Our traveling circus had been journeying for two weeks toward the capital through an ancient, whispering forest that stretched out like an endless emerald sea. I had yet to see a large open plain in this vast, primeval land; the towering trees and tangled underbrush seemed to hold their secrets in an eternal, impenetrable shroud. Only when we stumbled upon a lord’s meticulously maintained estate or a rustic village did the forest reluctantly part to reveal a sizable clearing, bathed in dappled sunlight and a hint of lingering incense from nearby hearths. Despite having covered several hundred kilometers, the forest remained stubbornly unaltered in its mystery—the sole noticeable change being the gentle easing of the hills as we left the craggy southern mountains behind. This quiet transformation only deepened my wonder at the age and untamed nature of the land.
The same seemingly endless routine unfurled as the days passed, each one punctuated by a frantic dash toward our nightly destination, our footsteps stirring the forest floor and echoing off mossy trunks. Behind me, the orcs—gruff, sinewy creatures with mottled green skin and eyes that flickered like dying embers—pursued relentlessly, their heavy breathing and guttural grunts mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of nocturnal creatures. Over the past two weeks, they had grown more agile and cunning in their pursuit—a result of my deliberate, ceaseless energy. Despite my boundless vigor and the near-constant pulse of adrenaline, their relentless pride forbade them from accepting the coins of gratitude I was more than willing to bestow. I knew orcs well enough to understand that accepting money would sully their honor, and I certainly didn’t want to provoke further complications.
Nightfall, however, brought no respite from conflict. The inky hours were alive with the clashing of steel and the resounding thuds of fists meeting flesh, as the earl’s soldiers and I engaged in our nightly combat. Over time, an uneasy truce had taken root between us—a truce punctuated by the crackling of firelight, the scent of sweat and blood, and the gruff, begrudging laughter of hardened warriors. I surmised that they were secretly relieved that I had not utterly disgraced their honor, or worse, dispatched them entirely.
What was remarkable about these nocturnal skirmishes was not merely that I endured the fighting, but that through it I was being rigorously trained. With every blow absorbed and every counterstrike delivered, I earned a measure of respect from the earl’s elite squad, both men and women whose eyes burned with a mixture of wariness and grudging admiration. It was the pure, unyielding determination I exhibited in the face of relentless beatings that seemed to soften even the sternest of expressions. The previous night had ended on a promising note, as I had just managed to parry the majority of the warriors’ ferocious attacks.
Thanks to the hard, relentless work of this grueling journey, I was steadily improving—my skills honed like a finely sharpened blade. I nursed a growing hope for the upcoming heist and an eagerness to finally set foot in the capital. Xaset, ever the schemer, mirrored my excitement, and together we huddled in whispered conspiracies beneath the rustling boughs and star-strewn sky, planning the details of a daring escape with the king’s treasure glinting in our shared visions.
Yet amid these triumphs, one constant disturbance nagged at our progress—the simmering, ever-intensifying fury of the earl’s daughter. I often wondered at the origins of her burning anger, for all I had done was defy her and subtly undermine her support—though perhaps she had sown those seeds herself. Her wrath blazed like a swirling dark storm cloud on a turbulent horizon, rife with the imminent threat of lightning. Her cutting words and sudden, sharp retorts were as startling as the scent of smoke on a windy night, and she even managed to irk her father. I caught her many times, her eyes glimmering malevolently as she cast venomous glances toward him when she thought no one was watching. The tension between them grew palpable, like the charged air before a thunderclap, and the rest of our company wisely kept their distance from her tempestuous presence.
I had just returned from another exhausting bout of combat, a satisfied smile playing on my lips as the adrenaline still pulsed in my veins. This round of fighting promised to be the final one on our arduous journey, for that very day we would arrive in the capital. As I stepped into the common room of the bustling inn, the air was thick with the excited murmur of a crowd and the aromatic blend of roasting meats and spiced ale. Eigosh sat in a far corner beside the earl—a hulking, jovial figure whose eyes sparkled with dreams of easy gold. His presence was a stark contrast to the earl’s austere, meticulously maintained demeanor, and the unlikely friendship between these two men, crossing the rigid boundaries of class, was evident in their animated discussion about the spectacle they would soon present. The earl, usually so reserved, nodded occasionally as if stirred by a rare excitement.
