—JAY—

  The little bastard was fast.

  A blur of brown rags, swallowed by the deepening gloom of yet another filthy alleyway. Instinct took over—my hand darting to the dagger hidden beneath my tunic. A far more practical weapon than the short sword I had initially borrowed from Lorens’ stash.

  After the fiasco with that monstrous bird, where the sword had felt like a clumsy encumbrance while trying to save Cat, and considering the necessity of our ‘farmer’ disguises, a concealable dagger had seemed the more logical, if less intimidating, option. It still felt alien, but less obtrusively so.

  This whole damn city was an exercise in escalating frustration.

  I rounded the corner at speed—and misjudged the turn. My boot skidded on something wet and unidentifiable. My arms flailed. Gravity won.

  I hit the cobblestones hard.

  Pain bloomed across my ribs and knees, sharp and immediate. A grunt escaped before I could smother it, followed swiftly by a curse and the dull throb of wounded pride.

  Somewhere in the distance, the urchin’s footsteps faded into the city’s veins.

  For a brief, breathless moment, I just lay there—cheek pressed against cold stone—struck by how familiar it all felt.

  The gravity, the sun, the way the pain sang through bone and nerve. Even the sky looked… right.

  I didn’t remember my past. But this place didn’t feel… that strange.

  One moon. A yellow sun. Breathable air.

  And the language—English? Or something close enough.

  I understood everything effortlessly, never stopping to think about it.

  Like a dream that spoke back in my own voice.

  It was unnerving. Comforting. Both.

  Behind me, a dry snort echoed off the brickwork.

  Cat padded into view, utterly unfazed.

  “Graceful,” she muttered. “Want me to clap or toss you a coin for the performance?”

  I glared up at her. “I think I cracked something.”

  "Your pride doesn’t count, boy" she said, amused as always.

  My anger, initially a hot flare, cooled into a more familiar, simmering irritation. The kind that settled behind your eyes and refused to leave.

  Yes, Cat could speak directly into my mind—a fact I had concealed even from my companions. I didn’t know why, but something about revealing that felt… wrong.

  To them, Cat was just a strange little mutant kitten—odd, certainly, but nothing beyond that. And I intended to keep it that way.

  I got up, brushing off filth and dignity in equal measure. Cat climbed back onto my shoulder, settling into his favorite spot. I felt the warmth of his fur against my skin once more.

  What in the seven hells was I doing?

  Risking exposure, getting separated from the others, all for a handful of coppers. Sheer stupidity.

  I turned, scanning the squalid alleyway behind me.

  Empty.

  Z wasn't there. No surprise. He’d likely witnessed my reckless pursuit, made a swift and silent calculation of the odds, and opted for self-preservation. A sensible choice.

  One I should have made.

  Fuck.

  I’d been in the city for less than an hour. Just long enough to lose both companions. D first—his usual cocktail of overconfidence and chaotic optimism practically guaranteed he’d wandered into something explosive. Or illegal. Probably both.

  And then Z.

  Silent, evasive, and permanently exhausted. Not physically, exactly—more like the world itself wore him down.

  Now, I was alone. Disoriented.

  The last traces of daylight bled into the horizon, the sky deepening into indigo.

  Shadows stretched longer as I navigated the twisting, refuse-strewn warrens, searching for a way back to more recognizable, less overtly hostile territory.

  It felt like navigating a rotting maze—each turn indistinguishable from the last.

  Leaning buildings, darkened windows, the pervasive stench of poverty and something worse—something acrid, something deeply unsettling.

  Shit. I was thoroughly, comprehensively lost.

  A soft mrrrrow from my shoulder, where Cat perched.

  She tensed, her whip-like tails twitching, restless.

  Her third eye, usually a closed slit, flickered open, a razor-thin sliver of gold cutting through the oppressive darkness. "Danger."

  "What kind?" I asked aloud.

  For some twisted reason, only Cat could speak directly into my mind. The reverse wasn’t possible, leaving me to look like someone who enjoyed talking to himself.

  She let out a low, guttural growl, aimed not at the empty alley ahead, but at a narrow, refuse-strewn passage to my left.

  My hand closed around the hilt of my dagger as I edged toward the shadowed opening.

  I could’ve turned back. Walked away. Hell, any sane person would’ve. But that same gnawing curiosity—the one that made me dive headfirst into a monster bird to save Cat—gripped me again.

  Maybe it was stupidity. Or instinct. Or something worse.

