“Morning, Cillian,” Shena said. She spoke softly to not wake up Remy. “You look… remarkable.”

I forced myself to sit. Shena’s face was a mess of blur and lines. My eyes had become one with the all-conquering headache. My brain weighed a ton; it took effort to not fall on my face and collapse by its force. I couldn’t tell if I was tired or ill, but holy hell my head was a mess. I was just thankful the night was over, praying to Shiela I wouldn’t have to live through that again.

“Nothing coffee can’t fix,” I said.

“I’ve got tea if that helps,” Shena said.

“Overbrew it, please.”

Shena pulled out her neat box with a teapot and cups inside. She got to work heating the pot with her staff, while I rested my forehead on my hand, too dizzy to pay attention to her craft.

I had received the honor of the most luxurious bed of the group: a rough mattress laid atop casks and barrels. Never would I have thought I’d prefer the bed of Huss’s guild, but this little contraption was worse than any guest bed I had ever seen. The barrel heads poked at my back through the mattress, forcing me to move position every five minutes. The barrel by my head leaked odors of yeasty beer. By early morning, when the wagon began moving again, I could feel the liquid splash inside with every thump of the wheels.

You know when you close your eyes and lie down on a perfectly still and unmoving bed, and your brain pulls that one trick on you? The one where the subconscious believes that the bed is about to flip over, sending you to the abyss below—before realizing that, in fact, the bed is totally stationary.

I felt that. The whole damn night, haunted by the same effect. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain swore I was falling. And I mean truly falling. Descending into the barrels, through the earth, and below. It was as if I was up there, on the balcony, still endlessly falling, terrified of the impact below.

“You should try sleeping with less clothes,” Shena said. “It’s more comfortable to lay down when it isn’t so hot.”

“I was already cold,” I said. I looked down at my shirt, feeling strangely numb. “This is the only outfit I have.”

Water sizzled inside Shena’s pot. “Are your clothes important to you? Sentimentally, I mean.”

What kind of question is that? I thought. But I decided to answer anyway. “Yes. My shirt is. It’s a cheap T-shirt. Nothing magical about it as you people believe. The symbols are just letters from my language. But… This might be the only shirt of its kind in existence.”

“What does it read?” Shena asked.

“Metallica,” I said. “It’s a band. You know, musical performers.”

“Really?” Shena asked. With a wry smile, she said, “Sing me a song. It’s about time we wake Remy up.”

“Uh…” Gods. How had my tired ass brought the conversation here? “I don’t think their songs have much singing. They’re more of a growling type band.”

Shena raised her eyebrows. “What does that mean? Performers that don’t sing, but growl?”

A weak smile crept onto my face. “My dad used to like them a lot. The shirt just grew too small to wear.” That, and he died.

Shena laid her staff down and left the tea to brew. “I recall my dad was into music performances too. But only if they were performed by the church. Always claimed he felt closest to the Moons when the horns blew.”

I offered a disjointed breath as an acknowledgment, hoping it was enough. I didn’t know why I was even speaking about this. There was no way I would ever hear modern music ever again. Except, perhaps…

“There is one way I could show you what Metallica sounds like,” I said. I had one of my dad’s old concert videos downloaded on my phone. “Only… The device was stolen by the cult. It could very well have burned.”

“Just another reason to punish Azetoth for his crimes,” Shena said. “We’ll retrieve it. That’s a promise.”

A few minutes of brewing later, Shena offered me a hot cup of tea. She suggested I wait for it to cool and had apparently brewed it for three times longer than it was meant to, but I ignored both warnings. The boiling heat and the tea’s bitterness were all I had to wake me up for what I could only assume would be a long day.

Remy still lay cuddled in her blanket on the wagon’s floor. She had wrapped herself inside it to compensate for the lack of cushions. There was no way I was about to wake her up. It was too early to get back to magical study.

“Remy tends to sleep in,” Shena said. “Don’t be alarmed. And certainly don’t take this as an example. She usually wakes up when she hears me insulting her from outside the wagon. If that doesn’t work, we might have to start spouting magical formulas. That will wake her head right up.”

“How do you two sleep?” I asked. “I don’t think I was out for two hours.”