When this journey began, I had puzzled over why a man like the earl would be desperate to put on a show. It soon became clear from his animated exchanges with Eigosh that the king was a hedonistic monarch, solely preoccupied with pleasure and self-aggrandizement. The earl’s elaborate performance was merely a ruse—a calculated means to capture the king’s fleeting attention so that he might discuss the weighty matters of state hidden behind the veneer of spectacle. Although the specifics eluded me, the importance of the task was undeniable, for politics, as I had learned, often twisted the ordinary into something extraordinarily bizarre.
Over a hearty breakfast of fried eggs, sizzling bacon, and perfectly crisp rounds of toast, the rich aroma mingling with the earthy scent of the inn’s old timber and spilled ale, I meticulously reviewed my stat increases from the previous two weeks:
Skill Table Name??????Major??Level??XP to the next level??XP??Comment
Unarmed combat??Strength/Agility??31??3200??90??Any fighting without weapons
Blunt weapon use??Strength/Agility??25??2600??567??Use of a blunt weapon in combat
Trading??????Charisma??5??600??45??Buying and selling items
Romantic?????Charisma??0??100??48??-
Running??????Strength/Agility??30??3100??34??-
Gambling?????Charisma??18??1900??34
Shield Magic???Intelligence??35??3600??30??Any type of shield magic
Domestic Magic???Intelligence??10??1100??34??Useful for all type of work around the house
Fire magic????Intelligence??36??3700??390??Any heat energy magic
Blade weapon use??Strength/Agility??28??2900??1789??Use of a blunt weapon in combat
My unarmed combat skills had sharpened through relentless ‘training’ in the crucible of nightly brawls, and as I flexed my magical muscles with a steady stream of new spells, my mastery of the arcane grew. I had recently expanded my repertoire with several major spells:
Spells Name??Mastery??MP??Effects
Immobilization (Shield)??25??25??Lock item within a 3-meter radius in Immobilization
Shield??25??25??Prevents 200 points of damage
Fireball??35??35??Launches a white-hot fireball, as large and destructive as a burning star
Just yesterday, I had painstakingly committed the ‘Fireball’ spell to memory, channeling every extra point into my intelligence. My character sheet read as follows:
Name:??Chrix??Top Skill??Fire magic
Character Total Level:??36
Major??Strength??Fortitude??Agility
Number:??11??11??11
Major??Intelligence??Charisma??Knowledge
Number:??205??16??10
Minor??Shield??Magical Power??Stamina??Carry Limit
Number:??N/A??1035??65??32
Regen Sec:??N/A??42??2.1??N/A
After closing my well-worn book of life, its pages still fragrant with the musty aroma of ancient parchment and magic, I glanced up to see Sharro entering the common room. Her face, lined with fatigue and determination, bore the quiet dignity of a seasoned fighter. A few of the earl’s soldiers, eyes soft with unspoken admiration, looked her way, careful to hide their longing glances behind stiff, military decorum. Over the weeks, they had witnessed her formidable fighting prowess, and even the most hardened among them could not help but respect her.
“Have you slept at all on this trip?” she asked, her voice a gentle blend of concern and awe, as if the very act of rest was a rare luxury in our tumultuous journey.
“No, I haven’t. I don’t seem to need to. It must be all that I’ve been doing that is keeping me awake. I just have so much energy every day, now,” I replied, my tone buoyant despite the perpetual hum of fatigue.
“Relying on magic is not always the best idea,” she said with a friendly smile that lit up her tired eyes, her hand resting reassuringly on my arm. “I guess you’ll get some sleep when you get to the capital.”
“Maybe, but we'll see.”
The fragile peace of our breakfast was suddenly shattered by the thunderous clatter of rushing footsteps from the inn’s second-floor stairs. Every head turned as Jessika, the earl’s daughter, burst into the room with heavy, determined strides. Unlike her customary full-length, flowing dresses that whispered of grace and refinement, today she was clad in a pragmatic combat outfit—a light tunic, fitted trousers, and worn leather armor that creaked softly with each rapid step. Strikingly, there was no sword at her side, a detail that sent a chill of foreboding through the room.