  Either way, I couldn’t shake the feeling that opportunity was buried somewhere inside the danger.

  The stench hit me before anything else—shit.

  My stomach turned before my mind caught up. The smell alone—burnt hair, scorched flesh—was enough to blur my vision. Then I saw them.

  Bodies.

  Three, no, four figures sprawled in unnatural positions, their ragged clothes blackened and smoking at the edges. Their flesh…it was charred, blistered in places, as if licked by an unnatural fire. Not a simple brawl. This was something else entirely.

  And standing amidst the gruesome tableau, calmly brushing ash from the sleeve of an impeccably clean, burgundy tunic, was a man.

  He was young, perhaps a few years older than me, and utterly out of place in this scene of brutal devastation.

  His red tunic was exquisitely tailored, embroidered with silver thread that shimmered faintly.

  On his chest, a symbol—a stylized triangle, point upwards, with a flickering flame artfully stitched within its borders.

  No weapon was visible. He didn’t need one, it seemed. His boots were spotless. Not a speck of blood, ash, or grime. That, more than the corpses, unsettled me.

  He moved with a calm precision, an almost serene detachment.

  Then, he looked up—startling, bright hazel eyes meeting mine.

  Shit.

  My guts twisted. I'd seen corpses before, sure. But this? This was artfully cruel. Efficient.

  Something told me that turning my back on him would be a really bad idea.

  Cat didn’t move. She just sat there, staring at the man.

  The stranger didn’t look surprised.

  He looked… appraising.

  His gaze flicked from my face to Cat, then back to me.

  And.. for a split second—genuine surprise flickered across his features, quickly masked.

  Somewhere during the chase, I’d lost my stupid straw hat—the best part of my otherwise pathetic farmer disguise.

  "Well, now," he said, his voice smooth, cultured, with no hint of the horror that surrounded him. "This is an unexpected encounter. You're a long way from the more… salubrious parts of Veridia, friend. Especially with such a rare companion."

  He nodded toward Cat.

  My mind raced.

  He could see Cat.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Was he an assassin? A serial killer? A monster wrapped in human skin?

  “Calm down, boy. This might be the chance you were looking for,” said Cat.

  Her voice cut through the panic like a blade through fog. Cold. Steady.

  And somehow, I steadied too. Even if it felt like bracing for a truck seconds before impact.

  This was new. Important. Dangerous.

  I needed to play my part.

  "I seem to have taken a wrong turn," I said, voice neutral, measured. Best not to mention I’d been wandering aimlessly for hours.

  "Indeed," the man said, his lips curving into a slight, almost unreadable smile. "These warrens can be treacherous after dark. My name is Elmsworth. An Adept of the Argent Flame Guild." He gestured vaguely at the charred bodies. "Unpleasant business, but sometimes necessary when one is… interrupted during sensitive work for the Guild."

  Sensitive work that involved incinerating people. The Argent Flame had a very direct approach.

  "You know what this creature is?" I asked, indicating Cat.

  "A Minfu, of course," Elmsworth replied, his gaze lingering on Cat with professional interest. "And a rather unique one, if its faint aura is any indication. Such familiars are not easily acquired. You must be a mage of some talent."

  An opening. I took it.

  "I… I wouldn't claim any great talent, Adept Elmsworth," I said, affecting a tone of humble uncertainty.

  My fabricated story needed to be plausible.

  “My name is… Jonan,” I said, pausing just long enough to feign calculation rather than hesitation. A new alias again—not the one I’d used when posing as the farmer, but close enough to the strange name I’d woken up with: Jay. “I come from a small village near the kingdom’s border. This is my first time in a city of this… scale.”

  I paused, as if gathering my thoughts. "The bond with this Minfu… it was unexpected. I’ve only recently… awakened to any magical aptitude. It was rather late, truth be told. One of our village elders, a wise woman, suggested I travel to Veridia. She said I might find a master here, someone to guide me, as my abilities seemed… erratic, untamed."

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  Elmsworth listened intently, his hazel eyes narrowing as they studied me.

  “A late bloomer, bonded to a Minfu of considerable potential, from a remote village?” he said slowly. “That is… highly unusual, Jonan.”

  “Tell him you found me during a dark moon,” Cat's voice whispered sharply in my mind. “Say I bit you. Drank your blood. Make it sound ominous and mystical. But don’t, under any circumstance, mention that I can speak to you.”

