Salt air burned in Jovar’s nose and clumped his unkempt hair into dry, waxy locks. He hated traveling, hated the coast even more. It reminded him far too much of home. Since he began working under Maestus, he’d traversed more of Nelthemar than he cared to see, having expected opportunities to learn his craft rather than suffer the cold, the wet, and the beating sun. Each of his protests were met with vague responses to the effect of “you are not ready,” spurring him only to work harder and suffer more.

“Wyvern’s Rest is quite scenic this time of year,” said Maestus, his horse trotting along the road toward the beach in perfect synchronicity with Jovar’s own. “None of the bite of winter, yet none of the bustle of summertime. I hear there are no such seasonal delights in Drondaris.”

“You’ve heard correctly,” said Jovar. “Not that I take any particular delight in outdoor scenery. At least most of the land lacks any semblance of color. I almost wish I was born in the Gray.”

“I care little for the Gray – though I’ve always wanted to visit the peninsula. A little taste of what all the land was in ancient times. But there’s much work to be done first.”

“If I could have you go in my stead, I would be happy to,” said Jovar half-jokingly. When he realized his statement could be interpreted as rebellious, however, he cleared his throat and set his eyes forward. Soon came a sudden waft of shit, causing his lips to pucker and his face to scrunch inward. They slowed down as they neared the stables on their left. After leaving their horses to be cared for, they continued on foot past the wall which separated the city’s edge from the beach.

It was not long before Jovar’s shoes began filling with sand, gritting away at the soles of his feet and accumulating between his toes. Each step made him wince and clench his jaw with enough tension that his head began to ache. The roar of the waves crashing to shore tore through his ears like a blood-curdling scream, and he swallowed a frustrated outcry welling up in his lungs.

Still he trudged on, falling behind as his endeavor to maintain his sanity held him back. Maestus spared him no pity, refusing to let his straggling keep him from enjoying the view. He muttered something once, but Jovar was too preoccupied to discern his words or tone. Beyond this, neither one spoke to the other.

They continued for a time before passing beneath a massive arch, beyond which lay a cove nestled between walls of rock. A cave sat adjacent on the water, partially shrouded by an overhang. Overlooking the water stood a decrepit shack with cracked, rotting support posts straining under the weight of its sagging deck. Maestus stopped to inspect the pitiful structure from afar, twisting the ends of his mustache as he shook his head in disapproval.

“Here we are,” he said, his voice tapering in thought.

“Are you sure?” asked Jovar.

“Ah, I see you’ve finally learned to ask questions. How refreshing it is to not be subjected to your blind servility for a moment’s time. Yes, I assure you – we’ve found the right place.”

They soon approached the shack, hesitating as they were greeted by barnacle-encrusted stairs. Maestus stepped up first, the wood moaning under his modest weight as he looked behind to assure his apprentice. A stray frond of dehydrated seaweed fell to the ground as he knocked on the door.

“Vrok,” a woman groaned from within. Glass and metal clattered and rolled across the floor, followed by a peculiar silence. She opened the door, clad in a thin strip of begrimed linen tied around her generously sized bust, as well as a makeshift wrap skirt of the same material. Freckles peppered every inch of her gray skin, and her scarlet eyes scanned for a target to pierce as a scowl besmirched her otherwise lovely face. Acknowledging Maestus, she let her distasteful expression deepen.

“Listen, I already told you this house is not for sale,” she said. “If the earl needs a reminder of our protections, I’ll give it to him by way of knife-to-throat.”

“You must have me mistaken for someone else,” said Maestus, flashing a small emblem he carried in his robe pocket. The Dronvari witch surrendered her guard, but not without a snarl.

“Bastard.” After motioning with a tattoo-covered arm to invite them in, she wiped her hands stained with herbs and fluids onto her skirt. Once they were all inside, she closed the door behind them. “You’d better have a damned good reason for interrupting my preparations. There’s meant to be a storm tonight, and with the state of my home I cannot afford to displease V’thron again.”

“I do apologize, Sthrena,” said Maestus. “We’re hoping to only be a few minutes of your time. Quite intriguingly, my search around town has led me back to you. I thought I would ask if you might take us to Pendula.”

“Pendula,” Sthrena said, crossing her arms as she observed his face for doubt or deception. “And why would you wish to speak with her?”

“My apprentice seeks a favor.” Maestus gestured to Jovar. “One that she might be able to—”

“Let him speak, then.” She turned to Jovar, who had found himself preoccupied with tracing the contours of her body. His face flushed as she directed a smirk at him. “What is your name, dathei?”

Jovar’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected to be addressed so affectionately. Bringing a fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat.

“Jovar,” he said.

“Zhovar,” she repeated, removing foreign influence from her pronunciation. A soft purr rolled over her tongue as she lingered on the end of his name. “Temperate. Mild. How befitting. Do you have a family name, Jovar?”

