The journey from Oarmouth to Blythe was longer than I had hoped. Thinking a constant supply chain meant quick was a mistake. The road was a long winding single segment that crossed through the forest and several hills. Our carriage—still without horses—was led by Geoff who had taken the opportunity to bring us to Blythe. His family were carpenters in the city who he hadn’t seen in a long while—almost an entire year. He held the horseless-reins, guiding and protecting us from any would-be bandits hiding in the thick of it. Though with our king of convenience, I suspected Geoff would be joining me in hiding if we were attacked.

It took more than a few days before we finally reached the hillside that overlooked the city. It was a crown on the horizon, spires reached up to the heavens but nary touched. Walls just as tall as the spires shielded the masses within it and a large moat surrounding the city did just the same. The crown jewel was the castle itself though, in the background of the towering buildings, it rose higher than all the others, cast in gray and black brick. My awe at the huge city was cut short as I laid eyes upon the farmlands we were beginning to pass by.

“Dreadful,” Geoff said, a cough beginning to take over.

Jah’Ir covered us in a bubble to rid the smell. The fence posts had rotted to the base, their insides eaten out by mites where smaller bugs now wriggled within, collecting the scraps. Toiled soil was wrought with black vegetation and locusts by the thousands, the specks creating a massive cloud of white and silver. They devoured the fields of wheat and corn that crescented the east hillside leaving nothing but a rotting black veil. It was beyond horrific. The threat of starvation couldn’t be understated, for a city at war, this was doomsday ticking away.

Jah’Ir was distraught. His eyes were filled with horror at the sight. It told me all I needed to know; this was all the farmland the city had.

I centered my eyes and hopes on the gray crown. If there was an arch-wizard or court mage left, they were the final bastion of resistance against these invasive bugs. Without them, the city would fall into the clutches of oblivion, likely to be forgotten in the rubble. I had to catch myself, finding the coming death an opportunity of sorts. My armies return, I hoped. A clenched jaw and a shake of my head and I was freed of the intrusive thoughts. Their deaths were certainly something I shouldn’t parade about, but I couldn’t help but feel compelled to see it come true.

The cart slowed as we rolled along the bridge, I took a final glance to the blight behind us. I was aghast to think the dear good king could be so jaded as to let his people starve, to let their farms go to waste.

Not.

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for a royal blooded man to believe himself the highest echelon of grace and standard. A massive war was taking place, he couldn’t possibly deal with that and the populace at home. It takes the strongest soldiers, any and all magic users, without them, you’d likely crumble beneath the pressure.

Dear king, I hope you haven’t forgotten that the people are your servants and as such you may only walk upon their backs for a helping hand.

I jest, of course. Royalty here was the same as all worlds; kings and queens with a sardonic nature who were too disconnected from the populace to offer even the slightest of gratitude—if they even dared compare themselves. I could not attest to this dear king’s record, but if the farmland was anything to tell, I had no confidence. Were the conditions inside to reflect outside, I would have to abscond with a few new thralls at my side.

“Stop the cart!” yelled a man, perched high up in a watchtower. There were six in total, two in the parallel watchtowers, and four below on the bridge. As the city guards usually were, all wore shining steel armor pauldrons, greaves, breastplates and the like. Were I unable to see past their visors and see the dim glow of their eyes, I’d assume they were all from the same litter.

The cart stopped with a raise of Jah’Ir’s palm. He let out a heavy sigh he had been holding since we crossed the fields. “Let’s move this along.” We all vacated the wagon and stepped aside. A few of the guards marched to the carriage checking it inside and out. The latent guards high up seemed to lament the very horizon, their eyes were barely visible, but I could see the deadpan expression both bore, an unremarkable outlook to the future. They were all young, but scruffy and scarred.

One of the guards broke from the pack and approached Geoff, but quickly cut his own conversation short to address Jah’Ir. “You there, celf.” He had a look of shock, but a mischievous smirk quickly overwrote it. “What’s in the bag?” He pointed to Jah’Ir’s waist.