The earl’s face transformed into a mask of seething anger at the sight of his beautiful daughter dressed for battle. Before he could voice his disapproval, she surged forward toward Sharro and me, her movements as swift and dangerous as a striking serpent. In an explosive moment, she delivered a resounding slap to Sharro’s face—a sound that echoed off the wooden beams and sent a spray of shocked murmurs through the common room. Sharro recoiled violently in her chair, the heat of her blush mingling with the raw tension in the air as she instinctively reached for one of the hidden knives she kept for such perilous moments. With a contorted, acrobatic twist that belied her fury, she stood before Jessika, the gleam of a sharp, glimmering blade catching the light like a shard of ice.
“Stop this, you two!” the earl bellowed, his voice reverberating with authority as he flung the table aside in his desperate bid to intercede.
“No, Father. I demand the right to prove my honor against this woman and her man,” Jessika declared, her tone icy and resolute as she fixed her gaze on Sharro—the acrobat of defiance—her own knife now unsheathed, glinting dangerously in the low light. “I mean to have a duel to first blood.”
“I forbid it, daughter,” the Earl of Chadwick intoned gravely, his deep voice trembling with restrained fury. “I cannot afford to have either one of you marked in any way.”
At his words, I turned in astonishment, puzzled by the earl’s peculiar choice of words. His mention of being ‘marked’ seemed to carry an ominous double meaning, especially as my eyes flicked to the gleaming knife clutched in Sharro’s hand. Was he warning of a permanent scar, or something far more consequential? The ambiguity left me wondering if a hidden agenda was at play—if something was unfolding beyond my comprehension.
A sudden, intrusive thought gripped me: Why exactly was the earl's daughter on this perilous trip? She was not meant to perform for the king, yet she was undeniably a prize in the eyes of those who schemed among nobles. As I studied her determined features, my mind wandered to the grand, often ruthless alliances chronicled in ancient tomes, where daughters were bartered like precious jewels—a notion that now seemed chillingly plausible.
Returning my focus to the present, I observed the two women locked in a fierce standoff. Jessika had drawn her knife, and they began circling one another like wary predators, each poised to strike with lethal precision. I could almost taste the bitter tang of impending bloodshed in the charged atmosphere. My inner voice warned me: she was desperate enough to risk a duel that might well leave both women mortally wounded.
The danger was palpable, and the earl’s face contorted further into a mask of livid rage. He appeared poised to command his men to intervene, but I knew that any such action might only escalate the conflict, potentially causing irreversible harm to both women. Acting swiftly, I began casting the ‘Immobilization Shield’ spell repeatedly. With each incantation, shimmering lines of azure magic wove through the air, coalescing into a delicate, crystalline web that snared the two combatants. The spell’s effect was immediate; as the room fell silent, every heartbeat seemed to hang suspended in the cool, charged air, and the tangible tension was frozen in time.
The earl’s furrowed brow softened into a relieved smile as he witnessed the two women immobilized, their movements halted mid-motion like figures captured in a vivid tableau. He turned to Eigosh with a tone of begrudging gratitude. “Thank your magician for solving this little problem. Tell him that my guards will not be attacking him anymore.”
A new realization dawned upon me—this was more than a mere quarrel. It became clear that it had not been Jessika who had ordered the men to strike me, as I had once assumed. Instead, the earl himself had orchestrated these events to keep me at a distance from his daughter, safeguarding his precious ‘investment.’ My previous misconceptions shattered like brittle glass; the entire affair revolved around preserving the delicate, dangerous prize that was his daughter, now under constant threat of betrayal.
The blue magical webs, intricate and ephemeral, began to fade within minutes. Yet, as the last shimmering threads dissolved into the ambient light, I noticed the guards surging forward, their strong arms moving purposefully to seize the immobilized women. I quickly moved to intercept Sharro, positioning myself strategically as the protective magic waned. The guards offered curt nods, their faces etched with duty and restraint, as I stepped in to mediate the situation. With a final, subtle gesture, I leaned toward Sharro and murmured, “You’re being used. Relax—and don’t attack the girl.”
