Dytifrourá was no metropolis, but it was all Kosta had ever known. Its walls were high and sturdy, its roads paved and warded against the decay of the elements, and magic burst from every corner.

Yoreme was humbler even than his home. If Dytifrourá had been a backwater, then Yoreme was a backwater’s backwater. It was old, though, and had existed on the fringes of the Dipoli’s territory for centuries now without experiencing disaster. This region was one of the farthest reaches that had managed to survive the Westscour War.

Merchants regularly crossed through Yoreme on their way to Dytifrourá (and beyond, in calmer times) and must have acted as the village’s lifeblood. Magic ensured that the tiny village was protected from outside threats, though any focused attack would tear right through its wards. Less than a thousand people made Yoreme their home. Kosta caught sight of enchanted items to generate water, banish the chill of winter, and other quality of life improvements made by enterprising residents.

This town might not be especially luxurious, but it was comfortable.

“There’s the tanner,” Pavlos said, pointing to a compact building with absolutely foul smells wafting out. A grizzled old man in a leather apron waved distractedly to Pavlos as he stretched a deer hide. “The inn. And the Headsman’s home.”

Kosta nodded exhaustedly as he dragged his feet behind the red hunter. The lion pelt’s predatory gaze was fixed on him as he followed Pavlos. It licked its chops, then growled when he made a rude gesture at it.

Pavlos seemed inexhaustible, though that was no surprise to Kosta. A hunter like him would focus his power into enhancing his physical form above all else, though the tricks he pulled with pelts and other products of his quarry still captured Kosta’s imagination. He’d even taken the kynokephalon’s bones and crafted dozens of arrowheads and even a great spear that radiated fury and bestial aggression.

Ignoring the aid and kindness that the red hunter had shown him, Kosta would still be impressed by the craftsmanship. It was crude and savage, clearly the work of a man more intent upon the purpose of a thing than the elegance of it, but there was a beauty to that as well.

Outsiders clearly weren’t uncommon in Yoreme due to the trade routes that looped through the small, neat village, but Kosta’s ragged appearance clearly attracted quite a bit of attention. Most people who lived in Yoreme were relatively clean and neat, well taken care of despite their humble position, and they cast him constant looks.

Sure, he was filthy. And smelled. And had dirt everywhere. But they could’ve been less rude about it. At least he’d washed the blood off.

“Pavlos! Is the deed done?” A soft voice greeted them as they stepped into the cozy home of the Headsman. The speaker was weathered like an old crag, ancient beyond belief, and a silver beard flecked with black trailed down to his waist, tucked into his belt. “We’ve heard ill tides these past few days. We worried for you!”

“My quarry is slain,” Pavlos said proudly, holding the kynokephalon’s pelt aloft. Its tongue lolled out and its tail wagged, just happy to make a new friend. Why couldn’t the damn thing have been so friendly while it was alive? Maybe it wouldn’t have died an agonizing death if that were the case. Pavlos’ face soured. “I’ve heard the same news. Dytifrourá?”

Headsman Phillip’s wrinkled eyes squeezed shut. “Aye. Burnt to the ground. The Hesperians have staked their claim to it. Their runner was courteous enough to stop here and spread the word. The caravans are furious.”

Pavlos jerked a clawed fingertip at Kosta, who had frozen at the mention of his home. “I heard from Kosta here. He’s a sculptor from Dytifrourá. Helped me slay the kynokephalon.”

Phillip’s bushy white eyebrows rose, as did his olive-skinned assistant. “Truly?”

Kosta smiled humorlessly. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“My sympathies,” Phillip’s assistant said in the same lilted tones as the Hesperians, which set Kostsa on edge immediately. He was an old man, though not so old as Phillip. Based on his age and the subtle aura of power that exuded from the Headsman (though less than mighty practitioners such as Evanthe or Isidora) Phillip had likely seen at least a century pass. “I know what it’s like to lose a home.”

He nodded shortly to the man, unwilling to actually address him.

“May I ask your account?” Phillip asked lightly. “We spoke rarely, but I knew Linus for decades. He was…I can’t imagine him to have fallen. He was a titan.”

Phillip’s assistant scowled.

“The Hesperians came from nowhere, led by the Merakian Stelios and his Nephonauts. A storm swept in, they shattered the barrier, and that was that. We fought. We lost. I ran,” Kosta said, glancing away. Phillip started at the mention of the Merakian, horror flashing across his craggy features.

The Headsman toyed with his silver beard. “A Merakian…well, they won’t push into Yoreme.”

