I’d had my fair share of disasters—enough to fill a modest tragedy anthology. Time to make myself scarce before the Enforcers swooped in and found me lurking about. Shame I couldn’t use the dimensional lamina in this form, so I settled for the next best thing: my trusty technique. Distortion cloaked my form as I darted down a trouble-free street, claws sinking into the nearest wall as I scaled upward with all the grace of a particularly vexed lizard. Rooftops it was—better for avoiding both prying eyes and meddlesome enforcers. Besides, the lower district was a cesspit of trouble: pickpockets, beggars, and every other breed of street rat looking for an easy score.

Not that I was in the best shape for acrobatics. Every movement sent a sharp reminder of my bruises, and I winced as I leapt. No healing potions, either—a masterstroke of idiocy on my part. One glance at the bracer wrapped around my wrist only deepened my grimace. It was tied to my transformation, a marvel of craftsmanship that, umm, let’s just say, didn’t quite work as advertised. But that was a problem for later—preferably when I was in the safety of my room and not dodging trouble.

I’d barely reached the rooftops when I heard it: the faint hum of something approaching. Flattening myself against the tiles, I peered below. Ah, there they were—finally. Enforcers, and on flying swords no less. I counted six, all clad in silver armour, representing a medley of races. Hardly surprising, given Varkaigrad was the capital of Vraal’kor. It’d be more shocking if it wasn’t this diverse. Quite the contrast to human lands.

What did catch me off guard was how young most of them looked. Save for one—a Rakari, lion-kin who appeared to be the leader. His helm obscured most of his face, but his bearing made it clear he was the one in charge.

Enforcers here were their own brand of menace. Not monster-slayers, these were people trained to fight other people. They called themselves the Iron Pact, originally formed to unify law enforcement among the beast-kin sects. Over time, though, they’d grown into something much bigger, militarized and deeply political. The kind of people who’d not only keep the peace but also stir the pot when it suited their interests.

They even had their own seat in the city’s ruling faction, the Council of Five Claws—a coalition of five powerful families representing the major sects. A bit misleading, since there were more than five actual members, all seated up high and debating whatever tedious political nonsense occupied their days. I’d never been one for politics—always seemed dreadfully boring. Or maybe there’s a better word for it, but I couldn’t be bothered to think of one. What mattered was that the Enforcers weren’t just justice-bringers; they were power brokers, wielding authority to keep Varkaigrad’s chaos in check.

And in a city this massive—where it’d take me over two bloody hours to reach the middle district even at high speeds—that was no small task.

I lingered just long enough to watch them shuffle about before common sense took over. Hanging around was a splendid way to get myself caught, and I wasn’t in the mood for interrogations or flying-sword chases. My plan was simple: head to Market Square, ditch these ragged clothes for something less conspicuous, and hitch a ride back to the middle district. My destination? Vasilisa’s Alchemy Workshop—my new home. For now, anyway.

Even as I bounded from rooftop to rooftop, my thoughts clung to recent memories like a stubborn cobweb. Trust? That was a luxury I couldn't afford—especially not with enforcers, nor anyone else in this grim corner of the world. Gweneth’s ominous revelations still echoed in my mind, tales of something shadowy playing god. Enough to make even the firmest ground feel like quicksand beneath one’s boots.

The gods I once prayed to—yes, even Thalador, whom I dutifully beseeched daily as a child—were no longer minding the store, so to speak. They’d scarpered, left the continent adrift. Outsiders had a name for our land: the Forsaken Lands. Fitting, since the gods had well and truly forsaken us.

What that actually meant was anyone’s guess. Gwen, like Lotte, ever the purveyor of cryptic wisdom, hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the details. But one thing was clear: every church here, every last sacred edifice, had been tainted. Something new had moved in—something that called itself divine or, more disturbingly, something people had decided to call divine. And whatever it was, it wasn’t content with sitting on its celestial laurels; no, it was actively gathering a bloody army.

Lithrindel had borne the brunt of it. Their royal family, supposedly descended from the bloodline of Goddess Selene herself, made them an irresistible target. The result? Lithrindel was not just a powder keg—it was a powder keg with a lit fuse. And that’s precisely why I was here, in this comparatively safer patch of chaos, rather than with Gwen.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Well, that and a handful of other reasons. Chief among them? Lithrindel was far too perilous for someone like me. Even this place crawled with powerhouses so far out of my league it wasn't even funny. Just waltzing up to confront my so-called doppelganger and her family? Out of the question. There was a deeper conspiracy lurking beneath that mess, of course. Nothing’s ever straightforward—especially when you’re weak. And bluntly put? I was weak. Not entirely useless, mind you, but on the grand power scale, I was just a pebble daring to piss off a landslide. At best, I’d rate myself a high yellow core, maybe brushing against red on a good day. Translating that into standard core systems was tricky, but I could probably escape—or, if I were feeling particularly reckless, give a low red core a bit of a headache. High yellow was likely my ceiling for now. And I hated knowing it.

