The kingdom knew Quest as a city of the free. It was where hunters, wanderers, and free-thinkers gathered. Its people were strong and short-tempered, with a tradition that was irreverent of authority. Something romanticized in stories but caused no shortage of problems in reality.

The family granted governance of the land and its surrounding territories wasn’t given as a reward. Quest was hard to rule. Perhaps impossible. The various powers of the city allowed their lord to wield authority so he could deal with the unwanted things that came with power. The bureaucracy. The responsibility. Hunters cared for little more than power and gold. If they were in charge of mundane matters, the city would collapse in a week.

A status quo shaken by the events of what the locals called The Wild Night. A few hours where two women and their creatures rampaged through the streets, making mockeries of both the city and the hunters that lived in it. The aftermath left the hunters ravenous for revenge but their target fled the city before justice could be administered.

Without a legitimate target, the anger of those left behind became indiscriminate. They railed against all those who refused to take action; the Grand Hall, their lord, and their guildmasters. Crime rates went up. People were hurt. Properties were damaged. The lord was forced to take action.

A curfew was enacted and the city’s guards took to the streets. They were reluctant to fight against the hunters but they couldn’t rest on their asses when the man who paid their salaries called them to action. Scuffles with the rowdier hunters became a nightly routine and did nothing to stop the crime wave. Quest became a hotbed of mounting tensions. No one without confidence in their strength felt comfortable walking the streets after sunset.

In a discreet building during one such riotous night, Callan Atkinson stood before a tall mirror and examined his reflection. Slim fingers combed through his dark hair before adjusting his robes. They were intricate things, the white fabric lined with gold and the stylistic head of a lion on the back.

It was the kind of clothing rich men wore. Important men. Callan wasn’t either but becoming more so each day. Until then, he traded on his potential. His coffers weren’t completely empty. Enough to add one suitable addition to his wardrobe.

Clothes really made the man. They both distracted from and enhanced his face. Callan thought of himself as a handsome man but more that he had no unattractive features than an array of appealing ones. His wasn’t a face that would draw stares when he walked down a road but one no one would turn away after seeing him.

Nowhere close to the imperial beauty of the elf he desired above all else. Hers was a face that could drive a man to ruin. Physically, he was not her equal, but if he wrapped himself in enough power, influence and luxury, eventually, he would bridge the gap between them.

“You look silly, contractor,” a deep voice boomed from above, disturbing Callan’s contemplation of appearance. “Cloth is useless. What good is covering that does not protect the body? And your mane is pathetic.”

The carpenter apprentice held in a sigh. His elemental could be annoying but he couldn’t stand his opinions being belittled. It was why Callan had grown his hair to the point of being uncomfortably long. A king needed a crown and the Vanity King’s crown was his mane. He expected no less from his summoner.

“A human is more than their ability to fight,” Callan answered patiently. “Is that not why you’re here? To fight for me?”

“A King can be felt throughout his kingdom but he isn’t truly omnipresent. You are my anchor to this land. I will not be dismissed before our goal is complete because my contractor is a rabbit when separated from me.”

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“I’m no one’s prey,” Callan muttered. With one last primping session, he turned from the mirror and strode out of his room.

Two people waited outside the door. To the left stood a man in a plain brown robe, cinched off at the waist by a fraying rope. His shaved head made his heavy brow more pronounced, creating a naturally intimidating presence together with his great height and bulk.

He was armed but not with a sword. That was the weapon of the privileged. Knights and noble sons. Those weren’t Callans people. He spoke to the weak, to the unwanted, to the disenfranchised.

Callan’s guard wasn’t trained in the courtyard of a knight order. He learned to fight in the streets. With no means and no talent, he had to use the ways of a savage to survive and a savage’s weapon was the club. A particularly vicious brand of the weapon was strapped to the man’s back, almost as tall as he was with a round head studded with nails. If one looked closely, they could see the dried blood in the grooves of the wood. A testament of the many battles it’d seen its wielder through.

On the opposite side of the door was a woman. Like her compatriot, she was from common stock. The only remarkable thing about her was her demeanor. While the man stood with tense shoulders and crossed arms, the woman knelt with the piousness of a true believer. Her head stayed bow even as the door opened, deference clear in every line of her body.

Callan placed his hand on the woman’s head and she rose. His hand left her hair to linger before her face and she kissed his fingertips. “I greet the Voice of the King,” she said with a respectful tone. The kind of tone Callan had always longed to hear. It had taken twenty-two years but, finally, he felt that he was truly being seen.

It was liberating. Intoxicating.

“Has the floor been prepared?”

“Yes. I saw to the arrangements myself.”

“Good. The King recognizes your efforts, Aimee. Learn well by my side and you will surely be a Voice one day.”

The young woman beamed, the smile doing much to make her plain face more appealing. If Callan’s heart wasn’t filled with a certain green beauty, he might be tempted to act on the obvious opportunity. He certainly would have before meeting Kierra. He never struggled with women but he’d never been the subject of such blatant admiration. There was nothing impressive about being an apprentice, after all.

“Falk, guard the room.”

The large man nodded and moved in front of the door. Callan wasn’t dumb enough to keep anything important in such a public place but others didn’t know that.

It had been several months since he formed a group dedicated to summoning. At first, the Grand Summoners, a name he wasn’t particularly excited about, were seen as nothing more than a curiosity. Later, when his handful of people became a respectable number and the spies no doubt mixed into their midst spread rumors about the King, others began to take an interest in him.

While they knew he was rapidly spreading the influence of the Grand Summoners, they couldn’t know anything about his personal strength or his motives. A search of his personal rooms wouldn’t help but it was the only option available to those with questions. After all, it was much better to take their chances breaking into a small building in Quest than risk being caught breaking the law within the Grand Hall.

“How has today’s donations gone?” Callan asked.

“Three more have joined us and donated a total of fifty gold crowns.”

Callan smiled. That much was enough to secure them a larger building in a more visible part of the city. Better, if they could afford so much as an initial donation, the gold would flow into his pockets when he showed them what summoning had to offer.

“Good. While gold means nothing before true power, it is the language of men. Unfortunately, they do not recognize the way the winds of the future blow. If we want them to move, we must provide the proper incentive.”

“Yes, Voice.”

“Soon, there will be no need for pretense.” Contracting the Vanity King was just the first step. Callan was cultivating a small group of those loyal to him and the idea of building a future through summoning. He would help them to form their own contracts, with weaker elementals of course. Practically overnight, they would be more than enough to rival any guild. Then, he would have more people willing to follow him than he knew what to do with. In a few years, the Grand Summoners would be a force not even the king could ignore.

Then, he would see what Kierra thought of him. Surely, when he sat at the same table as royalty, she would see past whatever infatuation she had with the crazy noblewoman she’d supposedly married. And if the circumstances of their union was more nefarious, as a part of him suspected, then he’d have more than enough power to intervene.