Jah’Ir went to reply, grabbing the strap. The man had no patience, instead, ripping the bag from Jah’Ir and rifling through it. “Whattaya ‘ave ‘ere?” He produced an envelope with a crimson stamp. His smile soured, a smirk flipping to horror. I had never seen such an intense fear in one's eyes before. He stuffed the envelope back in and gently handed the bag while bowing. “O-Open the gates!” His voice cracked as he gestured to the other guards. “Hurry up!” They all scattered.

“What’s in the envelope?” I asked. The three of us climbed back into the carriage.

“A letter of gratitude from the duke. Apt for diplomatic issues.”

The loathsome doors cried as the city let out a breath. The carriage slowly entered, the ground crunching beneath the wheels. Crowds of people dressed in dark colors, grays and browns, walked as if nothing were happening. The opening doors were just another morning in Blythe, nothing to get your knickers in a twist about. They drudged along like drones, following the narrow roads into the beyond. Thin frames, but not starving, perhaps the farmland wasn’t too much of a pressing issue?

As the gates closed the city's voice rose. It was a cacophony of conversations muted by ragged coughs and yelling from distant vendors trying to make a quick buck passing on some miracle. In the midst of it all a single guard exited a building and halted our carriage.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Sorry, streets are too crowded this morning. Follow me, you can store the carriage in the stocks.”

“We’ll get off here Geoff,” Jah’Ir said. “Rudol’s shop is close by.”

“Right, then. Besta luck to yas.” Geoff waved from the top of the carriage.

We bid our goodbyes and started down the road. “Isn’t the cart going to stop because you aren’t on it?” I asked.

“They’ll manage.” Jah’Ir glanced back, “Probably.”

For the short walk we had, I was able to take in the sheer terror of being in the city. I knew space was a resource in these times; the buildings were barely any feet apart, the alleys were just as narrow as the streets; but that sense of claustrophobia in my chest—and I am not claustrophobic—shrunk me down and crushed me into compact dirt. The people around never laid so much as an eye on you, instead, choosing to stare at the ground or stare past you. The few whose gaze landed upon me or Jah'Ir only lasted a moment. The sudden realization a celf was mere inches away caused many of them to break from the formation and shuffle into the crowd, their eyes full of terror, lips quivering and bodies shaking.

Eventually we too broke free of the formation when Jah'Ir pointed out a small establishment on the street corner. It was a modest workshop with a limestone foundation. The single window at the shop front was tinted yellow and warped like all the rest. A small chime played as we entered the building, reminiscent of a music box. Every side of the room was backed by bookshelves, effectively becoming an extra layer. In them, scrolls and books were hastily fitted in. The spines of most books were torn and the same could be said of many of the scrolls not worthy enough to rest on the top shelf, to which, were covered in dust.

Oh the sweet embrace of bronchitis.

No one made themselves known, not coming from the back door or walking down the stairs. Jah’Ir casually strolled through the back, bypassing a folding counter. I heard the crash of metal and immediately rushed in, but heard immediate laughter as I turned the corner. Jah'Ir had a bowl on his head and more of them scattered at his feet. A dwarf stood on the kitchen counter bellowing, his chest appearing unable to contain the laughter.

"Hah." Jah'Ir said dryly, as he removed the bowl. "What a pleasant experience to see one another again."

"You shoulda seen that look!" He had a tough time collecting himself, opting to breathe at the wrong intervals when a laugh cut through. He coughed violently, spit ejecting across the room. He soothed his chest and without an ounce of shame hopped down and picked the bowls up from the floor.

Jah'Ir glanced at me with visible annoyance. "This is an acquaintance of m—"

"A crack!" He pointed at the bowl. "Damn things made of faux ceramic."

"Ahem! This is an acquaintance of mine. His name is Sage and I think you'll find him an excellent apprentice. He's got quite the mana control."

This must've been Rudol, as if I hadn't already figured from the shop. He was not a dwarf, though his short stature and large proboscis would cause anyone to question its validity. Standing no more than 3 feet tall I still considered him as such. He gave me a good stern look, his brows were thin, eyes golden brown, and he had brown bushy hair that went in every direction unable to be maintained, like some sort of mad scientist.

"Not needin' an apprentice Jah'Ir." He averted his gaze from me. "Free to help some other frivolous fool, but not here.”

