"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven." — John Milton

“I must admit, I’ve grown fond of men like him,” Azar remarked, his voice low but laced with amusement, catching Araumir off guard.

“You like 'his' kind?” Araumir questioned, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

Azar nodded, his gaze sharp and calculating. “Yes, men like Kasian—experienced, well-connected, and knowledgeable, yet utterly defenseless mentally. I can sift through their minds with ease. People like him make my life far simpler. Men of trade don’t just know their friends, but their rivals too. And one of those rivals—an old-timer—has piqued my interest.”

“You’ve learned that much already?” Araumir asked, impressed but wary.

Azar smirked as he led them through the bustling streets. “Not everything I wanted. I’m still too weak to fully resist the mental strain, but I’ve uncovered enough for now. There’s an alliance between a few merchants—Kasian among them—who have a monopoly on trading with the tribes. They buy top-quality goods at dirt-cheap prices, then sell them to the nobles at a premium, all while keeping other traders at bay. But that works to our advantage.”

Araumir’s gaze narrowed. “And what’s the difference between the price they offered you and the price they sell for?”

“A tanned hide sells for around 8 Kryth Bronze, while a rug goes for 6 Kryth Silver. You do the math on how much the tribes are losing in this scheme,” Azar replied with a glint of cold amusement in his eyes. “I want to dismantle their monopoly and take control of the tribal trade myself. But for that, I need trustworthy people—I can’t afford to run things from the frontlines.”

“You’re planning to open your own shop?” Araumir inquired, curiosity in his voice.

“Hardly,” Azar scoffed. “I’ll find an existing one, preferably a family business. Some poor old merchant with generations of experience but no future. If he’s got a son or daughter to carry on his legacy, even better. I’ll fund him, provide resources, and take a fair share of the profits. All while I remain in the shadows.”

Aurumir's lips curled into a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with malevolent delight. “I’ve missed this side of you, master.”

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Azar said coolly. “You’ve got work to do. First, send a shadowfolk to watch Kasian. I want to know about every move he makes. As long as he still holds any power, I need eyes on him. Also, start recruiting more damned spirits. I want an army of shadowfolk—an extensive network of spies. I’ll supply them with everything they need to learn and memorize.”

Araumir let out a dark, mirthless laugh, his voice trembling with barely contained excitement. “Oh, master... I will 'relish' the rise of our forces and the fall of this world. By our hands, under our watch, we will plunder, punish, and reshape everything. The sickness that taints the air, the corruption in the hearts of men—it will all be wiped clean. For the first time in ages, I’ll breathe in a world untainted by the poison that infects my every step. A world where laughter isn’t smothered by fear.”

His hands trembled, clenching into fists as if trying to grasp something just beyond reach. The anger, the hatred that had festered within him for so long bubbled to the surface. Araumir had become a demon, not by choice, but by the path he’d been forced to walk. Yet, since pledging himself to Azar, something in him had begun to shift. But could he ever truly change? How could he forgive those who had poisoned the very air he breathed, filling it with negativity and malice?

Only in the time of Tora had he felt peace. Among people who knew neither betrayal nor greed, who cherished love and joy. Araumir could never feel those things himself, but in their presence, he found a rare sense of calm. Their laughter, their warmth—it had soothed the storm within him, if only for a fleeting moment.

“I want to see that world again, master,” Araumir’s voice was filled with a desperate longing. “I want to hear laughter like I did back then, to feel the joy we built before it all crumbled. I want to see you as you were before... before her death. Maybe then I could quiet the voices, drown out the screams of the damned spirits that plague my mind.”

Saliva dripped from the corners of Araumir’s mouth as he clenched his jaw, his fists trembling. People walking by began to give them a wide berth, sensing the palpable tension radiating from him, their eyes filled with fear.

“I don’t know if we can ever bring back what we had,” Azar replied quietly, his voice carrying an undertone of sorrow. “But I swore an oath, and I’ll see it through. I’ll help you find your peace, Araumir. I’ll help you feel what I felt all those years ago. But for now, we have to heal ourselves. Because even now, I still feel... empty.”

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Araumir’s voice took on a cold, vengeful edge. “Those who steal happiness from others must pay, master. Not with their lives—but with their minds. Their sanity. They should feel tenfold what we’ve suffered.”

“Calm yourself,” Azar commanded, his tone sharp. “We can’t afford to make a scene here. Control your anger.”

Araumir’s mind seethed with rage, his thoughts as sharp as daggers. 'Just tell me who I’m allowed to kill,' he transmitted darkly. 'And I’ll make sure the world bleeds for us.'

"Not now. You'll have to wait," Azar's voice was firm, unwavering.

"...Yes," Araumir exhaled, his compliance tinged with tension.

They walked through the crowded main street, weaving past pedestrians and bustling market stalls offering every imaginable trinket to passersby. Azar led them deeper into the heart of the city, where the throng of people began to thin. Here, there were no stalls lining the streets—just cold stone walls and the occasional passerby hurrying about their business.