In his uncertainty, Jovar looked to Maestus with a careful glance. Upon receiving his approval, he returned his attention to Sthrena.

“Salanval, yi-vara,” he answered, bowing his head.

“I see.” She took a step back, pursing her lips as she eyed him up and down. “Save your formalities for Pendula. We will go at once.”

Sthrena moved on in a rush, her thick, jet hair falling back from her shoulders as she turned to the door. With a sure and confident gait, she led them to a raft which sat wedged ashore. She stepped aboard first and waited for the others to accompany her. Despite his reservations, Jovar surprised even himself by joining her with little hesitation, and Maestus followed without a second thought. Once the three were secure and comfortable, Sthrena rowed into the darkness beneath the overhanging rock.

The walls narrowed as they progressed onward into the tunnel. As they passed beyond the dwindling reach of light, Sthrena whispered, “Ularine,” and reached for a small bottle pendant which hung around her neck with twine. She held it to her lips, and with a gentle kiss it started to glow, lighting the way through the remaining length of the tunnel.

“Here we are,” said Sthrena as the walls widened into a cavern. Lit torches stood on either side of the passageway, guiding them to a dock where other boats sat idle alongside a cargo vessel. From the dock stretched two wooden platforms to the left and right, both joining in the middle a bit further ahead. Crates were stacked from floor to ceiling, bearing the symbol of the Noth Dozrin: a black python wrapped around a sprig of red jasmine. Dronvar stood around in groups, speaking amongst each other in their native tongue as they kept watchful eyes on the three newcomers.

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“Trouble, Sthrena?” one man asked, pointing his chin at Maestus and Jovar. She shook her head, flashing a bright smile in his direction.

“Pendula,” she said, pushing forward without slowing down. “Private business.”

The hum of conversations loudened the moment she announced her purpose. Some curious onlookers followed them, maintaining a distance while keeping them in view. Jovar and Maestus looked around in wonder as the cavern opened wider into a lively hideaway with tents and amenities for all of its occupants. Shouts and laughter from the bar died down as they passed by, evoking silent stares while glowering faces sipped their drinks.

At the far end of the open space stood a luxurious red tent. Despite its impressive size compared to the others, there was enough shadow to stretch over its entire breadth. A young woman stood guard at the front, wearing a short, plain robe. She kept her arms crossed and her gaze far away, hiding none of her boredom.

“Sthrena,” she said in greeting as the three approached, bowing her head no more than custom required.

“Gira,” said Sthrena in reply. “Is Pendula inside? We need to speak with her.”

Gira blinked in disbelief and pointed a finger to Maestus.

“Does ‘we’ include… Him?”

“Yes, my dear. I hope this is no problem – should she object, please let her know…” Sthrena leaned in and whispered a quick message, leaving Gira speechless as the disdain on her face melted away. The young woman nodded, scurrying into the tent. As the curtains closed, a puff of incense smoke escaped behind her. Moments later, after a series of argumentative whispers, Gira emerged again.

“She will see you,” she said, holding aside the curtain to let them in. Sthrena thanked her as they entered, blowing a kiss in her direction.

Inside, they laid eyes upon an array of eclectic, lavish furniture pieces. Armchairs, recliners, and couches were arranged on a damask rug, and in the center was a carved wooden table with a smoking censer. Texts in various languages filled a nearby bookshelf, along with trinkets and decorations from Drondaris and beyond. In the far corner, a lacquered wardrobe stood beside a bed with silken sheets, and a folding screen separated the area from the rest. At the very center of the space, a silver tea set rested upon a round wooden table, and a woman sat in a cushioned chair behind it.

“Sthrena,” she said. “You lie on the beach all day and then bring thrinari into our hideaway. Moreover, you bring us a Salanval alongside him. Truly, you fascinate me.” She stood and stepped forth, her brocaded red robe trailing on the ground. Motes of blue light floated above them and carried through the thin fragrant haze, causing the gems on her cheeks and the glossy red of her lips to shimmer. Her face was stern yet welcoming, her topaz-colored eyes filled with a cautious curiosity.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Pendula,” said Sthrena, clasping her hands together and bowing from the waist. “The Salanval is the apprentice of the human, Maestus, and he requests a favor. I do not know what it is, but I thought we might let him speak.”

“Apprentice? Of what craft?”

“Necromancy, yi-vara.”

Pendula’s cordial demeanor faded away in an instant. Maestus and Jovar exchanged glances, both having been unaware that Sthrena would divulge such information.

“Sthrena, is this some sort of elaborate jest?”

“N-no, my Veltürina. I promise it is as I say.”

At a loss for words, Pendula pressed two fingers to her forehead in thought. She then joined her hands together, concealing them in the wide sleeves of her robe.

