We made our way through the hallway toward the room of Iskander and Jaxine.

“I expected more,” I confessed to Florencia. “I thought he would jump on board without hesitation.”

Florencia nodded and agreed.

“Nobody even addressed you during the trial,” she said. “No wonder Jace thought this was all about Cappesand.”

We stood in the hallway, gilded and arched, with yellow-pink walls of marble that had been polished smooth and unblemished.

“What are we going to tell Iskander and Jaxine?” I asked Florencia when we neared their door.

Florencia shrugged casually and said: “Less than we told Jace. I hope they’re too angry over what happened and just want to go back to Szell.”

“I don’t think they’ll do that,” I said. “They have a deep hatred for Vranik. If I say we’re going to hunt him down, they’ll be the first ones on the road, urging us forward.”

Florencia scoffed. “Ugh! You’re right. Whatever happened in Odel made them hate Vranik!”

I was in Scorro, and already hate Vranik; I thought. And it wasn’t a logical hate, but one that sprung up by other means.

“You really don’t like them, do you?” I asked her.

“No, it’s not that,” Florencia said, shaking her head and tucking her blonde hair behind her ear.

“Jaxine is too young and impulsive. It’s only a matter of time before she’s going to do something stupid. People like her always do,” Florencia said, her voice tinged with a strange apathy. “And Iskander is so grim and spiteful. One wrong move and he might just go off.”

Her expression softened for a moment. “But then again… If Iskander is Derakleon’s friend, he can’t be that unstable.”

“I like them, for some reason. We just have to guide them in the right direction!” I whispered while knocking on his door.

“Why would you want to do that?” Florencia asked as we heard steps coming. “He owes you nothing.”

Florencia scoffed as a clean man opened the door.

The man who answered the door was not the Iskander Karis that we knew from Scorro.

He stood before us in a cream-white dressing gown that might’ve been meant for a woman, and his mouth was full of sweet pastries and crumbs littering his chest. His wild hair was combed straight and clean, but the wild and menacing look remained.

Meanwhile, Jaxine was further back, laying on the wide bed, dressed in a similar white gown, and eating some bread with creamy butter. She looked as content as I’d seen her.

“Toffee cakes?” Florencia mumbled, her eyes shy suddenly.

“My favorites. They remind me of my younger years. I wasn’t expecting you to come,” Iskander said gruffly. “The butler-thing told us to wait and brought us food. So we waited. What was yesterday about?”

“Some… Strange political games,” I said awkwardly and Iskander measured the weight of my words but didn’t really seem to care.

“The servant guy said we’re going to be released soon, that we’re not involved in this,” said Iskander, and sat down on the bed.

“That’s right,” I said and looked for Florencia’s help, but she was having none of it. If I wanted their help, I had to do it without her diplomacy skills.

I drew in a breath, caught both of their attention and said: “So there have been some developments—”

“Like?” Iskander interrupted.

“Because of what I did, I’ve been offered a job.” And before Iskander could interrupt me again, I continued. “Me, Florencia, and Jace will go south to look for Vranik.”

Now both of them were paying very much attention, and they made no noise.

“The chief justice and the royal advisor didn’t want another Scorro or Veneiea to happen and wanted me to help them. So I’ll go south, and see whether I can find any trace of Vranik. I’ll hunt him down and squeeze every bit of information out of him as I can.”

“Hunt him down?” Iskander smirked over the choice of words.

“I meant to follow him,” I corrected myself. “Where ever he went. And catch him.”

“And now you’re asking for our help?”

I nodded, and as I had expected, Jaxine couldn’t agree quickly enough.

“We’ve wasted enough time here,” she said hotly. “When do we leave?”

“In three days,” Florencia replied and stepped forward, but I sensed a string of irritation within her.

Jaxine smoothed her bright red hair and scoffed. “Three days! Let’s go now. We’ve been in this room for long enough.”

Iskander spoke a few calming words to her that seemed to do the trick, and she quieted down.

“So now, you’re not working for Cappesand anymore,” Iskander said and looked at Florencia. “Now you’re working for the king?”

Florencia and I nodded, and Iskander leaned in to whisper with Jaxine for several moments. Finally, she rolled her eyes and eventually gave up.

“We’ll help, but that doesn’t mean we’re servants to all the barons and knights and captains who can order us around!” Iskander said, his voice low and intense, and there was a spark of anger in his deep, black eyes. “I won’t have that. No stupid noble or ignorant guard is going to tell me where to go or what to do! Got it?”

He needed some calming down until he understood that there won’t be anything of the sort. At least, I hoped there won’t be. I didn’t know how cooperative the Lienor nobles would be.