Shena poured more water into the pot, preparing another batch of tea. “Remy stayed up most of the night practicing magic and relearning the basics. She’s putting more than her all into teaching you. I have to commend her efforts.”

“What?” I asked. “I thought she was sleeping outside?”

“No,” Shena said. “The lack of sleep is a common symptom of the disease called adventuring. Everyone but Darko suffers from it severely. And I don’t blame us. We all witnessed death yesterday, and Remy is teaching someone for the first time, illegally. Combine those worries with the lack of a proper bed, and it’s only natural for our bodies to beg for a switch of lifestyle.”

I glanced at my teacher’s sprawled posture. Remy breathed through her mouth, hair messy from moving around in her sleep, but otherwise appeared normal. Could she really be anxious about all this, just as I was?

I turned to Shena. “You must have stayed up too. Since you know what Remy was up to.”

“I did,” Shena said. “Someone has to make sure we aren’t ambushed at night. But it’s alright. I have invented a spell to cure myself from the problem of sleep.”

“Really?” I asked, lifting my head. “Can I learn it?”

“No,” Shena said. “The spell doesn’t exist. It’s tea and stubbornness keeping me awake.”

“Oh…” I said.

“Still, I wasn’t entirely lying,” Shena said. “Mages are naturally more energetic than regular uncursed humans. This is a result of all the mana flowing through our chords. Speaking of mana, I have a question for you. What is the most important thing you learned from Remy yesterday?”

“Most important thing?” I pondered for a second. “That water dries faster when susceptible to the sun? The moons, I mean.”

Shena gave me a look. “The second most important thing?”

I sighed, then got thinking. It was far too early for magical nonsense. “Mana reactions, then?”

Shena nodded. “Recite what you learned for me.”

“Mana is not a physical matter,” I said. “In fact, mana can’t be interacted with at all by non-magical beings. To regular humans, the mana in my chords is the same as not real.” So, in Earth’s scientific terms, mana had no mass to it. It didn’t consist of atoms and other scientific properties. Instead, it consisted of some otherworldly bullshit I didn’t yet understand. “This means that my mana chords, despite not being large at all, can hold an incredible amount of energy. Energy that can all be turned into physical power when mana transforms into magic.”

Grumbles came from the floor. Remy sat up and rubbed her eyes, then stared somewhere in my direction. “No, that’s wrong,” she said. “Your mana chords are not not large. Mana chords exist only in the realm of powers, just like mana. If your chords had a physical size, they would be humongous, like a mountain.”

Shena let out a laugh. “I’m impressed. You’ve learned well, Cill. Keep up the good work. And next time, when Remy is asleep, make sure not to sound so nerdy about magic.”

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***

Having passed through the segregating walls of Arkber, Darko found that most of his arrangements consisted of blowing through his remaining wealth to prepare Cillian for the upcoming audience.

On top of the usual mundane arrangements always done when visiting a city—such as booking a stay at a suitable inn in the bad part of town—he had spent half of his team’s remaining fortune bribing shops to skip lines. The second half was lost renting public facilities for private time to lecture Cillian. So far, everything had passed smoothly.

All that remained was the final reservation. To meet up with the Prince, and to confirm that three years apart hadn’t changed Vitek into a boring old man.

Darko strolled on paved paths amongst silver fountains. The park-like avenue was maintained to a condition only seen in the most affluent of neighborhoods. Streetside greenery was trimmed into various shapes, tree branches lined with colorful strips of silk. There was no festival; this was simply how Arkber appeared inside its exclusive walls. This was the paradise only available to those whose pockets were deep enough to qualify as aristocracy.

He scanned the surroundings for signs of an idle Prince, spotting nothing but smiles and frowns of the wealthy. Gowned women were carried on palanquins by uniformed servants. Everyone, including children, dressed better than Darko, the lone hooligan in adventuring gear. He had been questioned about his presence by city constables twice within the last hour. Each time, he had to wave his papers of authority that proved he had an audience with the King later that evening. The constables were forced to let him go, but not before suggesting that he wear some proper clothes.

Darko didn’t mind the nobility’s questioning glares, oppressive as they may have been. He was looking for a specific grin of a man he knew. He was told he would find Vitek on Westwind Avenue.

The Prince was nowhere to be seen. Darko doubted he had the wrong location. This was where Vitek promised to meet.