"Rudol, need I remind you, you owe me."

The two locked eyes for a mere moment, Rudol's gaze ablaze with disdain, as if to say how dare you? But Jah'Ir did not budge, his gaze was soulless, daring him to refuse.

“Fine! But first, a test.” With a shuffle of his stubby legs he rushed to the counter, rifling through pieces of blank paper. He slapped down a piece with a strange insignia on it. Water and death runes. They were combined, but lacked the necessary positioning to activate and the necessary amount of mana. Together the runes would create frigid water, not inherently useful, but I supposed it had some application.

Chilled Water Rune — [Manaless]

"Finish this rune," Rudol said.

"Rudol, this is highly advanced, I doubt even you would finish it that quickly."

"You claim him an enduring apprentice, then I'll be wantin' a demonstration."

A wave of heat quickly turned cold as my fingertips and palms met the paper. I slid my hands across the rough parchment, weaving the runes across one another, slowly turning it like a dial. Unlike in-game I had complete control over my character's actions making this process as quick as could be. I tugged the rune with a string of mana until it clicked into place, the black ink suddenly igniting purple.

Chilled Water Rune [Rejuvenated] — A crafted rune that can expel water at frigid temperatures. Attaching to an already present water source cools the body of water in a small radius.

I turned to the pair, meeting their astonished eyes. Rudol did his best to hide the awe and merely shrugged. "You'll do."

Jah'Ir smirked and patted my shoulder. "A natural, remember?"

They both walked away, discussing things far too important for me to care about. If you are dying to know, it was mostly politics. I tended to steer clear. People get so bent out of shape if you lean away from their beliefs. I kept myself occupied, grabbing some spare parchment that littered the floor. The runes on them had been discarded, drained of magic they once held. If I made a surplus I could take on anyone; boobytrap my surroundings and send my army off to fight while I enjoyed a pleasant outing.

A city this big had to have a nearby bog or desolate land where high-tier creatures roamed, it was common game etiquette. There were always the neighboring forests. If I could grab some griffins or manticores again, I'd be unstoppable. My only adversaries were those of the high-level mages, but without them, it would take a blessed high-priest to even compete.

"Right then." A hand landed on my shoulder. "I'm off to the Guild," Jah'Ir said, "I'll visit from time to time. We'll have dinner tonight, on me." I nodded, he and Rudol shook hands, and without delay he walked out the door.

"Show me how you did it." Rudol immediately brought the paper to my face. "Took me ages to tinker this thing into a working combination."

I was no rune warden, and I barely dabbled in rune crafting. There was a strategic advantage in using them, trapping your area when a lone commander, but I shirked such preparation in exchange for sheer numbers. I knew all of the symbols and how they fit together. There was a strangeness about this rune in particular, even though I knew how they combined, the proper way to do it remained a mystery. The necromancer—death—symbol had a strange attraction to me. Though not flush with mana before I interacted, it called to me and gradually drew my hands along to turn the dial.

I was quickly at work on another rune at Rudol's behest and as I suspected it was incredulous. The rune did not call to me. It was lifeless. I tried to replicate the movements a character would make in Riptide, but it only partially lit up.

"Must've been beginner's luck," Rudol mused.

Jackass.

As the day continued on I found myself cursing taking this job. It was foretold, I manifested my own destiny. I was grabbing random papers and grabbing drinks from the kitchen then grabbing the said drink from the counter when he walked to the backroom. An endless tirade of menial tasks, I was so fed up I considered killing him then and there. Of course I never would.

I always wondered if I truly could never cross that line. Perhaps I wasn't willing because I knew I would like it.

No. I wasn't that kind of person.

Time passed and my menial tasks only hastened and when night finally dawned, with the sound of the door's chime, Jah'Ir entered with gifts. He had a leather sack in hand, tied by a single piece of string. "Payment from the Guild," he said, handing it over.

"As if the clothes and shoes weren't enough. Honestly, Jah'Ir I don't deserve this."

"Final gift." He said with raised hands. I accepted, feigning modesty. I had no clue what to spend this on, but my greed was telling me I needed it. "Well then, shall we leave for our supper?"