Kliogos was the city's name, although according to the little information that Alsu had shared before they parted ways, it had a completely different name in the Imperial records. Most locals would ignore that name just as much as they ignored the real customs of the Empire to which their city belonged. All they knew was that the Empire was a benevolent force that arrived in the area about a century ago, provided troops to clean up the area, freed their great-grandparents from constant raids and the burden of eternal vigilance, and sent an architect to build a defense wall.

Kliogans didn't govern themselves anymore, but they didn't feel like they were missing out. No one loved the tax collectors’ annual visits, and sometimes the Imperial Edicts, which riders with slanted eyes brought from a faraway capital, were difficult to interpret or outright annoying. But everyone remembered the old tales about Barbarian raiding parties. Orcs and goblins were just the tip of the iceberg. Ogres killed the men of Kliogos and minotaurs burned their olive trees for fun. Once, a deranged psychic took over for a month, turning brother against sister and son against father, twisting their minds for her obscene pleasure. Today, the whole population met on the Summer and Winter solstices, and listened to those horrible stories before entering the Imperial Temple to pray and offer tribute to the man whose name even his representatives ignored. He was just the Emperor.

The city’s gates were wide open. A steady trickle of local shepherds, merchants and traders made their way into town. The city guard was a mix of some of the biggest local men and a handful of professional Imperial troopers who on Earth would have been Chinese, both in ethnicity and attire. Fran tried to look down as he walked in, but he probably didn't do the best job. He was amazed to see that one of the soldiers was a white-haired dwarf with a long scar from mouth to ear, dressed in the imperial light armor they all wore in the Summer heat, but with a heavy rectangular axe at his feet. His human colleagues held long spears.

Fran's relaxed as soon as he left the guards behind, and only then did he notice that he'd been crouching. Like that was going to help him pass unnoticed and not stand out like a sore thumb. He'd have to be more careful in the future. The last thing he wanted was to prove Merkes and Alsu right. He’d rather be a hero than a victim. Perhaps hero was too much, a crazy ambition he would have dismissed just yesterday. But yesterday also meant a world ago. And something in Mela's fragrant air made dreaming feel natural. Dreaming of a brighter future. Of camaraderie, glory and justice. And of returning to his family with amazing tales.

The thought of being unable to share his Melan journey with them stand just a little bit. As much as he loved his family, he'd always been reserved about his private life, especially with his father, who had good intentions but was too set in his ways and thought he always knew better. Despite that, he hated imagining his parents trying to wake him up on a Saturday morning, complaining that Fran was again late for lunch, knocking on his room's door, entering impatiently, and then, the most horrible moment a parent can imagine. His heart shrunk in his chest and he felt his breath abandon him. Please no, he thought. Not death. Anything but that.

“I said come back, traveler,” said a harsh voice. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder from behind. He turned, alarmed, and saw that the hand was a guard's and the voice belonged to the dwarf soldier.

“What's your name, traveler?” he asked. “What brings you to the peaceful and bountiful lands of our beneficent Emperor?”

Fran’s brain went into overdrive. He'd been thinking about Merkes and the stupid, hypocritical New Alliance on the way to town when he should have been making up an alibi. Alsu had warned him: build your Melan identity. You don't want to end up in an Imperial prison cell.

“My name is Dhenn,” he said.

“That's all? Where are you from, Dhenn? What brings you here?” The dwarf was trying a new, more direct approach, an adult demanding answers from a dumb child. “You and that battered Orcish scimitar.”

“I didn't mean to test your patience, sir. My name is Dhenn. I come from the wild beyond the gnome settlement. I come to the city to pray at the temple.”

“Whose temple?”

“The Emperor’s! It’s safe in Kliogos, but it's grim out there for those of us who won't give in to evil. We would be blessed if the Emperor in his generosity decided to expand his domains in this part of Mela.”

“I doubt the gnomes agree,” said a local brute dressed in a sleeveless toga that hardly covered his huge muscles. “Stubborn as a mule, that lot.”

“That they are, I'm afraid,” said Fran. “Just all the more reason I need the Emperor to answer my prayers. Talking to the gnome chieftains got us nowhere, just nowhere. You wouldn't believe it.”

“Oh, I probably would,” replied the dwarf. “I saw my share of gnomes in the campaign at the SulenMa hills. Do you have the coin to support yourself at Klogos?”

“Kliogos,” said the local man.

“Did I mispronounce it that badly that you had to interrupt me again, Yargos? I'm a soldier of the Empire and I can't…'

“Iorgos.”

The dwarf closed his eyes for a second, letting his better instincts catch up to his exasperation.

“Fine. Excuse me if I hurt your local pride. Now let's go back to this young visitor. Do you have Imperial currency to support yourself? No sleeping on the streets, no thieving. The locals will beat you into a pulp if you do anything silly.”

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Fran showed the coins in the palm of his hand and the dwarf nodded, satisfied. He waved this country bumpkin away and immediately started chewing into Iorgos. “You can't interrupt a soldier of the Empire in the middle of an identification. And on something so small! Learn this if you want to make it out of this town.”

“Why would anybody want to?” replied an impervious Iorgos.

Their voices faded away and the town of Kliogos opened up. At first, Fran was surprised the guards had let him in with a weapon, but every outside visitor around him traveled armed. Some had spears, swords others, and even the younger kids helping their parent merchants wore short swords. Kliogan shepherds visiting town were more discreet, and probably poorer too. Some carried clubs or even just hardy sticks of treated wood. The roads must be treacherous at Mela.

