Time passed as the journey pressed on, days blending into one another beneath the ever-present sun. They stayed in a simple adobe inn along the way, resting for a single night before resuming their trek to Moudhaz. The structure was plain, built from the dry earth of the land, and its accommodations were just as unremarkable—thin straw mattresses, lukewarm water, and food that was barely seasoned. But it was shelter, and for now, that was enough.

  The remainder of the trip was uneventful. They crossed paths with other caravans, shared the road with traders and travelers, but Zion felt no desire for conversation. His mind was set on reaching Moudhaz as quickly as possible. Every encounter, every distraction, was merely another obstacle between him and the next step of his journey.

  Yet, despite his impatience, there was something unsettling about the idea of being rid of this contract.

  Purpose. It was such a fleeting thing. As much as he yearned for his freedom, he also knew that once the contract was fulfilled, once his duty to the dwarves was complete, he would be untethered again. No obligations. No orders. No structure.

  For a mercenary, freedom from contract meant no pay.

  For Yirtin—no, for Zion—it meant no honor.

  So he occupied himself with what he could control. He rode Ardyon, the stallion he had claimed from the dead bandits, tending to the animal with careful attention. The horse was a fine creature—an Amifi Thoroughbred, powerful and swift, bred for endurance in the arid lands. Its previous rider had likely been a soldier, an officer perhaps, or an unfortunate spice merchant who had fallen to raiders. Regardless of its past, the horse was his now.

  He did not dote on the animal out of sentimentality. No, at first, he cared for it because it was practical. A well-maintained horse meant efficiency. Speed. Endurance.

  But over time, he found a quiet solace in its company.

  It was easier to be alone with Ardyon than to endure the endless chatter of Grundhill and Artoril. The old dwarf was always full of stories, his voice gruff but lively as he reminisced about past dealings, past fights, past journeys. And Artoril—ever curious, ever questioning—pressed him for answers about everything.

  Zion had no patience for either.

  So he spent his time tending to the horse, brushing its coat, checking its hooves, ensuring it was fed and watered. It was a distraction. A routine. Something to keep his mind occupied as the miles passed beneath them.

  Now, as they neared Moudhaz, the air grew heavier with the scent of civilization. The dry wind carried hints of spice and baked clay, the distant promise of bustling streets and crowded markets. The faint outline of the city loomed on the horizon, its domed rooftops and towering spires breaking the monotony of the vast steppe.

  From the wagon, Artoril called out.

  "Zion, when we get there, what are ye goin' to do after? Have you decided yet?"

  Zion didn’t answer right away. He had spent every night of this journey turning that question over in his mind.

  What came next?

  He exhaled, his golden eyes fixed on the road ahead. "It's been some days," he admitted. "I’ve thought about it, every night. I’ve reached the conclusion that I want to exchange the Solarion to Amifi silver and copper."

  Grundhill let out an approving grunt. "Ah, wise move. People tend to accept the local coin more often. Copper and silver are also better if ye want to stay low profile. Just harder to carry, but ye're strong and sturdy."

  Artoril, however, was less satisfied. "That is it?" he asked, frowning. "You're just goin' to go to the counting house and trade coins? That’s all? Nothing else?"

  Zion turned slightly in the saddle, his expression unreadable. "If there is, it is none of your interest."

  Artoril scoffed, shaking his head. "Alright, keep your secrets if you wish."

  Zion said nothing more.

  The city gates were drawing closer.

  In the distance they saw a tall guard, a minotaur. He wore a plated armor over his chain mail. A large ornate halberd in his grip as his gaze shifted to the approaching wagon. He shifted his grip on the halberd, his deep brown eyes narrowing as he scrutinized them from his perch atop the adobe wall. The golden light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the arid plains behind them, the dusty wind swirling faintly as Zion sat atop Ardyon, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.

  "Who goes there?" The voice rumbled from above, a deep baritone carrying the weight of authority.

  "Grundhill!" the old dwarf called out, raising his hand in greeting. "Artoril, and my guard, Zion."

  The minotaur tilted his massive head, his nostrils flaring slightly as he peered down at them. Then, after a moment of consideration, he snorted in recognition. "Oh, Grundhill. I couldn't see you there." His lips curled slightly in what might have been amusement. "Zion is the name of the cat?"