As the final vestiges of the spell vanished completely, Sharro’s tense hands dropped slowly, and we both watched as the now-disheartened, tear-streaked Jessika was hauled unceremoniously up the creaking stairs. Behind her, her father followed, his face set in a grim mask of resolve.
“Will you tell me what this is all about?” Sharro demanded softly, her tone laced with equal parts exasperation and sorrow.
“My guess is that we’re the appetizer to the main course that is currently being taken upstairs, to be made presentable for delivery to the king,” I replied, my voice low and laden with cynical humor.
Sharro paused, her eyes narrowing as she contemplated the bitter truth. “Damn nobles—they’d eat their own given half the chance,” she muttered, her expression contorted in disgust.
An uncomfortable hour of tense waiting passed before the earl and his determined daughter reappeared from the upstairs chambers. I had braced myself to see Jessika trembling with distress or weeping in humiliation, yet the woman who reentered the common room, adorned in elegant yet resolute attire, radiated nothing but steely determination. I exchanged a fleeting glance with her father, whose similarly unwavering gaze confirmed that she had indeed inherited his formidable spirit.
“What are you lot hanging around for?” the earl demanded with vehement anger, his voice booming over the clamor of the common room. “We have a journey to finish.”
In response, the soldiers—who had been idly nursing their beer at the bar, the frothy liquid and the lingering smell of hops mingling with the woodsmoke—sprang to their feet. They practically dashed out the door, their swift, synchronized movements a testament to their familiarity with such familial theatrics. As the clamor of their retreat faded into the crisp, cool air of the early morning, the entertainment troupe gathered their belongings and moved out of the inn in a steady, orderly line, followed closely by the resolute figures of the earl and his formidable daughter.
--
Enjoying the gorgeous sunshine and the gentle caress of a warm, golden breeze, I was walking beside the creaking wagon when we crested the last tree-covered hill—a swaying sea of emerald leaves and dappled sunlight—and I got my first view of the capital city of the kingdom. I had really been expecting something grandiose, with soaring spires and resplendent architecture, but what unfolded before me was a little disappointing, to say the least. The city sat gracefully on a large island in the middle of a lake of blue, clear water that sparkled like scattered diamonds under the sun’s radiant glow. The lake, a vast mirror reflecting the sky’s azure calm, was encircled by fields arranged in a vibrant patchwork of colors, each patch hosting different crops that rustled softly in the gentle wind. The city itself was protected by a thick, formidable wall crowned with giant towers that loomed like silent guardians. This wall, impressive in its austere majesty, was the only major structure that boldly asserted itself on the island; beyond it, the remainder of the city was revealed as a labyrinthine warren of modest houses, quaint gardens, and intimate squares.
They all seemed very pleasant, imbued with the everyday charm of communal life, yet no spectacular buildings pierced the skyline. In the center lay a vast open area, stark and enigmatic, marked only by some large, irregular blocks of stone. I paused to wonder if that area had been deliberately cleared—perhaps a future site for a monument or a long-forgotten arena—and the thought stirred my imagination with hints of mystery.
“Not very impressive for the capital city, is it?” came a woman's voice from beside me, lilting and curious as it mingled with the rustling leaves and distant chatter.
I looked around and saw Jessika, who had pulled up beside me on her stately horse, the animal’s coat gleaming like burnished copper in the sunlight. She looked stunning in what I guessed was her most elegant dress—a gown of deep, rich hues that flowed gracefully with every subtle movement. Any sign of distress from this morning’s heated altercation had vanished, replaced by an air of serene composure and quiet determination. She wasn’t even scowling at me—a striking departure from the relentless tension of the past two weeks.
Not wishing to disturb her newfound calm, I bowed my head slightly and said, “No. I was expecting something a bit grander.” My voice mingled with the soft murmur of the wind and the distant, rhythmic clopping of hooves on cobblestone.
“If our present king has anything to do with it, all you have to do is wait a few more years, and you may think differently. He’s extracting every coin he can from the kingdom for his grand building project. He envisions his legacy as this great and wonderful city, among other things,” she explained with a wistful smile that carried the faint aroma of lavender and regret.