  I repeated the words like a good little puppet, spinning the tale with just enough awkward reverence to make it feel real. Elmsworth watched me the whole time, unmoving.

  A long silence stretched. Then he blinked.

  “Most apprentices are identified in their youth,” he murmured, stroking his chin with deliberate thoughtfulness. “And yet… the Minfu chose you.” A pause. “Magic has its own currents—unpredictable, wild things. Who are we to question their flow?”

  He was buying it. Or at least, intrigued enough to entertain the possibility.

  “The Argent Flame Guildhouse is not far,” Elmsworth said, his tone shifting into something almost warm—recruiter-like. “It would be my honor to escort you. I believe the Guildmasters will want to hear your story firsthand.”

  “Archmage Theron, our Guild Master, is always interested in unique manifestations of talent. And frankly, Jonan, navigating these streets alone tonight, with your… apparent inexperience and valuable familiar, would be unwise."

  This was an opportunity. A chance to learn, to understand the rules of this world beyond the cryptic pronouncements of the System.

  "I would be most grateful, Adept Elmsworth," I said, injecting what I hoped was the right amount of relief and respect into my voice. "I confess, I am quite lost."

  "Then follow me," Elmsworth said with a smile. "Let us leave this… residue of unfortunate events… behind us."

  If I played this right, maybe I’d learn something useful. Something that might lead me back to D. And Z. Wherever the hell they were.

  As we walked, trading the maze’s squalor for cleaner, wider avenues lit by softly glowing crystals, I subtly steered the conversation.

  Elmsworth, pleased with his “discovery” of a potential new talent, was more forthcoming than I’d expected.

  He spoke of the Argent Flame Guild—scholars of elemental magic, masters of fire and light. Then, he mentioned the Cerulean Scribes—illusionists and scholars, weaving reality into something less certain, less tangible. And the Earthen Wardens—nature mages, recluses, those who listened more than spoke.

  Rivalries ran deep. Their philosophies clashed, their methods diverged.

  He painted a world where magic wasn’t just power—it was perspective.

  "And are there… other significant groups in Veridia, sir?" I asked, feigning the naive curiosity of an outsider.

  The further we ventured into the heart of Veridia, the more the city shed its earlier skin. Cracks in the pavement gave way to golden dust instead of grime. Beggars vanished. Watchmen watched less. Carriages moved slower, flaunting their sigils.

  Everyone here knew who really owned the stones under their feet.

  Elmsworth moved with casual arrogance, hands behind his back, eyes scanning the skyline like he was checking if his name was still carved in it.

  “Veridia is ruled by contracts. Blood-sworn, gold-sealed, magically-enforced if you're lucky. Or violently enforced if you're not.”

  I didn’t respond. Just let him talk. In that sense, he was like D—in love with his own voice, and convinced the world was lucky to hear it.

  “Power in this city isn’t centralized. It’s partitioned. Like a corpse, quartered by the ones who killed it. And everyone’s chewing on their piece like it’s sacred flesh.”

  He pointed to a series of rooftops marked with subtle banners—red, black, green, and silver.

  “Four main families control the upper echelon. The Varnetti run the sky docks and the black powder trade—mercs, smugglers, and maritime extortion.

  The Halbrecht Syndicate deals in real estate and ‘urban redevelopment,’ which is a poetic way of saying they burn down your home and sell you a worse one.

  The Glassmanes own most of the banks, but don’t let the ledgers fool you—they’re money launderers in robes.

  And the Korriks? Old blood. Noble blood. They deal in secrets, disappearances, and anything involving a clean blade and a closed door.”

  He stopped, pulling out something that looked like a cigar—but wasn’t, not quite.

  The paper shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way that normal tobacco never would. Silver-edged embers danced along its length, burning slow, deliberate.

  The scent—spiced, earthy, with an undercurrent of something electric—hung in the air. He took a long drag, exhaling a curl of smoke laced with iridescence.

  Then he offered me one.

  I declined.

  He exhaled, smoke curling lazily in the air.

  “And then there’s the other guilds,” he said, voice low, as if even mentioning them might summon trouble. “Stick around long enough—or don’t —and you’ll learn what they really are.

  "Sounds... great," I offered

  Elmsworth barked a laugh.

  “It’s a miracle it works. Because under all that, you've got the independents: crime syndicates, rogue alchemists, mercenary outfits. The Pitborn deal in underground pit fights and illegal enchantments. The Hollow Hand? Assassins with a brand. Literal. If you see their mark, it’s a countdown.”