  Zion's ears flicked, his golden eyes shifting toward the captain. He said nothing.

  "Yes, Captain Mahmoud," Grundhill answered, his tone carrying familiarity.

  Zion leaned forward slightly in his saddle, glancing at the cart filled with iron ingots. He turned his attention back to Grundhill, lowering his voice. "You know him?"

  Grundhill let out a chuckle. "Oh yes, lad. Captain Mahmoud is a good man. Trust me."

  The minotaur guard let out a short huff, resting his halberd against his shoulder. He studied Zion for another long moment before nodding.

  "I'll let you in, Suhadik."

  Grundhill grinned. "Thank ye, Captain."

  With a low creak, the gates of Moudhaz began to open. The heavy wooden beams shifted, allowing the warm glow of torchlight from within to spill out onto the sand. The distant hum of city life—voices, carts, distant music—drifted out to meet them.

  Zion exhaled slowly.

  They were in.

  Zion guided Ardyon through the dusty streets, his sharp golden eyes scanning the city of Moudhaz with quiet contemplation. The air was thick with the scent of hot metal, spice, and the faint musk of livestock. Moudhaz was not the grandest city in Amif, but it held an undeniable presence—its towering tan walls, its great domes of stone, the impressive windcatcher towers that loomed over the skyline. Unlike the gleaming marble and gold of the Solareye Academy, this city was built from dust, sweat, and sun-hardened stone. A world apart from the home he had once known.

  The people moved around him with wary curiosity. Some paused mid-step to glance at him, their eyes drawn to his foreign armor, his lion-like visage. There were few of his kind in this part of the world, and their gazes spoke of intrigue and caution in equal measure. Zion did not react—he was accustomed to being an outsider.

  Grundhill, ever observant, let out a dry chuckle from his seat on the wagon. "Alright, lad, don't be so fankled up," he said with a grin. "These people are just not used to yer kind."

  Zion did not reply, merely adjusting his grip on Ardyon’s reins as they arrived at the forge.

  The forge was a formidable structure, its chimney belching dark smoke into the fading sky. Stacks of raw ore and ingots were arranged in neat piles along the entrance. The heat from within spilled out into the street, carrying with it the scent of molten iron and the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal.

  A man emerged from the forge, wiping soot from his hands onto his robes. He was human, his skin a deep olive, his dark beard streaked with hints of silver. His intense brown eyes were lined with black kohl, giving him a striking, hawk-like gaze. Despite the layer of dust on his clothing, there was an undeniable presence to him—a man of stature, of business, and perhaps of something more.

  When he spotted Grundhill, his weathered face split into a wide grin. "Oh, Grundhill! Suhadiki alkadin keif ahluk?"

  Grundhill barked a laugh, stepping forward to clap the man on the back. "I'm good, Jeseid. How are ya, lad?"

  The two embraced briefly, a gesture of familiarity and trust.

  "Good, my suhadik," Jeseid replied, glancing toward the wagon. "And where is that son of yours?"

  "Ah, the loon’s just over there, helpin’ with the chests," Grundhill answered, jerking his head toward Artoril, who was already unloading the crates of iron.

  Jeseid’s eyes flicked toward Zion, his expression shifting slightly. "And how fancy did you get, Grundhill? Is that a leonine I’m seeing?"

  Zion stepped forward, extending his hand in greeting. "My name is Zion."

  Jeseid, instead of shaking his hand, pulled him into a firm hug. Zion stiffened slightly but allowed it, understanding that it was a cultural gesture rather than a challenge.

  "Oh, it's only a custom, Zion," Jeseid said, stepping back with an easy grin. "We don't get many of your kind around here."

  "Yes," Zion replied evenly. "I noticed."

  Jeseid studied him for a moment, then nodded in approval. "What are you here for?"

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Zion glanced toward the wagon before answering. "I need to exchange some coins, but only after ensuring the shipment is delivered safely."

  Grundhill rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be glaikit, laddie. We're among friends."

  Zion looked at him for a moment before exhaling. "Then I am done here. I was already paid. I’ll go."