“Is that so, ma’am?” I asked politely, my tone measured and curious.
The young woman chuckled at my formal address and teasingly inquired, “Why so suddenly respectful? I hope that you’re not feeling sorry for me—I’ve been using you in my games with my father. But I would like to say I’m sorry for my part in your suffering.” Her laughter, light and melodious, danced on the breeze and mingled with the distant sounds of bustling streets.
I inclined my head in another polite bow, the fabric of my cloak whispering softly against the pavement. “No apology needed, as it was more of an opportunity for me.” My words seemed to echo with a mixture of irony and acceptance.
She looked surprised, her eyes reflecting the shimmering light of the lake. “How so? I thought you had to fight every night with my father’s soldiers.” Her tone was playful yet edged with the gravity of countless midnight skirmishes.
“Yes, but I took it as a form of the training that I so desire. I do have a question to ask of you, though. How far in the fight would you have gone with Sharro? You know that she could easily have killed you.” My query was punctuated by the distant clatter of armored boots and the whisper of wind through the ancient trees.
The lady turned and glanced at the acrobat with a nervous intensity, her eyes darting like quicksilver. “That was risky, but I was betting that she would leave me with a good scar on my face. That’s what normally happens in a women’s duel to the first blood. I had hoped that it would have put me out of the running for being presented to the king. The scar would have needed time to heal, and that delay would have cost me dearly.” The tension in her voice was matched by the subtle scent of spiced herbs clinging to her elegant attire.
“I understand,” I said, my voice soft yet thoughtful, “but would it not have been more practical to cut yourself?” I added, my words trailing off into the cool morning air.
She glanced briefly in the direction of her father, whose presence loomed in the background like a shadow of authority, and replied, “Not when I would suffer my family's anger. At least in a fight, I would have had a valid reason for the scar. In noble families, open defiance can only be pushed so far.” Her tone carried both resignation and a spark of defiant humor, echoing the distant, rhythmic toll of a church bell.
As I nodded in agreement, she subtly pulled back, mindful that her father was beginning to take an interest in our conversation—a subtle reminder of the ever-watchful eyes of power. I turned my gaze back to the city nestled in the lush, verdant valley below. Within the city's sturdy walls, I could observe the bustling activity of sprawling market squares filled with the cacophony of haggling voices and the clatter of wooden carts. Upon closer inspection, I noticed other large open areas interspersed among the labyrinth of alleys. Some of these spaces were scattered with irregular piles of stones, reminiscent of an ongoing building project, as if the city was continuously reinventing itself. “Humm,” I mused, “so what the lady said was accurate. This is a city with a lot of building work taking place.” The thought hung in the air like a faint, lingering echo of change.
The journey through the verdant valley to the city had been a quiet, almost meditative sojourn; we passed several solitary figures and clusters of townsfolk whose murmurs of daily life blended with the soft clatter of hooves. Soon, we reached the majestic bridge that spanned the sparkling lake—a structure whose weathered wooden planks resonated with the sound of each measured step, and whose railings exuded the earthy scent of wet timber. I could see the gentle lapping of the lake's edge against the solid rock of the city's outer wall, where at its base, sewerage was released into the water. The dark stain of the liquid slowly dispersed in the crystal-clear water, its odor—a pungent blend of decay and chemical sharpness—wafting across the bridge.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Hmmm,” I thought, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “That’s interesting but not unexpected for a large city.” The sound of distant splashes and the hum of urban life filled the air with a muted symphony of modern decay and age-old tradition.
At the front of our column, the earl led the way as we arrived at the open wooden doors of the grand city gate. From my vantage point, I could see him engaged in a measured conversation with the captain of the guard, who saluted smartly in a crisp display of discipline. The earl, his face etched with lines of both authority and kindness, passed a small parchment scroll to the captain. The man nodded respectfully and handed the scroll to another guard, who promptly dashed off into the teeming heart of the city. We were then ushered through the gate with a brief, almost ceremonial pause for the rest of the traffic, allowing us a swift entry into the bustling urban landscape. As I passed beneath the imposing watchtower of the gateway, I couldn’t help but wonder why the king invested so much in grandiose city buildings when the ancient wall itself was a masterpiece of defense and craftsmanship. Then again, I reasoned that the wall had been built by previous generations—each ruler, in their own time, yearning to leave behind a legacy carved in stone and memory.
