twinkling. “And I do believe a demon would have prepared a better lie about how it came to our gates. Devious fiends! Still…” The old porter tapped his cheek in thought. “It would be helpful to know if you traveled with someone.”

“I… can’t recall anything. Or anyone.” Feeling more at ease, the boy had found his voice again. With each word, it grew stronger, more firm. Master Ilhan was friendly enough, and the man seemed to have good intentions. “I’m sorry.”

“From what the healers told me, I’m not surprised. Your head is quite bruised, like you’d been hit with a rock. A very heavy one.”

“All I remember is running. Being chased. ”

“Howlers.” Master Ilhan’s eyes slipped down to the boy’s bandaged wounds. He nodded knowingly. “Impressive you managed to escape at all. And without a mount, no less…”

The boy shrugged.

“Well, no matter. Perhaps with time and healing, your memories will return.” As Master Ilhan stood up, a series of cracks sounded up and down his spine. The old porter winced, before continuing. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. We’ll prepare a room for you upstairs, and when you’ve recovered enough I’m sure we can find something to keep you busy. Idle hands are the demon’s smithy! Tell me boy, do you like animals?”

The boy thought for a moment, searching the recesses of his memories. Animals, animals, animals... Like before, nothing came, but he found himself nodding regardless. After all, he couldn’t remember not liking animals.

“Then it’s settled! A caravanserai can never have too many stablehands. However, it won’t do to keep calling you boy all the time, will it? We need to find you a suitable name… for the time being, at least.” The porter closed his eyes, searching for something. His expression brightened once he found it. “How about Ajaz?”

Ajaz… The boy mouthed it silently, feeling the name on his tongue. Well, it was as good a name as any. Certainly better than ‘boy,’ anyways. He nodded, and for the first time, a smile found its way onto his face.

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“Ajaz it is. Well then my young friend,” Master Ilhan said, bowing slightly, “sleep calls to me like the moon to the tides.” The porter’s brown robes brushed over the tiles as he made his way over to the chamber door. “Rest now. I’ll come see you again in the morning.”

“Master Ilhan?”

“Yes?”

“Does it mean anything? Ajaz?”

Master Ilhan’s hand was upon the door, but he turned and smiled. “It means ‘miracle.’”

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The boy, who’s name was now Ajaz, recuperated in the healer’s chambers for the next few days. Though he wanted to rise and begin trying to reclaim his past, his body was still too weak and his head too foggy. Each time he tried to stand, the room began to wobble and spin.

The healers came to check on him regularly. Though they treated him with kindness and care, Ajaz found they were poor conversationalists, more interested in his physical wounds than the persistent sense of confusion and emptiness that filled his head. Master Ilhan visited when he could, but the porter was often busy with the duties and responsibilities of running the Inn of White Spire.

When Ajaz was able to walk on his own, Master Ilhan took him to a room on the second floor of the caravanserai’s arcade. The space was hardly bigger than a broom closet—and perhaps that’s exactly what it was—but it held a bed, night table, and drawers comfortably enough. It also had a small shuttered window which looked west, over the desert’s endless sprawling dunes.

Soon after, Ajaz began helping out in the stables. Out of everyone who worked and lived in the roadside inn, the stablehands were nearest to his age, if a little older. At first, the other stableboys were curt and standoffish, unused to working with strangers. However, when it was clear Ajaz had a natural talent for calming unruly mounts shaken by the terrors of the road, they accepted him with open arms.

Others of the caravanserai were not as easy. For a young boy such as Ajaz—thin as a whip and with no weapons, armor, or obvious skills of any kind—to somehow make it to their gates was nothing short of a miracle. Though there were many caravanserais spread out along the Road of Death, the Inn of White Spire was located very far east, where only the strongest adventurers ever reached. Whispers followed wherever he walked, and it seemed people treated him with either reverence or thinly veiled distrust.

No amount of hard work, for example, would convince the captain of the guard that he was not demonspawn, sent to corrupt the fortified lodge from the inside. Master Ilhan asked the boy to forgive the stubborn captain (“Rarik’s job is to protect us from all threats, and he suspects the unfamiliar,” said the porter) and eventually the guards left him well-enough alone—even if Ajaz did catch Rarik watching him with narrowed eyes every now and then.