My brooding was cut short as the bustling market district came into view. Carts laden with goods and people lounging on flying carpets drifted lazily through the air. Ah, Varkaigrad. Despite its reputation, it was remarkably advanced when it came to enchanting and alchemy. Not exactly what I’d pictured when people muttered about the Wilds of Vraal’Kor. Back in Randall, where I’d grown up, beast-kins were written off as primitive savages. How wrong they were. How wrong I had been. Varkaigrad shattered every preconception I’d held, and perhaps for the better.

But alas, there was no time to dwell on such revelations. I leapt down into a secluded alleyway, my landing softer than my current mood. Time to change, head back, and catch up with Viera before she started waving flags over my little disappearance. No rest for the wicked, eh? Or, in my case, the moderately unfortunate.

***

Didn’t take me long to swap out my attire and hitch a ride back to the middle district on a flying carpet. Perks of a paid apprenticeship—finally, a bit of coin to splash about. I now sported a plain brown tunic and trousers, leaving behind my tattered robe and anything else that said "just survived a disaster."

I even snagged an inferior healing potion from a nearby shop. Could I have brewed something far superior myself? Absolutely. But appearances mattered, and I needed to look like I hadn’t just stumbled out of a battle. With a theatrical wince, I had downed the potion. Inferior was generous; it tasted and felt like someone had bottled optimism and hope rather than actual ingredients. Honestly, who gave these people licenses?

As the carpet floated deeper into the city, I found my gaze snagging on the blur of lights and motion below. Varkaigrad never failed to amaze me with its sheer scale. The chill of winter crept in. It was sharp and… bracing, while the horizon dimmed toward nightfall. The air smelled faintly of frost, snow might be on the way. And snow was soothing, in its own quiet way.

The further we flew, the more the city transformed around me. The chaos of the lower district, the haphazard jumble of mismatched buildings and slapdash planning—began to fade. In its place rose a sharper, more deliberate sense of order. The crooked alleyways and buildings seemingly thrown together at random gave way to wide, straight streets flanked by sturdy stone structures. Their façades were simple but uniform, built with a clear purpose in mind. Shops lined the streets with polished signs hung above their doors, their windows aglow with warm light that spilled onto the clean, cobbled pathways.

The further we went, the more the mood seemed to shift. The noise of street hawkers and clattering carts softened, replaced by something softer. The steady hum of life at a slower, more refined pace. Lanterns, fueled by some alchemical glow, hung in neat rows along the streets, casting pools of warm golden light. Something to hold the winter’s encroaching darkness at bay. The middle district was organized, functional. Almost clinical in its perfection compared to the lower chaos. Yet, it didn’t lack charm. The subtle details, ornate wrought-iron railings on balconies, small bursts of winter flowers in carefully maintained planters. It was a layer of thoughtfulness that balanced practicality with aesthetic.

Soon enough, my stop arrived. I disembarked, tossing a silver to the gentleman attending the carpet. A fair fare, really—hoofing it back would’ve taken an eternity and then some. The square was quiet, save for the imposing presence of the Alchemy Workshop looming beside me. A rather ostentatious affair, encircled by a barrier and nestled amidst a sprawling garden. Through the trees, one could just about glimpse the grand tower within.

Gwen’s connections had secured me a spot here—a generous favour that apparently cost her a pretty penny. “Don’t squander the opportunity,” she’d warned. But truthfully, I had my own agenda for delving into the advanced alchemy Varkaigrad offered. Dual motives. Education and a bit of… mischief.

Speaking of mischief, I made my way to the workshop’s backside, all stealthy. The barrier was water-elemental—practically inviting me to phase through, no questions asked. It’s the sort of perk that makes sneaking out and back in a breeze. No one need ever know. Especially not Master Vasilisa, who had been jitterier than a squirrel in a thunderstorm lately, issuing stern warnings about venturing out unsupervised. Curious as I was about what had her so spooked, other priorities had edged that investigation onto my ever-growing back burner.

Now, though… phasing didn't play nicely with clothing. So, a quick glance around—with a little help from Air Sense—confirmed I was alone. Crisis averted, I activated my technique and slipped through the barrier, the winter air biting me as I emerged on the other side, sans attire. “Oh, Thalador,” I muttered, hurrying to retrieve the stash of clothes I’d hidden in the nearby trees. Once dressed and with a fresh anti-divination badge pinned on (the last one having unceremoniously phased off with my discarded ensemble), I scaled the dormitory wall with practiced ease. A few nimble moves later, I was safely back in my room.

Or so I thought.

Sitting there, sipping tea with an air of disapproval sharper than Vasilisa’s warnings, were Belle and Viera. Belle, ever the demanding badger, immediately voiced her grievances.

“Squee?!” she chittered accusingly.

Ah. The fish and biscuits. “I’m sorry! I forgot!” I stammered, trying to placate her.

“Squee!” came her indignant reply, clearly unimpressed.

But the real hurdle was Viera. She fixed me with a look that suggested she was less than thrilled with my antics. I had hoped to collapse onto my bed, blissfully unbothered, but no such luck. If I wanted to sidestep her suspicions—and subtly guide her in the process—I’d need to come clean. Or at least offer answers convincing enough to satisfy her curiosity. After all, I’d been the one to insist on bringing her along. Time to follow through.