“Fine! We’ll help. I can cut down those brutes by the droves,” Iskander said darkly. “If we can prevent another Scorro by hunting down Vranik, that’ll be even better.”

*

The streets of Estalarch were noticeably brighter than those of Bessou.

An aide to Rainier Pitties was guiding us through the city, but the man didn’t mention Pitties’ name once, even back in Sanermo. Florencia thought that this was to keep a distance between Pitties and us; a precaution I thought was necessary.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The aide’s name was Corso, and he didn’t give us his last name.

He was a young and fit man, in the prime of his life. I saw he had no wrinkles around his eyes, and his gaze was pure, so he couldn’t have been older than forty. He wore an unadorned long coat of black wool, and a white shirt underneath, and only on the inside of his coat we saw a similar brooch bearing the royal coat-of-arms, signaling that he was the king’s agent.

We had left Jace behind to consider our offer, and Corso led the four of us into Estalarch on foot. Our destination was the Old Town—a marvel of an ancient craft that was carved into the very marble of the mountain, almost two millennia ago.

“We have no mountains in Szell,” Iskander shouted as we passed a dense crowd, “but this city is pretty.” Iskander and Jaxine were unused to the mountains, as Szell was entirely flat, set on the plains of Bennen, beside the Emerald Sea.

This was about as big of a compliment as Iskander could manage, I thought.

As we made our way upward, I was surprised to sense no dark and malicious intent lingering upon the town. Sure, there was evil here, but barely noticeable. Estalarch was more lively and hopeful, much more like the cities of old. Florencia said it reminded her of the good old times and even Iskander agreed.

The streets were paved with smooth, square stones and tall fence posts and buildings built high and straight, with carved sculptures decorating the window sills, and stone gargoyle waterspouts looking down from the roofs. To get to the old town, we had to pass the Carpanturra—the grand old theater of Lienor—with its massive, pyramid-shaped glass and marble dome, surrounded by a lush garden of evergreen bushes and a tall fountain of gold.

All around the city were patrolling guards, an unending row of horses and carriages and wagons, and the clamoring of thousands of crowds. Wood smoke filled the air, as most had small fires going to drive off the sharp and cold mountain air.

Access to the old town was through ancient gates made from weathered stone pillars that were guarded by the Estalarch city guards—proud and tall were they, cloaked in sapphire-blue and white, wearing polished steel helmets without a single blemish on them. And their tall spears they gripped tightly, and in their eyes was a gaze that was unwavering.

Old Estalarch felt different, though the liveliness still lingered.

The streets ahead were crooked and ancient, with a sagebrush-green patina on the worn stairs. Now they were narrow, barely wide enough for two horses to pass each other, and winding ever upward. There was no mistake we were climbing a mountain, slowly, one flight of stairs at a time.

And when we turned our eyes upward, there we saw the Tower of Aarnost where the King dwelt, glimmering proudly in the midday sun, but so high up it seemed unreachable. I wondered if the crown prince, Ames Landoros, was there at this moment. Perhaps even Pitties…

Nevertheless, my eyes wandered even higher still, where was the white, snow-capped peak of Estaldren, literally meaning the highest mountain in old Lienor. So high was it that it almost reached the thin clouds.

But in Old Estalarch, the shops were ancient and had dark weathered wood signs and crooked window frames and glass panes that were rippled with age.

It was in these shops that Corso took us to make ourselves presentable, and we spent hours upon hours, so long that my feet were stiff and my thighs burned from exhaustion. Halfway, I had to loosen the laces on my boots to take some pressure off my swelled-up feet.

I had asked why I couldn’t simply wear the Scorro cloak.

“Wear the cloak of a guard, and you’ll be treated as such,” Corso replied like it was the most logical thing.

He then took us to an expensive tailor shop that was supposed to be where the fashionable nobility went and bought their attire.

It was dark inside, made even more so by the dark wood of the furniture, and an old, brown carpet that had seen generations of customers come and go. All around were overcoats, gowns, and cloaks of all kinds, hanging on clothes hangers.

Corso sat us down in a dark wooden lounge, where an old tailor, with large round wire glasses, pinched on his nose, began taking my measurements with a leather tape measurer.

“You must look the part of a man who is more than he presents himself,” said Corso. “This means, in today’s fashion, a dark short-coat, knee-length, charcoal or midnight blue; the material definitely either wool or oilcloth—” he scoffed at the latter, “straight cut and with a high vent for horse-riding. Single-breasted, of course, for when… physical activities arise. I advise an inner lining of silk, with a dull or unremarkable color—black or maroon perhaps, but with a fine checkered pattern for the attentive eye.”