Old worries resurfaced in his head. The same doubts proposed by his team regarding this idea. His plan to request royal assistance was ambiguous at the very least, and only possible because of the royalty’s shortage of troops. Mages and vigor users alike were stationed at the border. Due to the war, few competent fighters were available to eradicate crazies like Azetoth.

Thus, Darko wished to make himself available. Royal help would allow him to maneuver around cities freely without having to worry about financial problems. Working with royalty ensured that opportunities wouldn’t be missed due to lawful reasons.

Mainly, however, Darko required firepower. His current skills and equipment were not nearly enough to duel Azetoth.

Just as his head was slowly drifting towards the ground, lost in thought, Darko spotted him. Sitting on a streetside branch, a buff blonde man in a full white suit, covered by a gold-embroidered cape. The hilt of his sheathed sword was covered in more intricate glyphs than even Darko’s already ridiculously modified glyphsword.

The man unsheathed his sword. Grinning wide, his body filled up with vigor. He swung down, the blade pointed convincingly at Darko’s head.

The swing was slow, like a playful snowball tossed at a child’s head. Darko raised his sword for the block with little effort. Prince Vitek landed gracefully on his feet, swords touching. The display gave pause to concerned passersby.

“I thought murder on public streets was forbidden,” Darko said with a frown, keeping his sword up.

“I’m doing service for my country, that’s all,” Vitek said. “Had my blow successfully cut you in half, my father and I would have saved a great deal of time thinning out weak contenders.”

“I see,” Darko said. “I’m sure little Thompson over there would have been enthralled by the results.” He glanced at a witnessing child, whose eyes were wide in awe and bewilderment at the sight of two active glyphswords. The bystanders’ shock was slowly turning to amusement as they assumed this was a play.

“Oh, stop complaining,” Vitek said. He sheathed his sword. “We both knew you would block that excuse of an assassination attempt. Forgive me for ever attempting to create an interesting reunion.”

Vitek was just as Darko remembered. This type of nonchalant idiocy could only be seen in a Prince last in line. Darko ignored his hopes to grin as he retreated his weapon. A Krose reunion wasn’t about smiles; it was about the strength of one’s scowl.

“Your father still sees you as the man for the cultist job?” Darko asked. “I was sure they’d replace you with someone stronger.”

Vitek shared the serious look. “I am in charge indeed. The puzzle is whether you are competent enough to accompany me.”

The two locked in a staredown. Passersby paused to watch, while the more impatient palanquins discreetly moved past. This likely wasn’t the first time this street had seen a Krose reunion, though what Darko and Vitek were about to do was certainly impolite in the middle of the street.

“You better not have grown weak, old friend,” Vitek said. He held out his hand.

“Me? Weak? You’re the one who is at risk of falling obsolete.” Darko accepted the hand and prepared for the worst.

Both men filled with vigor as they squeezed each other’s palms. Energy amassed in their respective hands like crackling bonfires. The Krose handshake was a game of power and control, a mix of defense and attack, to both ensure that one’s hand wasn’t blown into bits while squeezing the opponent’s in an attempt to blow theirs.

Vitek initiated with a serious amount of force, enough for Darko to take the game seriously. Darko stabilized the protective layer of vigor around his arm and hand, then pushed outward, into his opponent’s hand. He pushed hard enough to startle the Prince into serious effort, but not enough actually destroy body parts.

The game continued with grimaces and intense eye contact. A Krose handshake was a tool for introductions just as much as it was a competition for strength. After a back and forth of attack and defense, the squeeze hard enough to the crack bones of an ordinary human, Darko and Vitek reached an agreed stalemate. Their powers remained equal. This was their strength. Their show of alliance.

Then, for what appeared out of nowhere to passersby, their expressions lightened. Both men erupted into laughter. They raised their arms and hugged wide, patting each other on the back.

“Hell fucking yes, Vitek.” Darko eventually released the hug. “Feels so great to see your butt of a head again.”

The Prince kept laughing. “You should have seen my face when I heard you were a candidate for this job. That one dumb friend from my rebellious parties has been named the damn ‘Wyvern Slayer,’ and is now asking to assassinate a crazy cultist with my assistance. I admit, you are the last person I expected to ever work with in official terms.”