“I’ve known Salanval men to have a rather… Stronger chin than I see before me now. May I know your given name?” She addressed Jovar, motioning with a slight turn of her head for him to step forward.

“Jovar, yi-vara,” he said with a bow.

“One of the lost brothers,” she said, “Not unexpected. I’d hoped for the missing one, but I will settle for the exiled one – I know not the details of your crimes, but I suppose that speaks of your family’s penchant for secrecy. For what purpose have you sought me out?”

“Well…” Jovar swallowed a nervous lump in his throat. “I would ask to be escorted to Dhul Noria, so that I might visit my mother and father’s grave.”

Pendula raised a brow in suspicion.

“Given your status, do you not believe it’s perhaps… A bit too late for you to try to fulfill mol varondis?”

Keeping his gaze low, Jovar rubbed the cuff of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.

“Th-that is well understood, yi-vara. What I want is not to fulfill an already failed duty to them, but to visit for the sake of visiting. I ask so that one of their sons may still return to them, that they might still be remembered, with no concern for whether it redeems my soul.”

“And I am meant to trust a necromancer to simply visit a sacred burial place? One that bears such significance to the very founding of the peninsula?”

“I am under apprenticeship now,” said Jovar. “Should I practice outside of my master’s observation, I will lose everything I’ve worked to earn since my exile.”

“Pathetic,” Pendula muttered. She spoke up, addressing Maestus, who had busied himself with the idle task of skimming titles on the spines of books while the others spoke in a language he did not understand. “Is it true? That Jovar may not practice your craft unsupervised?”

“That is correct,” Maestus said. “Nor does he yet practice under supervision. He still has much to learn, as well as to unlearn.”

“I asked you a yes-or-no question, krōng,” said Pendula, invoking an unkind word for non-Dronvar. “For your confirmation, I thank you, but I do not require your embellishments.” Returning to her native tongue, she continued the conversation with Sthrena and Jovar.

“You understand the risks associated with traveling between our safehouses, correct?” she asked. “And with being smuggled into Drondaris?”

“Correct,” said Jovar.

“And you understand that you may come to the attention of your cousins among the Noth Dozrin ranks in Girin-Uthroz, despite our best efforts to keep you hidden?”

“Correct.”

“Then there remains only the question of your payment. Do you have any information on the whereabouts of your brother? Should you have a significant lead, that is all we would require.”

“I do not. Had I any such leads, yi-vara, with all due respect, I would have brought him back home for a chance at redemption.”

As she pondered, Pendula drew in a deep, deliberate breath, and Jovar winced at the sight of the smoke entering her nostrils. She stepped back, giving a curt nod.

“Very well. I do hope you’ve prepared another offer, then?”

“My master had something in mind, yi-vara.”

“Of course. Like a little pet.” She turned her nose up at Jovar and invited Maestus to speak once more. “What do you have to give us in return for this favor?”

Setting his shoulders back, Maestus assumed a businesslike demeanor. His efforts to match her countenance earned him a warped grin in response.

“A boon, for you and yours,” he said. “Not only will I fight to extend the protections over your space indefinitely, but I will see to it that Sthrena’s home is restored structurally, and your hideout fortified.”

“And who are you, that you might accomplish this in a meaningful way?”

Sthrena leaned in and cupped her hand over Pendula’s ear. Once she had heard enough to come to an understanding, Pendula waved the witch away.

“I see. Pray tell though, Maestus, why you would do all of this for your lowly apprentice?”

“Because there is a personal favor for which I owe him a great debt, for which no sum of money is too much to ask. However harsh my method of teaching may appear, I am grateful to him.”

Following his persuasion, a long silence came to pass. Pendula nodded, approving of his honorable sentiments.

“Perhaps not all Nelthrin take without returning, after all,” she said, relaxing her arms at her sides. “Jovar, Sthrena will guide you to your first safehouse after ensuring her home stays sound through tonight’s storm.”

“You may stay with me, if you prefer the noise of the water over that of people,” Sthrena offered in addition, placing her hand upon Jovar’s shoulder. “Tonight I will call upon the sea twins V’thron, and a masculine presence may help to balance their duality.”

Jovar flinched, her delicate touch causing his stomach to flutter. Though he knew nothing of witchcraft, he found the smile that accompanied her invitation irresistible. With a sheepish nod, he accepted, his curiosity undeniably piqued.

“Then it is settled,” said Pendula. “We will see to it that our protections are granted to you on your journey to Drondaris. And Maestus, we look forward to your contributions.”

Jovar and Sthrena gave Pendula one last parting bow. Caring for nothing more than to pour herself a fresh cup of tea, the Veltürina returned to her chair without further comment. After a wave of her hand to indicate their dismissal, the trio departed together.