Listening to the steady clip-clop of horses along the winding, cobblestone street, I took in the scene: the city was much like other large towns I had seen in this world—vibrant with a mélange of shops and thatched houses, alive with the hustle and bustle of everyday commerce and conversation. Yet, there was a distinct difference: the streets teemed with a noticeably higher number of well-dressed men and women. The women were adorned in impossibly complex and elaborate dresses, each garment a tapestry of intricately braided bows and delicate needlework embroidery that seemed to capture the very essence of aristocratic opulence. As I observed, I couldn’t help but wonder why they chose such extravagant attire—styles that, in my humble opinion, obscured rather than celebrated their natural beauty. Perhaps, I mused, it was simply a matter of following the trends dictated by the whims of fashion—a realm where conformity was as prized as individuality. In a bid to keep their splendid gowns from dragging in the muddy streets, many women wore wooden platforms on the bottoms of their shoes, which lent their steps an awkward, almost comical clumsiness.
The fancily dressed men were no less conspicuous, sporting tight-fitting suits that strained against high, stiff collars. I could see thin, razor-like swords tucked at their sides, and I marveled at the impracticality of wielding such weapons while encumbered by restrictive, finely tailored clothing. Most disconcerting of all was the cacophony of colors splashed about by the wealthy—a riotous display of garish hues that clashed and jostled for attention. Their accessories, too, seemed to have been fashioned in a madcap workshop, as if some eccentric craftsman had hurled scraps of metal and fabric together to create a chaotic symphony of style.
Sharro sniggered beside me, her laugh a quiet, conspiratorial ripple in the ambient city noise. “Somebody is making a lot of money off these idiots.”
“I wish it was me,” I replied with a wry smile, “but then I’ve never had an eye for fashion.”
“They certainly don’t. Could you imagine having to fight in one of those outfits?” she teased, her tone mixing amusement with a touch of incredulity.
The sights and sounds continued to swell around us as we navigated the busy city streets. Not all the rich were garishly attired like multicolored peacocks; I noted that some well-dressed individuals moved with quiet dignity, often flanked by guards whose grim expressions and polished weaponry spoke of readiness for any challenge. A few of these dignified figures paused to greet the earl as if he were a cherished old friend, their voices warm and resonant against the urban hum. I was particularly surprised by how naturally polite Jessika behaved, embracing her role as a dutiful noble’s daughter with a radiant smile that belied the earlier tumult of events.
The earl, visibly delighted by his daughter’s charm, beamed with contentment as we reached a large, well-maintained inn set amid its own lush garden, expansive courtyard, and neatly arranged stable. Eigosh, who had been at the forefront of our column, shook hands with the earl and bowed in a gesture of respectful deference. Then he turned back to us, his voice firm yet inviting as he said, “Come on you lot. We’re staying in different accommodation while we’re in the city.”
I heard Tuallez mutter under his breath—just audible enough for the nearby entertainment troupe to catch his discontent—“I should have guessed that we would not have been allowed to stay with the noble. This looks too expensive for the likes of us.” His tone, a mix of frustration and resigned humor, floated briefly over the clamor of the street. Except for Tuallez, nobody was overly bothered as we headed away from the inn, our group slowly winding our way through the labyrinthine city. Soon, we came to a cheaper-looking inn tucked just off a bustling square, down a narrow, winding alley where the scents of freshly baked bread and distant spices mingled with the city's perpetual hum.
--
I had just left our modest accommodation, the cramped room I would be sharing with the men of the troupe—a room that barely held the few personal belongings I possessed. I had done nothing more than enter the sparse chamber and claim a lumpy, worn bed; everything else remained packed away in my inventory, for I had nothing else to leave behind at the inn. I knew that soon I would have to accept Sharro’s generous offer to help choose new clothes, for appearances would matter if I were to perform in the king’s court. But now was not that moment, as pressing plans demanded my immediate attention.