“Praise the Dream for that,” his assistant muttered. “We’ll have to proffer up a few more treasures, sir.”

“Excuse me?” Kosta’s eyebrows arched. “The Merakian took the valley in a day. You think they’ll just steer clear of Yoreme?”

“We know it,” Phillip said dismissively. “There’s nothing for them here. And if they push, the Dipoli is here.”

“That’s what we thought as well.”

Phillip didn’t seem concerned. “Let us worry about that, friend. You’ve had a long journey, haven’t you?”

Kosta was acutely aware of the filth (and clinging blood) that coated him. He desperately needed to bathe. “Aye. I don’t suppose you have somewhere that I could stay a few days? I need—”

“Your share of the bounty,” Pavlos interrupted him, pressing a fat sack of coin into Kosta’s hands. His eyes boggled as he felt its weight—this was worth at least five of his standard commissions! The Argyropolis commission would’ve dwarfed this sum, but that was far from his usual fare.

It didn’t surprise him that art was valued less than blood, though it still disappointed him. Kosta spared a moment to pray that Evanthe had led the Dytifrouráns to safety. No doubt his parents would find a way to land on their feet. They had a way of sniffing out opportunities.

“You’re welcome to stay here in Yoreme, young Kosta,” Phillip said as Kosta hefted the sack in his palm. “Go to the inn—tell Antigonus that I’ll cover your room and board for a week. You’ve earned your rest. But when you’re ready, I’d speak with you again. I need to know as much as possible. We only have the Hesperians’ words so far, and you understand why we’d be skeptical of their recounting.”

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The Headsman’s assistant flinched at that, but stayed silent.

Kosta’s journey weighed on him at those words. The last few days came crashing down upon his shoulders like a hammer, reminding him of the brutal conditions he’d suffered and the sheer agony of watching Dytifrourá wash away in the Merakian’s winds.

What would it take to match that sort of power? Kosta couldn’t help but wonder how he could claim that strength for himself. He’d always been content with what he was: power came slowly, he thought, and he would grow into his abilities over time.

But the invasion had taught him otherwise. He needed it now.

“Thank you,” Kosta replied as he dipped his head. “I do appreciate it.”

Phillip grunted. “You’ve done us a service. And with recent happenings a bit of shelter is the least we can do. Pavlos, would you mind showing our friend the way?”

The red hunter saluted. “Aye. Come along, sculptor.” He motioned toward the doorway. “Antigonus’ inn isn’t far. Just don’t expect too much friendly conversation.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kosta snorted. “I’ll be content with a bed and a hot meal.”

“Great!” Pavlos smiled. “That’s just about all you’ll get. Minus the hot meal, anyways.”

The Headsman and his assistant exchanged hurried whispers then, clearly mulling over the news that Kosta had brought and the potential it carried, then Pavlos led him away through the village. Yoreme was small enough that its center held perhaps a dozen buildings essential for daily life arrayed in a circle.

Kosta had already caught sight of the tanner, but now that the hope of a good rest was around the corner he found himself revitalized. He scanned the humble buildings all around, none of which were larger than a single story.

Most were made of fired bricks and oak. Mundane tools would’ve had a difficult time working with the wood, but a touch of magic left any normal logs easy to manipulate. A large, sprawling complex that must have been their local temple dominated the western end of the plaza.

A few other shops and sites of industry hummed with activity (as much as Yoreme could boast, anyways) but nothing truly attracted Kosta’s attention.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Pavlos said. The red lion hissed at a passing child, who waved happily at the pelt before scurrying off to play with a few of his grimy friends. “We eke out our survival here.”

“It must be hard,” Kosta said. Dytifrourá did well for itself, but it had walls. A well-organized militia. Linus. The Dipoli had a vested interest in its survival. No one would blink twice if Yoreme were to vanish. “Is there much danger out here?”

Pavlos shrugged. “Enough. Your Headsman kept our western reaches clear. Notelos’ stewards and their Eirenian Guard ensure nothing too foul festers. And what does slip by has me to contend with.”

Kosta smiled despite his exhaustion. His legs felt like lead as Pavlos led him to a well-kept building constructed of bright red planks. “Poor bastards.”

“I do my part,” Pavlos said modestly as they slipped in through the entryway. The building was clearly the inn mentioned by Phillip—a collection of plain benches, tables, and chairs were scattered throughout the large central room. Whoever had arranged them had some eye for aesthetics, but Kosta couldn’t help but sniff as he eyed their shoddy construction.