  "Not so soon, laddie," Grundhill interrupted, turning toward the wagon. "Artoril!"

  "Father?!" Artoril called back.

  "Come here, say yer goodbyes to Zion."

  "Oh." Artoril hesitated before making his way over, wiping the dust from his hands. He looked at Zion with a sheepish but genuine expression. "Alright, well… it was good to meet you, Zion."

  "Likewise," Zion replied.

  "I'm sorry if I asked too many questions," Artoril admitted. "But I was just trying to get you to open up a bit."

  Zion tilted his head slightly. "I'm a mercenary. I don’t open up."

  Artoril chuckled, though there was something thoughtful in his gaze. "I know you lions live long. Maybe not as long as us dwarves… but after a while, you realize that even a long life can be well wasted. So just—live a little more."

  Zion regarded him for a long moment. "Is that all?"

  "Not quite, lad." Grundhill stepped forward, reaching for his sheath. He drew a dagger and handed it to Zion. "We're thankful for your service. Here."

  Zion glanced at the weapon but did not take it immediately. "I can’t accept this. I was already paid."

  Grundhill scoffed. "Laddie, ye saved our lives. I insist."

  Zion hesitated, then took the dagger. It was finely crafted, the metal dark and sturdy, dwarven-made—no doubt capable of lasting a lifetime.

  "Finest dwarf iron," Grundhill said with a proud nod.

  Zion ran his thumb along the blade, feeling the balance, the weight. "I believe you."

  Grundhill smirked. "Well, now ye don’t need to bite dogs off, ye can just go and poke ’em."

  Zion let out a faint huff of amusement before sheathing the dagger at his belt. "Thank you. Serving you was a pleasure."

  Grundhill clasped his hands together. "May the Eternal Lion bless ye, laddie."

  "And may Duras bless ye back, lion," Artoril added.

  "By the way, lion, the nearest counting house is to the you left go down a couple stretets" Jeseid said.

  With that, Zion mounted Ardyon, the stallion’s muscles shifting beneath him as he adjusted his weight in the saddle. He gave the dwarves one last nod, then turned the horse toward the heart of Moudhaz.

  He rode away, the dust swirling behind him as he disappeared into the winding streets, leaving behind the first contract of his new life.

  Not long after he rode Ardyon to the desginated path that Jeseid had instructed him, he had no trouble finding the building because it stuck out like a sore thumb.

  The air within the counting house carried the scent of parchment, ink, and the faint metallic tang of coins. Zion stepped forward, his armor catching the glow of the arcane lights suspended overhead, their steady illumination keeping the room bright despite the setting sun outside. The stone walls were smooth, adorned with decorative carvings that blended the angular elegance of Amifi craftsmanship with the refined symmetry of the Vellarazzan merchant republic. This place was both a vault and a temple to commerce, where trade flourished and coin held more power than blood.

  Behind the iron-barred counters, clerks dressed in muted gold and deep crimson robes worked tirelessly, tallying sums, exchanging currencies, and stamping seals onto letters of credit. Each movement was deliberate, every transaction documented with the meticulous care that the merchant republic had perfected over generations. Zion ignored it all—he was here for one reason: coin.

  He stepped into line, his imposing frame looming over the patrons before him. Directly ahead stood an elven woman, no more than 5’5 in height, slender in build, with long dark hair cascading past her shoulders. Her skin was pale, almost like moonlight against the warm glow of the counting house.

  She hummed softly, an old tune, something with a lilting rhythm that carried a faint air of northern tavern songs. The melody was light, playful, and as she stood waiting, she swayed gently in place, mimicking the movement of a dance she had likely performed before. Zion noticed that she couldn’t quite keep still—her fingers tapped idly against her belt, her weight shifted constantly from one foot to another.

  She wore a flowing white dress, cinched at the waist by a leather belt, with a deep blue chaperon-style hat draped loosely over her head. Over the dress, a short leather cuirass suggested she had seen more than just performance halls and gilded theaters. A lute was slung across her back, the instrument worn but well-maintained, its polished wood gleaming faintly beneath the arcane light.