“I have to say the same,” Darko said. “The alcoholic prince I got drunk with now proposes to hunt the very man my family has a grudge with.”

“That said…” Vitek sighed. He sat on a streetside bench, ushering Darko to follow. “We’ve got a myriad of problems and technical jitterings on the way. I hope you understand that a lot of obstacles block us from simply working together. Obstacles which I, unfortunate as it is, must acknowledge.”

“I was afraid this would be the case,” Darko said. “I don’t come without plans and proposals. What are the obstacles?”

“For one, my father is disinclined to place royal resources on a bunch of adventurers,” Vitek said. “He wishes me to work with reliable sources. The truly strong allies of royalty. And this is in no way an insult to your strength, but I am inclined to agree. As much as I would love to work with a friend, I require results more than I do leisure. I’ve been a useless fifth child for long enough. It’s about time I start racking up achievements.”

“You came to decline my offer, then?” Darko asked.

Vitek paused. “You could say that. Sorry.”

“Yet, you and your father have agreed to hold an audience,” Darko said. “You clearly see potential in my achievements.”

“About that.” Vitek crossed his legs, uncomfortable. “Father has been… pondering over the decision. Our schedule has proved to be tighter than anticipated. Father no longer deems it necessary to hear your proposal. He finds Daphine’s history of achievements impressive, compared to an up-and-coming adventurer’s. Your progress in the cultist hunt is respectable, so far, but a few minor victories are not enough to convince him. I am sorry to say this, but I don’t think we can work together this time around, as much as I would love to.”

Darko raised his eyebrows. The King wouldn’t hear him out? What the hell was this? In what world were Daphine’s results impressive? The woman was trained in the military, sure, with a history of great success, yet her results in the cultist hunt were commendable only in the way toddlers were praised for successfully stacking blocks.

No. Darko wouldn’t accept this. He knew for a fact that his plan was far more effective than any of the other contenders’. “I was under the impression that you wished to work under the best chances of victory. You will follow the best proposal in cutting off Azetoth’s head.”

“Correct,” Vitek said. “Which is why I intend to work with my father’s allies. Maybe… Perhaps you could be involved to work alongside us, but to follow your plan as the primary method… This simply is not going to happen.”

“Vitek,” Darko said, staring the Prince in the eyes. “Why do you think I’ve traveled all this way to ask for royal assistance? Do you really think I’m here just to snatch you off for fame and money? No. I am here because I have formed a plan to defeat Azetoth. I have a solution to end the cult for good, and for my plan to proceed, I require resources. I would not ask for assistance if my plan didn’t need it.

“I will remind you that, despite being a lowly adventurer, I am the man who has single-handedly cleared three major cultist operations without assistance. All I am asking for is a quick audience because I wish to prove that Daphine’s approach to dealing with cultists is criminally inefficient.”

Vitek frowned. “I find that hard to believe. Even if you’ve got a genius plan brewed up, my father is impossible to budge once he’s set his mind.” He tapped his foot, thinking. “If you are serious, I don’t think any miracle short of subduing Arkber’s cultist problem before his departure will help to convince Father.”

“In that case, I believe I will do just that.” Darko stood up, putting on a serious face. “Tell your father that he isn’t canceling shit. I’ve got an audience, and I prepare to put it into use, even if the King can spare me less than two minutes.”

Vitek faced his look and sighed. “Very well. I will convey your message. But don’t expect Father to care.”

Darko nodded. “Thank you, Vitek. I am glad to see you again, truly. We will meet again this evening.”

With that, he turned around and walked off. He bit his lip when out of sight. This was not at all how he wanted the talk to go. He had wished to warn Vitek of Cillian’s presence, to offer the Prince a heads up for the lies Darko was about to spout. Instead, it seemed he would not only have to lie to the King but to the Prince as well.

Sighing inside his head, Darko headed back towards the tailor shop, knowing that his team would soon arrive. The plan was progressing well enough in theory. The audience with the King was mostly secured. Darko’s achievements, though apparently not enough, were acknowledged, and the rumors of Darko the Wyvern Slayer were spreading.

Yet, one worry in his head kept resurfacing. Would Cillian be in any state to play along with Darko’s lies?