Fran followed the crowd and reached the market square just a few streets away. It was all music, and dancing and the smell of tasty food. It must the the day of the local God. Wooden stalls displayed a huge variety of produce, pottery, olive oil, pork and lamb meat. The sellers, local men and women, wore more colorful tunics, togas and skirts than the guards or their peasant cousins. Several women sported white dresses with light blue ribbons. They wore red circles of makeup paint on their cheeks. The men weren't as exuberant, but they exhibited the same joyful energy, which the newcomers returned. The dangers of the road were over.

Fran's next decision would have disappointed Alsu. It contradicted his first piece of advice: Don't think like you're in a video game. But what to do then? He was starting to feel hungry, he was definitely thirsty, and a fantasy world inn was number one on everybody's bucket list.

He found one on the edge of the market, a small L-shaped tavern frequented by groups of visiting Kliogan shepherds. The older men huddled and discussed business while their younger relatives chatted and looked at the girls. Tables and chairs weren’t available, but standing barrels were all over the place. The floor wasn't the cleanest either, but nobody seemed to mind.

Fran asked for whatever was best, and the tavern owner, a man with deep lines over his forehead, replied that moussaka it was.

“The Greek dish,” said Fran. “I never tried it.”

The owner frowned but returned dutifully ten minutes later holding a glass of wine and an earthenware dish with an abundant portion of steaming, saucy moussaka.

“What's that word you used before?” he asked.

Fran felt a pang of worry.

“Greek,” he said as if he were confessing a crime.

“Never heard it. Let me assure you that moussaka is purely Kliogan. If anybody else is making it, they stole it from us and I hope they fall off an olive tree on their heads. Murko the spearman invented it after he retired. He taught my grandfather to cook it.”

“Does Murko live?”

“Oh no, he died five years ago. A terrible fire consumed his house. He was a much-loved man. Dozens of us filled the shrine to Aninncara the Healer, but the sacrifices changed nothing. The cleric tried his best spells, but there are times when death is the least bad option. You might know what I mean, or find out someday; because you're not a shepherd or even a tradesman, right? You're one of those restless young men.”

“An adventurer,” said Fran, half statement, half question.

“Is that what you call yourself? It's a nice word, I guess. In my time, adventuring meant joining the Kliogan regiment in the Imperial Army, or trying for the Phoenix Legion, if you thought you were something else. Murko made it to the legion, but that was before he moved here. I mean no offense, young man, but I have to speak out if I can help you avoid a terrible mistake. Protecting the lands of the Empire is an adventure with honor. Adventuring isn’t. And you need to protect yourself. The young men that brawl at The Wayward Son don't look like you at all. They have malice in their eyes, an indifference to human suffering. They're butcherers, not soldiers, and the adventures they seek start with noble ideals and end in the looting of some forsaken village. One of them, the cousin of Iekasta the wine seller, even joined a Barbarian warband somewhere in the North. He thought he was being brave and intelligent. Nobody would find out back home, right? As soon as he returned, the local magistrate invited him to his office for wine. He was like an excited child, asking about the story of every treasure the young man brought back. He was never a discreet or thoughtful man, and wine loosened his tongue. Before he knew it, five Imperial soldiers were grabbing him by his arms and legs and took away his ridiculous jeweled axe. Iekasta couldn't bring herself to attend the execution. Even today, she won’t speak to anybody that says his name. That's adventurers, kid. They'll eat you alive. You don't have the look of a killer but they do. Anyway, enjoy the moussaka. It's going to get cold if you don't stop chatting.”

Fran dug into the dish with a wooden fork. A warm, plentiful flavor filled his mouth, making him feel better about everything. It was a lasagna, kind of. He continued eating as he considered the man's words.

Staying out of trouble was paramount to his safety. But even if curiosity killed the cat, didn't the cat have seven lives? Or was it nine? Plenty of them, anyway, and looking for an adventurer's inn hadn't really been his decision. Joining the New Alliance adventurers would have been his first choice. Walk Melan roads day and night, asking them a million questions about this world. Fran was a big believer in learning from other people's mistakes, and from their triumphs too. With so many billions of people on Earth, there's no chance that you're the first one to face that problem, that challenge, that heartbreak. Learn from others and take the wisest shortcut. Maximize what you can get done by learning from others. Or, as he used to tell his colleagues in school, use Constellation and Stack Overflow, and then use them again.

He decided to take a long walk through the city, but he’d discovered it was just a town. The moment he left the market and temple area, it felt like everyone had vanished. A handful of locals went about their day here and there, but there was nothing to see and nothing to do.

Eventually, he found another trickle of taverns and inns by the river, next to the immense wooden warehouses and the docks. The river was about 100 meters wide and flowed serenely. The painted white wood of a dozen ships and their sun-bleached sails shone bright in the calm afternoon. Every sail bore a large depiction of a scene, of a symbol. They reminded Fran of the sails he'd seen on illustrations that represented the different cities of Ancient Greece. That must mean the ships hadn’t arrived from too long a distance. He'd learned from overheard conversations that Kliogos was the only prefecture with a Greek-like culture. If Kliogos was Greek and the Empire as a whole was Chinese, could that mean that Mela was a video game, a copy of Earth, a dream created by a fan of Ancient History?

To his right, a compact tavern displayed a striking image on its wall. A smiling young man held a wine jar in one hand and a spear in the other, dancing as three irate older men tried to wrestle the drink from him. The Greek-like letters above the door surely proclaimed what Fran already knew: This was the tavern of The Wayward Son. He checked that his money was well hidden in his belt, relaxed his shoulders with some warm-up movements and entered the place head up high.