  "I came for a letter and to withdraw this letter of credit," she announced, her voice lilting with a distinct northern accent—perhaps from the trade routes near Vellarazzo or one of the smaller republics that dotted the straits.

  She reached inside her intricate leather satchel, fingers brushing over the buckle that bore a simple crow emblem. After a moment of rummaging, she produced a folded parchment, sealed with a blue wax insignia. The clerk behind the counter, a beady-eyed man with a thin mustache, reached forward, inspecting the letter carefully before nodding.

  Zion exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance as he waited. He had little patience for delays, but he understood the necessity of formality in places like this. He glanced toward the elf, noting her continued shifting, the way she tapped her fingers on her hip as if she were following an invisible beat. She was waiting, but unlike him, she did not seem burdened by the weight of urgency—hers was a patience laced with restlessness, an artist’s habit of movement.

  Then, as if feeling his presence at last, she turned.

  Her pale eyes—emerald gems, almost luminescent—met his golden ones, and for a moment, she hesitated. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, as though she had not expected to find something so massive, so foreign standing directly behind her.

  Zion did not react.

  The silence stretched between them for a breath longer than necessary.

  Then, she blinked, lips parting slightly as if about to speak.

  "Oh, Mr. Lion, I didn't see you there." She tilted her head slightly, her green eyes catching the arcane light. "My apologies, I didn't mean to be startled."

  Zion remained still. "You're excused."

  Sol grinned. "I never saw a lion here before."

  "Not really common, it seems."

  "Are you from around these parts?"

  "Not really."

  Her smile widened, mischievous now. "Oh, well, a traveler must certainly need an inn. How about this, my gracious predator?" She reached inside her leather bag once more, fingers deftly shuffling through its contents before pulling out a small, folded paper. With a flourish, she extended it toward him.

  Zion accepted it, his eyes flicking over the text.

  "SOL THE GREATEST BARD OF THE SILK COAST, NOW AT THE HOUSE OF PLEASURE GRACIOUS DEPTHS"

  He frowned. "This is a whorehouse."

  Sol let out a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over her chest. "What, is a man forbidden from enjoying good music in the presence of a good whore?"

  "I don’t care," Zion replied, expression unmoving. "But I’d rather not sleep in a whorehouse."

  "Why not? I'm sure the prices are fair for those staying for business, and the company at the Gracious Depths is striking for those staying for pleasure." She winked, tilting her head playfully. "I'm sure many a woman would love to lay with you—for coin or not."

  "I'm not interested." He extended the paper back toward her.

  "Oh, such a shame," she sighed theatrically, taking the paper with a graceful flick of her fingers before tucking it back into her bag. "I'm Sol, by the way. The greatest bard of the Silk Coast."

  "Zion."

  Before Sol could respond, a voice cut in.

  "Ahem, ma'am. Your coin and your letter." The clerk, now thoroughly unimpressed with the bard’s theatrics, slid a sealed letter and a small, clinking pouch of coin across the counter.

  Sol beamed, collecting her earnings with an exaggerated flourish. "Most precious, darling. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," the clerk responded, voice flat. "Gran Vecchia Financial Guild thanks you for your preference. Next!"

  Sol turned back to Zion, adjusting the strap of her lute. "Now is when we must depart, I'm afraid."

  "Yes."

  She dipped into an elegant, exaggerated bow, her white hair falling over her shoulder as she smirked up at him. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Zion."

  "Likewise."

  With a final flick of her hand, she strode toward the exit, her step light, confident, as though she owned the very ground she walked upon. Zion remained still for a moment, arms crossing over his broad chest as he watched her leave.

  A bard. He didn’t like them much. Too much noise, too many words, too much unnecessary flair.

  But music didn’t irritate him.

  Maybe, just maybe, he could stop for a drink.

  Zion stepped forward in line, his heavy boots pressing against the polished stone floor of the Gran Vecchia Financial Guild. The counting house was a grand space—high-arched ceilings, walls lined with gold-leaf murals of merchants shaking hands, and long counters behind thick iron bars where clerks diligently handled coins, letters of credit, and ledgers.