Stepping out of the dingy upper-level room, I couldn’t help but note the stark contrast between our lodging and the sumptuous quarters reserved for the nobles. Our humble room lay in a lower-class part of the city, while the spacious inn where the nobles resided exuded an air of opulence. The establishment, known as The Red Boar, boasted a tattered sign that swung listlessly in the breeze from its final, creaking bracket, nestled in a side alley of a seedier district.
No sooner had I stepped onto the uneven cobblestones than I was accosted by a trio of drunken vagabonds. Their slurred voices and outstretched, trembling hands reached for my clothes, each desperate to squeeze a few coins from unsuspecting passersby. The pungent aroma of stale ale mixed with the musty odor of the narrow alley as it led me to a bustling market square alive with voices, clattering carts, and the irresistible scents of fresh produce and spiced delicacies. I paused, opening the map section of my well-worn book of life, its pages rustling softly, to orient myself toward the orc council’s location in this labyrinthine city.
I considered myself fortunate that the four orcs in our troupe had supplied me with a roughly drawn map, marking the orc embassy’s location. I marveled momentarily at how they knew these hidden details—though I dared not press them, knowing they became touchy whenever we discussed the affairs of their kind.
The embassy building lay a reasonable distance across the city, and I quickened my pace, my heart pounding with anticipation. My mind buzzed with the prospect of launching my daring heist on the king’s treasury. Now that I had reached the capital, the mere thought of hoarding untold quantities of gold was intoxicating; I could almost taste its gleaming richness on my tongue. Of course, the treasure was meant to fund the defense of the orc-wall to the south, a formidable barrier that guarded the entire kingdom. Yet, amid the fevered excitement of potential wealth, I had to remind myself of my true purpose—the higher cause behind this audacious robbery. I couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the irony: a self-proclaimed noble purpose standing against my own lust for enrichment.
The cobbled square I navigated next pulsed with the clamor of city life. The air was filled with the rhythmic clatter of horse hooves and the raucous calls of vendors hawking their wares. Ordinary folk in rugged work clothes bustled about, buying fresh produce from temporary market stands overflowing with vibrant fruits, vegetables, and aromatic spices. Shouting store owners jostled for attention, their voices merging into a chaotic symphony. Women, each carrying large woven baskets, carefully balanced their purchases while their wide eyes scanned the crowd. Clusters of children clung to their mothers’ skirts—one small boy, his face half-hidden, timidly remarked, “He’s so tall,” to his mother, his voice a soft note amid the market’s crescendo.
Among the throng were professional shoppers—servants clad in durable, thick fabrics adorned with leather patches at the knees and elbows. They moved in tight-knit teams: one tugging a creaking wooden hand cart laden with goods, another meticulously paying with copper coins, and occasionally a third standing sentinel with a sturdy stick as if warding off potential miscreants. I couldn’t help but notice several nimble-fingered thieves slipping through the crowd, pilfering items from the carts with practiced ease.
Intermixed with the bustle were the downtrodden—the poor and desperate—seated on straw mats in quiet corners of the square. Their ragged attire and sunken eyes told tales of hardship. Some tried to hawk small trinkets or pleaded for a copper coin, their voices barely audible over the clamor of commerce.
Focused on reaching the orc embassy, I maneuvered through the market when suddenly, a wooden cart loaded with baskets of bright, fragrant fruit nearly barreled into me. Reflexively, I sidestepped, my large, heavy footsteps causing a minor commotion on the uneven pavement. In that moment, I nearly trampled a poor woman’s tattered straw mat, where a small child had been watching in alarm. The boy, startled, shrank back as if fleeing from a monstrous threat, clinging closer to his mother—whose clothes, weathered and unwashed, spoke of long days of struggle. On her other side, a little girl devoured a crusty bread roll with ravenous hunger.
Before I could murmur an apology, my eyes were drawn to an array of homemade carved items displayed on the mat. Intricately fashioned wooden statues, crafted in the likeness of the gods of this land, caught my interest. The woman behind the stall, her face streaked with dirt yet illuminated by a hopeful smile, called out, “May I interest you in a statue of a god or goddess? Who knows—perhaps it may bring you luck or wealth.”