  He flicked ash onto the cobblestones, right as we passed a patrol of armored enforcers. Not city watch. Private. Their badges bore a tree with gold leaves.

  “Syndicate men,” he muttered. “Paid for by the Halbrechts. You learn quick in this city—law wears whatever colors money gives it.”

  “So everyone’s connected?”

  “Everyone owes someone. No one’s clean. Even the so-called ‘philanthropic houses’—they’re just laundering influence. But we had a system. A brutal, bloody system, yes, but it functioned. We had balance.”

  He stopped walking.

  “And then they showed up.”

  His voice dropped an octave. The air around him changed—like something coiled inside him pulled tight.

  “The Order of the Guiding Star.”

  He said it like it tasted foul.

  “New money. New faith. No respect.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Religious?”

  He scoffed. “Worse. Righteous. They dress like priests, talk like saviors, and act like inquisitors. They showed up five years ago, out of nowhere. Built temples in the Hollow Quarters. Started feeding the poor, healing the sick, preaching purity and divine law. People listened. Desperate people always do.”

  “So, are they bad news?”

  “They’re spreading—like mold. Buying land, recruiting the broken, preaching against ‘the corruption of power.’ The fools lap it up—the Star’s clarity convinces them.”

  I let the silence sit for a beat.

  Elmsworth exhaled smoke through clenched teeth.

  We soon arrived before an imposing tower of obsidian-like rock, an ethereal flame burning at its peak – the Argent Flame Guildhouse. The air itself hummed with a subtle energy.

  "Archmage Theron often receives promising newcomers himself," Elmsworth explained as he led me through a vast, circular hall filled with robed mages, murmuring incantations and scribbling glyphs into the air. “Especially those with such unique companions.”

  His gaze slid to Cat. “A Minfu like yours…”

  Cat ignored the flattery and attempted to chase a beam of light reflecting off a crystal chandelier.

  As we ascended the spiraling staircase, carved from stone and inlaid with gold filigree, we crossed paths with two figures descending toward us.

  Correction: two problems descending.

  They moved in perfect sync. Identical crimson hair, braided and tied with silver cords. Pale skin. Emerald eyes that scanned everything with the casual confidence of someone born into power. Their robes resembled Elmsworth’s—but deliberately altered. Deep necklines. Tight waists. High slits.

  A masterclass in distraction, weaponized elegance.

  The only physical distinction between them was the placement of a beauty mark. One beneath the right eye. The other beneath the left.

  “Mister Elmsworth,” the one with the left-side mark said with a small, knowing smile.

  “Ladies,” Elmsworth replied, his tone warmer than I’d heard so far. “Allow me to introduce a new apprentice. Jonan.”

  I offered a small nod. Neutral. Measured. The one useful expression when you don’t trust your face not to betray you.

  The twins examined me like I was some kind of artifact under glass. Not hostile—just curious. Predatory, maybe.

  “This is Riven,” Elmsworth gestured to the one with the mark on the right. “And Ralia.”

  He didn’t need to elaborate. They were clearly known quantities.

  “Jonan,” Riven said, testing the name like she didn’t believe it.

  “It suits you,” Ralia added. “Sharp. But not dull enough to be honest.”

  That sentence didn’t make grammatical sense. But I was too busy trying to keep my eyes at a non-lethal elevation.

  "She’s charming," Ralia said suddenly, eyes fixed on Cat.

  "Bitch," Cat hissed inside my head. "Don’t fall for her boobs—they’re enchanted. Pure illusion magic."

  I choked on air, startled by the sheer vehemence of the comment.

  "She, uh… likes you," I managed, scrambling to say something while ignoring the mental screeching. "And she’s… selective."

  "Yes," Riven said, "We are too."

  Ralia chuckled, a soft, knowing sound that made me feel like I’d just stepped into a game I didn’t understand.

  I didn't move. Every nerve ending was convinced that movement would lead to some form of social detonation. My instincts screamed to retreat, but I knew that would only make it worse.

  “Riven is specializing in binding and spatial seals,” Elmsworth said, continuing up the stairs, “and Ralia in flame manipulation. Both are under Theron’s personal mentorship.”

  Of course they were.

  “Well, see you around,” Ralia said as she passed, her tone ambiguous enough to be aimed at either of us—or both.

  They descended the stairs without another word.

  I didn’t look back.

