A meeting at Azgadal was the best that Fran could suggest. Every day at the city's square at 9, noon, 3 and 6. He had a hundred questions for Bertrán, but they all agreed to spend the week heads down, mouths closed. The man in the dark glasses made some suggestions: “Let's sleep as little as possible on Thursday and go to bed by 11 PM on Friday. I hope I don't have to remind you not to risk a 5-minute nap on Friday, just load up on caffeine if you have to. I recommend not eating lunch on Friday. Have a big dinner instead, but not too late. 9 PM tops.”
“Kid, you have it all figured out,” said Sancho. “You're a sensation!”
“Bertrán will let us know if my silly ideas make sense.”
While everyone turned to the veteran of the group, Fran kept his eyes on the man in the glasses. He lowered his head and frowned a little, disappointed in himself for speaking too much. Was he a Mela veteran masquerading as a newbie?
“Bertrán, can we text?” asked the girl in dressy clothes. “I should give you my number, I mean, we should all exchange numbers, right? Make a WhatsApp group.”
“Can we google Mela? I wanted to, but I was afraid to,” said Fran.
Bertrán pointed his finger at him.
“No text messages and no googling. That's NA rules. I mean, we can use codewords, but definitely don't go and create a group called Meladventures among friends.”
“Would I die if I wrote something like that and showed it to my mother?” asked Fran.
The giant made a gesture of exasperation.
“NA rules are strict: Don't even try. Because no one has volunteered, you know? You google Mela, then what? Die? Do you want to risk death over a Google search? You could tell others to google Mela. Does that count as a foul? Will you drop dead on the spot? You could write a diary, I dated someone who does, but if her flatmates had found it and decided to take a little peek, then what? Death on the spot? Nobody knows.”
The shy woman bit her finger as she spoke.
“In that case, the tight lips rule might be bullshit.”
“I wish,” Bertrán said. “I had a girlfriend who actually died over a stupid mistake. She was under a lot of pressure in Terra, because of work. And on Mela too, to be honest. She was a high achiever and wanted to reach the top fast in both worlds. But one day she arrived at work and they dragged her straight to a meeting with her boss and an HR representative. Efficiency layoffs or something. Unexpected like an elf arrow in the desert.”
“Oh, my God, don’t tell me she broke down there and then.”
“She did. She made a big scene. You guys can't do this to me at me like this, you can't fire me. Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m First Mirror in the sorcerer's tower of the goddess of silence! One day, you'll be on your knees begging me to save this fucking planet! She ranted like nobody’s business. And before they even had a chance to to call security, she dropped dead on the spot.”
“Bertrán, that's terrible, of course, but you did say she was stressed out,” said Fran.
“Think whatever you want. In the last two years, I've met many who lost dear ones like that. So, don't become victims, people. We’re important, you and I. Everyone thinks they know why Mela and Earth are connected, but nobody's discovered why it's us specifically that became dreamers. It's the biggest honor we'll ever have, so don't fuck it up. I'm sure it's undeserved, but let's make the best of it.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
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They exchanged numbers but also agreed not to use the WhatsApp group before they met in Mela. No emergencies, no exceptions, said Bertrán.
Gathering might take time. Portal spells were available at exorbitant prices in some areas outside the Empire, but were forbidden in the Thousand Prefectures. The bureaucracy had branded them 'disorderly’,meaning too hard to control. Their use carried the death penalty, somake sure you save one for yourself if you're a black market sorcerer.
Fran was the only one located within the Empire. Adventurers usually found nothing to do in the Imperial core unless they specialized in cloak and dagger skills useful for court intrigues: Assassinations, sabotage, blackmail and espionage.
Everyone promised they’d find money for the spell no matter what. Some with uncertainty, others with determination. Fran felt bad that he'd have it so easy: The dragon's black mountain rose a two-day walk from Kliogos. Everyone in town pretended it wasn't there, but Bertrán had heard of both places, much to Fran's surprise. “I'm not an expert in Melan History, I couldn't care less about lore, but Kliogos was the first addition to the Empire in twenty years. They usually set up puppet states, some princedom they can turn their backs on if things get dicey. But once the Empire acknowledges a new prefecture, boy, that's a different story. Imperial prestige would never permit them to lose it. They'll throw good army after bad to defend it.”
“Doesn't the dragon make it a risk to the Empire?”
“Azgal is the only reason the Empire has a presence that far out! The dragon hasn't moved in 300 years, so there's no danger, and the Empire realizes that. There's the appearance of danger. And then there's the city of Azgadal, a unique place that attracts adventurers of all sorts. Imagine a hundred species fighting, drinking, conspiring, plotting, forming alliances, swearing oaths and breaking pacts. There's no place like it and there's no way your back is safe from a dagger while you're there. Lean against the wall at all times. So yes, the Empire needs an eye on that place. Who can blame them? Anyway, I feel unsafe talking here. Friday is it, people. The best day of the week. A toast to new beginnings is on me,” Bertrán said, shaking his hand.
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Back home, Fran paced his room like a caged dragon. His brain was slowly absorbing the information that Bertrán had shared at the NA meeting. His body was finding it more difficult. Fran was sure there was a perfectly scientific medical explanation for his anxiety. Perhaps the body absorbs stress hormones at a lower pace than the brain changes modes or something. But theory and practice never overlap perfectly.
Had his show of dissent been a good idea? Impossible to know, but the NA seemed dodgy at best and cultish at worst. Swear an oath to us. Do as we say. Always. Everywhere. What's next? Money? Sex? Murder? Perhaps all of that and more.
Fran plunged into his coding exercises and went through them with more difficulty than a WWI soldier charging towards enemy trenches. Getting into the zone was the best thing about coding, but he couldn't do it tonight. At least his anxiety gave his excuses a veneer of sincerity when he apologized to his mom for having dinner in his room. Too much to do.
Keystroke after keystroke, line after line, coding progressed until all his exercises were done by 2 AM. He couldn't have been more surprised. That's when he looked at the screen and realized the truth: He was afraid of sleep.
Monday was a nightmare. Tuesday, even worse. But on Wednesday night, his body raised the white flag of surrender and Fran collapsed on his bed the as soon as his body touched the mattress. Good, he thought. Tomorrow I have to stay awake as long as possible. He sank into a dreamless sleep that made a new man out of him.
Staying awake on Thursday night was easy. He was feeling an unexpected excitement about Friday. A positive energy filled him to the brim. He knew the reason: The darker aspects of the Melan experience had been receding in his mind. Conversely, the joy of the table hopping game in The Wayward Son became a recurrent memory. So did others: The hurried fight against the orc became an early moment of heroism that heralded future triumphs. That moron rogue from the New Alliance should have been a lot more grateful, the bastard. More memories surfaced framed in gold like invaluable museum paintings: He'd risked death helping two strangers when he could have turned his back on them and gotten handsomely rewarded for his part in that horrendous event. Mela was wonderful. Or it had the potential to be if bad luck didn't spawn you in a zombie-infested marsh or made you a slave to bloodsucking sadists. Well, disgrace abounded in Earth too, and that didn't take away from all the great stuff that humanity created every day.
On Friday afternoon, Fran texted his friends Alberto and Rafa: Caught something bad in school. I used the bathroom SIX TIMES today. How's a man supposed to read Punpun like this? I might see you on Saturday, have fun tonight.
He left the phone on his desk and turned up the music. The anticipation felt like runaway adrenaline racing through his veins.
The rest of the day felt like a countdown to the best date of his life.