“Regrettably, we don’t have the time to attend to it today, but I advise you to procure a walking cane of fine quality. I suggest a handle of white bone and a shaft of black onyx, etched or carved, and with an iron tip,” said Corso. “In doing so, you shall elevate yourself above the commonality, and would rarely need to show the pin.”

After many hours passed, and the old tailor had worked his staff to exhaustion, Corso was finally happy with the four of us, and he stood before us.

He examined the outfit that he had assembled for me—a midnight-blue coat, knee-length, over a simple but thick white cotton shirt and a waist-length doublet jacket over that. We had even bought new boots that resembled more those Florencia had before mid-calf length, and were light brown with a high polish and low heel.

“No laborer boots,” Corso had said impatiently. “Will give your station away in moments!”

After his eyes darted all around, he finally nodded in approval and turned to the tailor, who breathed out in relief. He looked utterly exhausted, rubbing his swollen eyes and putting away his set of sewing needles.

“Yes,” Corso said, smiling crookedly. “That will do just fine. I think we are done here.”

By that time, all light had gone from the serpentine streets outside, and midnight was approaching.

We were done, and there was no mistaking the four of us looked like we belonged beside a baron at the evening dinner table.

Or someone who would come without knocking into the office of the Lord Mayor, and make demands without explaining a single thing.

Even Jaxine looked content, swirling herself around in front of the mirror, admiring her new long coat, and tall riding boots, but keeping her old and frayed sweater. This was the first time I saw Jaxine happy, or what might’ve been close to happy, and she very much enjoyed the strange day that was gifted to her.

“This doesn’t mean I like you, Jonas,” she had said, smirking. “But I don’t dislike you, either.”

I guess it was better than nothing.

Iskander simply grinned in silence, as he now looked like a well put together gentleman who was only clothed in black and one who would cut you in two with his greatsword. A strange, yet charming combination. The wild look in his eyes was tamed, but wound tightly, ready to erupt.

Florencia was adamant to keep her well-worn and soft traveling boots, as she had received them as a gift from a cobbler she had saved many years ago. But Corso managed to convince her to get a new overcoat. He picked out a charcoal grey coat with a tall collar and a luxurious black and golden silk lining—to match her hair. Beneath the coat, he chose a dark doublet vest with a fine pinstripe pattern, adding a touch of sophistication to her outfit.

We only got back to Sanermo after midnight, all of us utterly exhausted.

“Well, that was healing for my soul,” said Florencia, as she collapsed onto the bed.

I went before the oval-shaped mirror and pinned the two golden badges—Pitties’ mark and Scorro’s brooch—onto the inside of the coat. Quickly then exhaustion took me, and I collapsed beside Flo, hoping to catch some sleep.

But it was not to be.

I fell into a light, shallow sleep, and with it came a dream unlike anything I had before. I couldn’t remember my dreams at all before, only in the beginning, back in Florencia’s apartment, I’d occasionally woke up drenched in sweat and overcome with panic.

But this time I found myself walking, almost floating, on a wide battlefield, surrounded by faceless bodies locked in an endless fight against an uncountable horde of enemies. In the midst of this chaos, I longed to summon Goxhandar and swipe through this… featureless mass with glee.

It was then that Goxhandar suddenly stirred, and called out to me through the dream. I was in a strange state of half-sleep, utterly alone with my thoughts.

“Master,” spoke Goxhandar. “If we are to hunt, it would be wise for you to regain your lost knowledge. More did you comprehend of the demonic than I ever did, for I understand them only through the prism of your mind. I cannot serve you as your guide.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Meditate,” it said. “Look deep within yourself and rediscover the truth that you have forgotten. If the danger you face is as dire as the Golden one fears, then reclaim what you made yourself forget! In the time before here, long did you meditate for clarity, focus, and to replenish your sorcery. I encourage you to do so once more!”

Goxhandar was right.

I had been foolish to ignore my past, even though my heart still wanted nothing to do with it.

If my mind truly held more answers about the demonic threat, then I had to seek them out. No matter what I might find within myself.

In the morning, I told Florencia about this.

She understood and didn’t make any objections. She simply told me to be careful and if I needed anything, all I had to do was ask.

So we asked for a small, dark room, close by but isolated, and atop a few large pillows, I closed myself off.

“Very well,” I whispered to myself, almost in anticipation.

I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.

At first, nothing happened, and a whirlwind of thoughts kept bouncing about, until much later I fell into the depths of my mind.

All turned into an inky black shadow that bore its weight down mercilessly and then in the far distance, I heard a terrible laughter that sent shivers down my spine and I beheld before me a wicked dance of flames upon the walls of jagged rock.