Most learned to accept him after a while, or at the very least learned to tolerate his presence. Ajaz made himself useful where he could, helping the healers bind wounds and assisting High Cleric Pyman with his rites. The brewmaster took a liking to the boy, and soon Ajaz was bringing mugs of fermented ale to adventurers late into the night.

This was his favorite job, for the tavern was always flush with magnificent tales of monsters and liches, treasure chests high in the towers of ruined castles and great dragons rising out of the sand. They were stories of danger and loss, of triumph over evil and companions lost along the way.

These tales flowed as freely as ale, and Ajaz filled himself with as many he could—not only because they inspired his awe. He also hoped something they spoke of would spark in him some recollection of his past. The adventurers seemed to enjoy his presence and attention, sensing that he was different from the other permanent caravanserai residents.

Not all the passing travelers were good-natured, however.

One night in particular, the tavern had run out of cheese, so Ajaz had gone to the larder to fetch another wheel. The storeroom was outside and to the right of the tavern, down a small corridor set into the wall. The hour being so late, hardly anyone walked the open courtyard, workers or adventurers alike.

A group of three adventurers lounged several paces away from the tavern door, leaning against the arched columns. Pipesmoke billowed from their mouths, like little gray clouds rising into the night sky.

By their loudness, Ajaz could tell they were drunk. The boy tried to ignore them, but found one of them stepping away from the column to block his path. He was a large man, with half a nose and meanness in his eyes.

“Tavern boy,” he said, voice filled with gravel and venom, “fetch me an ale.”

“Fetch it yourself.”

“It’s yer job to serve,” said the man, narrowing his eyes and stepping closer, “so serve!” He punctuated the last word by poking a meaty finger into the center of Ajaz’s chest. Its force was enough to send the boy stumbling back a few steps.

Ajaz burned with anger. He’d seen other groups of adventurers treat the caravanserai’s workers like this, and never understood why they always took the mild abuse without protest. It wasn’t right. Somebody besides the guards had to stand up to them. “No,” said Ajaz.

The fist came too fast. It connected with his cheek, throwing him to the ground no easier than a doll. Ajaz, lithe and fast, tried to leap up, but a kick found his midsection. Then, the adventurer was on top of him, his breath reeking of ale. Another punch found his face.

“Little rat,” grumbled the brute. In the background, his companions hooted.

Try as he might, the boy was too physically weak to escape the adventurer’s clutches. The man must’ve been four times his weight and size, and merely laughed at Ajaz’s feeble attempts at punching. Then, suddenly—

Ajaz found his hands filled with fire.

Without thinking, he grabbed the rough face in front of him and felt the anger channel through him. Flames gushed from his fingertips, licked the sides of the man’s shaved head. A yowl escaped through the attacker’s lips. He stumbled back, his face red and charred.

The man’s companions stood there, slack-jawed. Before they could regain their thoughts, Ajaz ran. He ran across the courtyard, without even thinking of alerting the guards. He ran up the arcade stairs, down the hallway, and, checking to see if he’d been followed, opened the door to his room and locked it behind him.

With his back against the door, Ajaz sank to the floor. Truthfully, the fire spurting out of his hands had terrified him. Not because of what he’d done to the adventurer—the brute had deserved it—but because he was worried that Captain Rarik was actually right. Maybe he was a demon after all…

It was then that a small message appeared in the air, seemingly out of nothing.

Spell Obtained — Hands of Hell

The message shimmered in place for a few seconds, before disappearing. Ajaz, whose chest still heaved from moments before, merely blinked. Was he seeing things? He sat there dumbly as his poor brain struggled to process the events of the previous few minutes.

Then, as if words appearing out of thin air wasn’t strange enough—a bird suddenly flapped up to the open window, landing upon the sill. It stood there for a moment, regarding Ajaz with a beady eye. It clacked its long, curved beak.

“The Oracle requests your presence,” it said, in an all-too-human voice. “Please come to the top of the White Spire tomorrow.”

Then, having said its piece, the scarlet ibis clacked its beak once more, before departing.

Ajaz, whose life had only recently seemed to regain some sense of normalcy, could do nothing but question his own sanity…

Rapidly fleeting out the window.