He could do so much better.

A few rough men in traveling clothes sat around sipping at mugs of some sparkling silver drink, but none spared Kosta or Pavlos more than a passing glance. Yoreme was accustomed to strangers, after all.

“Antigonus! You have a customer.”

Pavlos’ guttural voice filled the small inn like the roar of a lion, quaking the floorboards and rattling the rafters. Several of the travelers (especially a haggard man with a sword at his belt) shot the hunter dirty looks, but Pavlos didn’t even blink.

After the display he’d given in the fight against the kynokephalon, Kosta couldn’t blame him.

A squinting man appeared from nowhere. He polished a cup in his hand that reminded Kosta of the night sky. Gleaming constellations danced within, scattered throughout the black void, and the beautiful piece immediately caught Kosta’s eye.

“Who made that?”

The barkeep, Antigonus, blinked. “Well hello to you too, jackass.”

Kosta ignored the barb. He pointed at the void mug. “I want that cup.”

Antigonus blinked and inspected the cup as if it were nothing special. “How much are you offering, boy?”

It was always a bit of a hazard to try to haggle for something you didn’t know the actual value of, but Kosta wanted this void mug like nothing he’d ever seen. The craftsmanship was like nothing he’d expect to see in a backwater like Yoreme—Kosta had never seen its like. It was forged of magic, or at least as much magic as mundane material.

He needed to study it. The mug seemed delicate enough to disintegrate from a stray gust, yet it stood strong in the face of Antigonus’ pudgy fingers gripping it tightly. At first glance it was just an ethereal Projection, but there was substance there! More than that, it was at least semi-permanent.

Kosta felt a terrible hunger take hold. He could learn so much!

“Five tokens.”

“Ten.”

“Seven,” Kosta countered. He’d hazarded a random number, but now he at least he had a range that Antigonus must have considered acceptable. Five was worth a night at most inns. It would barely be a fraction of the money that he’d earned for his part in slaying the kynokephalon, and Kosta considered it a fair price to assuage his curiosity. “Eight if you tell me who makes them.”

Antigonus wasn’t trying to charge a fortune, so these mugs must be fairly easy for him to acquire. Just a glance around the tavern showed that almost every mug was of the same make. Not all were voids, however. Some seemed as if a stormy sky had coalesced into the shape of the mug, while others were bright and blue with fluffy white clouds drifting down the sides. Still others were more abstract, resembling painted textures like a mountainside or avalanche.

There was an astonishing variety, and Kosta grew more and more impressed by the moment. That sort of likelike appearance was fantastic, but the animation inherent to the mugs were what he truly hungered for.

“Whatever,” Antigonus snorted. He popped out an impatient head. “Pay up, then.”

They made their trade. Antigonus earned a bit more coin than he would’ve seen from Kosta otherwise. Kosta was now the proud owner of a curious little creation. Everyone won.

“Headsman Phillip said that he would cover my room and board for a week,” Kosta said. He only took a little offense when Antigonus’ beady eyes narrowed and flickered over to Pavlos, who nodded. “I take that this arrangement will be agreeable?”

“Long as I get paid, sure,” Antigonus grunted. He picked up another mug to wipe out and dipped his head down a hallway to their right. “First room on the right. Don’t bother the other guests. Drinks are a token each, meals are included in the nightly fee. Bread and cheese in the morning, stews in the evening. Look up Polemon if you want to find those mugs.”

Kosta nodded his thanks, not put off at all by his gruff demeanor. He wasn’t looking for a friend in the man, just a source of shelter.

“I have more quarry,” Pavlos said quietly as he readied to drift outside the inn. “If you’re interested in a bit of work, come and seek me out by noon tomorrow. I’ll wait by the Headsman’s office. I wouldn’t mind your shields at my side.”

He was too exhausted to say much to that, but offered Pavlos a weary nod before the red hunter left, whistling some upbeat tune to himself as he slipped out of the doors.

“I’ve keyed you into the wards,” Antigonus grunted, though he didn’t say another word. Kosta just nodded gratefully and stumbled off towards the room. The weight of the last few days pressed down upon him like a crushing boulder with every step.

It had been too long since he’d been safe.

So he went to his room. It was tiny and cramped, full of only the most basic amenities, but it served Kosta’s purposes. Kosta dumped his belongings, shed his clothes, and paused only to secure the wards tied into the door before he collapsed onto the bed and allowed sleep to take him.

His dreams were of storm clouds and a bright flame.