  Not out of discipline.

  Out of sheer, unshakable distrust.

  “You handled that well,” Elmsworth said with a soft chuckle, clearly amused.

  “Thanks,” I replied, mostly out of politeness… and to keep up the act.

  We reached a heavy oak door at the top of the staircase. Elmsworth raised a hand and knocked.

  “Enter,” came a voice from within.

  Deep. Resonant.

  Magical in that eerie, bone-rattling way that made you feel small.

  I took a breath.

  Time to meet the Archmage.

  The chamber was vast, circular, lined with bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes. Arcane diagrams glowed faintly on the stone floor. Behind a massive, rune-etched desk sat Archmage Theron. Old, with a long silver beard, but his eyes blazed with unnerving, youthful intensity.

  He wore robes of deep crimson. Power radiated from him like heat from a furnace. His gaze, sharp and piercing, fixed on me, then lingered on Cat.

  "Adept Elmsworth," Theron rumbled. "You bring me another stray?"

  "A most promising one, Archmage," Elmsworth said with a bow. "He calls himself Jonan. From a border village. He claims a recent, spontaneous awakening of talent. His familiar, as you can see…”

  Theron leaned forward, inspecting Cat with sharp, unreadable eyes.

  “A Minfu of the Shadowed Veil,” he murmured. “Exceedingly rare. Such creatures do not bond easily. Nor with the untalented.”

  Then his gaze pinned me in place.

  “Tell me, Jonan—did anyone guide you? A mentor? A village sage, perhaps?”

  Stick to the story. Stick to the story.

  “There was… a wise woman,” I said slowly, like someone dusting off a half-forgotten memory. “She saw something in me. Said I had a spark. But her teachings were all herbs, charms, and old stories—nothing like true magic.”

  I paused, choosing my next words carefully.

  “When the bond happened… I was alone. In danger. And the Minfu came.”

  I echoed the nonsense Cat had thrown at me earlier—the dark moon, the biting, the drinking of my blood—but kept it vague. Enough to sound mystical, not enough to sound insane.

  Cat didn’t hiss or butt in, so I took that as approval.

  “I don’t really understand how or why,” I added, letting a touch of real confusion bleed into my voice. Not exactly hard.

  Theron stroked his beard, eyes unreadable.

  “Nature is often a cruel teacher,” he murmured. “But a thorough one.”

  He glanced at my right hand—the one I’d kept casually at my side—but made no comment.

  My blood ran cold.

  The tattoo. Shit.

  Slowly, I shifted my hands behind my back, fingers curling into tight fists.

  Theron’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening with quiet intensity.

  Elmsworth, at my side, craned his neck.

  A long, heavy silence filled the chamber.

  Then, Theron leaned back, a slow, almost predatory smile spreading across his aged face.

  "A pleasure to meet you, young Jonas." He chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate in my bones. "A late bloomer with a Minfu at his side. Magic, it seems, has a fondness for the anomalous."

  I exhaled, barely steadying myself.

  Theron waved a dismissive hand at Elmsworth.

  “Leave us, Adept. I would speak with this… ‘Jonas’… alone.”

  His tone was calm—too calm.

  Damn, old man. He's onto something.

  “It’s Jonan, sir. Not Jonas.” I said.

  “Mm. Of course. Jonan.”

  He said it with that same faint smile, like a teacher letting a student pretend they hadn’t just flubbed the answer.

  Elmsworth bowed and exited, the heavy door thudding shut behind him like a final note in a funeral march.

  I was alone now.

  With a man who radiated ancient power… and an insight sharp enough to slice through aliases like paper.

  The smile on Theron’s face didn’t reach his eyes.

  "Now, boy," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that prickled the hairs on my neck. "Let us dispense with the carefully constructed fictions. You are no simple village lad, and that is no ordinary familiar. That mark on your hand… I have seen its like before. Only twice in my long life. And those who bore it were… catalysts. Agents of profound change. Or unspeakable chaos."

  He leaned forward again, his ancient eyes, blazing with shrewd intelligence, boring into mine.

  "So tell me, 'Jonan'. Who, or what, are you really? And what brings a harbinger of such portent into my city, on the very eve of war?"

  Oh shit. The game had just escalated. Drastically. This wasn't just an opportunity to learn anymore. This was a high-stakes interrogation, and I was precariously balanced on a razor's edge. One wrong word, and the consequences could be far more severe than a few lost coppers.