Passing under a stone arch that connected two weathered buildings, they stepped aside to let a caravan of camels pass. Once the path was clear, they approached a plain, unassuming wooden door. Above it, carved into a faded sign, were the words: "Yaro-Nagra"—Black Leather. The shop was old, its walls in need of repair, but oddly pristine. Not a speck of dust marred the surface of either the door or the walls. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, kept alive by habit and diligence.

Azar pushed the door open, stepping into the small, dimly lit shop. Saddles and boots lined the walls, all meticulously crafted, the smell of leather thick in the air.

“Is anyone here?” Azar called out, his eyes scanning the room, taking in every detail. A workbench sat at the center, scattered with tools, needles, and pieces of unfinished leather. It was clear that whoever worked here took pride in their craft.

A moment later, the curtain at the back of the shop parted, revealing a man in his forties—broad-shouldered and solid, with a strong, imposing presence.

“Welcome,” the man greeted them. “How can I help you?”

Azar sized him up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “My name is Azar. This is my friend, Araumir. We’re here to see if you’re interested in purchasing some tanned hides.”

The man’s eyes flickered with caution. “Calix,” he said, placing a hand on his chest in introduction. “What kind of hides are we talking about? If they’re from the tribes, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

Azar didn’t hesitate. “Mr. Calix, both my servant and I 'are' from the tribes. We know all too well the treatment we receive from the kingdom, but—”

“It’s not about where you’re from,” Calix interrupted, his tone wary. “It’s the law. Only a handful of shops are permitted to trade with the tribes. You’ll have to sell to one of them.”

Azar’s gaze hardened. “Those three shops, Mr. Calix, are nothing more than leeches. They buy our goods for next to nothing and sell them at exorbitant prices. While the rest of the tribes may tolerate this abuse, I will not. We’re done being exploited.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” Calix replied, gesturing toward the door, hoping to usher them out. His discomfort was palpable.

Azar’s voice dropped, taking on a cold edge. “Mr. Calix, no man should bow his head to his enemy forever.” He paused for a moment, sensing the shop for any other presences. Finding none, his command came swiftly. “Araumir, bind him. Block the door.”

Araumir acted without hesitation. From the shadows around him, tendrils of darkness coiled up, wrapping tightly around Calix’s arms and legs, muffling his voice as they covered his mouth. Azar wasn’t in the mood for lengthy negotiations. He needed to confirm the information he had obtained from Kasian and ensure that Calix—and his family—could be trusted.

Azar’s pupils dilated, his eyes locking onto Calix’s, pulling the man’s awareness into a mental abyss. Within moments, Azar was rifling through Calix’s mind, sifting through fragments of memory. He saw flashes of conversations between Calix and his father, the moments that shaped his life, and the words exchanged with those closest to him.

Once he was satisfied that Calix could be trusted, Azar reversed the flow, allowing Calix to glimpse snippets of 'his' own memories. Specifically, the memories of Azar’s time spent with the Mirha tribe—carefully selected to ensure the leatherworker would no longer question his origins or intentions. Of course, nothing from Azar’s awakening at the altar was shown.

The mental strain grew too much to bear. Azar abruptly severed the connection, staggering backward. His head throbbed, blood trickling from his nose. The room spun violently, a cacophony of ringing in his ears. Araumir caught him, steadying him as he gasped for air.

Calix, too, was left reeling, struggling to breathe through the blinding pain in his head as the fragments of Azar’s memories slowly integrated into his mind.

“I used a technique to share my memories with you,” Azar said after a few minutes, his voice hoarse but regaining its strength. “I have no intention of harming you, but I need allies—trustworthy allies—as I work to secure a future for my people. I know about the three shops that currently monopolize the tribal trade. I have the power to destroy their hold, the connections to bring them to their knees. It’s why I sought you out, Mr. Calix. Your shop, your family name—it came highly recommended. Araumir, release him.”

With a mere wave of his hand, Araumir dissolved the shadowy bindings, freeing Calix from their grasp.

Azar continued, his tone firm yet not without a hint of persuasion. “All I want is a conversation, Mr. Calix. If you’re interested in securing a better future for your family, for your children or grandchildren, we can work together. If not, I’ll find someone else. But know this—I will not allow my people’s labor to be mocked any longer. I will not let my tribe starve while others grow rich off their backs.”

Calix, now free, took a few uneasy steps back, his hand instinctively reaching beneath the counter to grab a dagger. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, gripping the weapon tightly. “These people... they’re dangerous. They have the city guards in their pockets. If you provoke them, you won’t just lose trade. You’ll lose everything.”

Azar’s expression remained calm, his smile faint. “I see. Mark my words, Mr. Calix—soon, there will be no shop left that can trade with the tribes. When that time comes, I will return. I hope by then, you’ll reconsider.” He turned toward the door, his voice steady as he gave his parting words. “When the time comes, I’ll be waiting for your answer.”

With that, Azar walked out of the shop, leaving Calix to ponder the dangerous alliance he had just been offered.