  At his approach, a well-dressed human clerk, her hair neatly tied into a tight bun, raised her head from the record book she had been scanning. Her green eyes flickered over Zion’s imposing figure, lingering on the gleam of his armor, the weight of his blade, and his feline features.

  "Sir, how may I assist you today?" Her tone was crisp, professional.

  "I need to exchange ten gold coins for silver and copper," Zion stated plainly. "And all of these." He reached into his pouch, pulling out a stack of Solarion coins—the golden currency of his former life, marked with the proud lion of the Solareye forge. He placed them onto the counter.

  The clerk’s eyes barely flickered at the unfamiliar coinage. The Gran Vecchia Financial Guild dealt in all forms of wealth—be it minted gold, promissory notes, or letters of credit from noble houses stretching across the continent. With practiced efficiency, she nodded and retrieved an abacus, sliding the beads back and forth with rapid precision.

  "A moment," she said. "The rate today is six silver for one gold and ten copper for one silver. How would you like that divided?"

  "Six silver coins and four copper for every ten coins," Zion answered.

  She made a note in her record book before looking up. "For that exchange, we demand a fee of two silver coins."

  Without hesitation, Zion reached into his purse and slid two silver pieces across the counter.

  The clerk nodded, collecting them swiftly before disappearing into the back room. Zion stood in place, his golden eyes scanning the counting house as he waited. The place smelled of parchment, candle wax, and ink, the quiet hum of whispered transactions and the occasional jingle of coin filling the air.

  He had seen financial halls before—back when he was still Yirtin Solareye. His family’s vast contract dealings meant gold often passed through their hands, from mercenary wages to diplomatic bribes. But here, standing among foreign merchants and clerks with no name of his own, he was merely a man with coin. Nothing more.

  After a few minutes, the clerk returned, carrying a small, neatly tied leather purse. She placed it onto the counter with an audible clink.

  "All accounted for," she said smoothly. "Forty-two silver coins, one hundred and eighty copper coins, and forty Amifi gold coins."

  Zion nodded, taking the purse and attaching it securely to his belt.

  "Thank you."

  The clerk gave a polite nod, though her expression remained neutral. "You're welcome. The Gran Vecchia Financial Guild thanks you for your preference."

  Then, without missing a beat, she turned to the next person in line.

  "Next!"

  Zion stepped away from the counter, adjusting the weight of the purse on his belt. The exchange was done—his old gold, the last remnants of Solareye currency, had been replaced with local coin. It felt like another piece of his past had been stripped away, yet it was necessary. Carrying foreign gold would only make him stand out.

  He made his way toward the exit, but as he reached the doorway, something caught his eye.

  Sol.

  The elven bard from earlier stood near a date fruit stand, inspecting the wares with one hand idly resting on her lute. She hummed softly to herself, the tune from before—a song Zion didn't recognize but could tell had the rhythm of a tavern ballad.

  She seemed unbothered, lost in thought.

  Until three men approached her.

  Zion's sharp ears twitched.

  They weren’t merchants. They weren’t traders.

  They were scavengers.

  The first man—a broad-shouldered brute with a thick black beard and a scar running from his temple to his jaw—stepped in close, too close. He draped an arm lazily around Sol’s shoulders, a grin stretching across his face as he spoke lowly to her.

  The second man, lean and wiry with sharp, beady eyes, circled to her right side, pretending to be interested in the fruit while his hand drifted toward the strap of her satchel.

  The third, taller and quieter than the others, stood a few steps away, his posture relaxed but watchful. A lookout.

  Bandits in the middle of the city.

  Zion exhaled through his nose, his golden eyes narrowing as his instincts sharpened. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.

  He had seen this play before.

  Sol’s smile had disappeared, replaced with something tight, strained. She tried to shift away, but the bearded man’s grip remained firm. Zion watched her lips move—protests, deflections, small attempts to de-escalate. But the men weren’t interested in backing off.

  Then it happened.

  The wiry thief snatched her bag.

  Sol spun in protest, but the bearded man tightened his grip on her arm. The third man stepped forward, ready to silence any further struggle.

  Zion’s claws flexed.

  There was no contract here. No gold promised.

  But there was bandit blood to be spilled.

  And right now, that was enough.