An older woman passing by laughed bitterly, interjecting, “It didn’t bring you any luck, did it, dear?” Then, her tone darkened as she fixed me with a stern glare, “Ignore this young harlot. She got all she deserved, having to care for those two unwanted young ones.” The young boy on the mat looked up, uncomprehending, while the little girl trembled, eyes wide with fear as if anticipating a blow.
The older woman’s gruff dismissal faded into the din of the market as I knelt to examine the detailed carvings of the figurines. My curiosity about the local mythology piqued, I inquired softly, “What are these figurines?”
“Dear sir, as I said, they’re images of the gods and goddesses who helped vanquish the Valkin,” she replied kindly. “This one is the goddess of love; an image of her might even aid your love life, sir—though a handsome man like yourself may not need it.” The mention of the Valkin made my ears prick up; it was the same name the elf lady had hurled as a curse at me once. I carefully picked up the miniature, two-inch statue, admiring the delicate, almost sensual curves carved into the wood—its pose evoked an air of exotic allure reminiscent of the elegant marble nymphs found in the stately gardens of Earth.
“You carve them yourself?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.
“Yes, I do, young sir. I have more in this bag if you wish to see.” She reached into a rough woven bag and produced a few additional statues, each one revealing subtle nuances of divine artistry.
“Can you tell me more about the Valkin, please?” I pressed, my voice filled with eager curiosity.
Her smile softened as she recounted the old tales passed down from her grandfather. “Only a little, sir. The gods and goddesses banded together to defeat and banish the race of the Valkin from our world—though there was never a battle, only a great trickery they employed. I’m afraid I don’t know all the details.”
“Why did the gods banish the Valkin?” I asked, leaning in with genuine interest.
“Sorry, good sir, but that’s all I know. However, each statue tells its own tale of the divine acts meant for the good of all creatures.”
“Maybe later, dear lady,” I replied with respectful mirroring of her genteel tone, “but for now, I’ll buy the statue of the goddess of love. It seems I have difficulty with the women of this world.”
Her smile widened as I tenderly picked up the delicate figurine once more, its graceful form stirring images of both passion and desire. “What is the cost, dear lady?” I inquired.
“Whatever you can afford. Sometimes, the more you pay, the greater the power of the statue,” she said in a hushed, earnest tone. I admired her salesmanship—the subtle promise of augmented fortune if only I were willing to invest a little more.
I withdrew a small piece of silver from my scant inventory and handed it over. “Is this enough?”
Her eyes widened in startled gratitude as she accepted the coin, murmuring, “Sorry, my lord—I didn’t know you were a noble. I would have been more respectful if I had known.”
“I’m definitely not a noble, but is a silver enough for this wonderful artwork?” I pressed gently.
“Of course it is, sir. It’s more than enough,” she assured me, clutching the coin as though it were a treasure itself.
Overcome with a surge of empathy and nostalgia for my own long-lost mother, I felt compelled to offer further aid. “May I give you my own help in the way of a healing spell?” I asked, voice soft with genuine concern.
Her expression shifted to one of genuine astonishment. “You’re a magician as well, sir? That would be wonderful—healing magic is so costly for someone like me and for these little ones.”
I nodded, recalling the complex healing spell I had mastered during our journey to the capital—a spell that had yet to find its true test. In a slow, deliberate manner, I began to channel shimmering green energy through my body, weaving it into a delicate tapestry of magic above the woman seated on the mat. The soft glow of magic caught the eyes of curious onlookers, their whispers mingling with the market’s ambient clamor, as if marveling at the sight of someone so humble bestowing healing miracles.
As the sparkling green energy cascaded onto her like a gentle, iridescent spider’s web, her skin flushed a deep, healthy red—as though she had just emerged from a vigorous bout of exercise. A smile bloomed across her tired face, and I repeated the spell on her children. The little boy, lulled into peaceful slumber on his mother’s knee, smiled dreamily, while the girl's features softened as the magic eased her weariness. I noted, with quiet satisfaction, that the healing had visibly diminished the sores that marred their skin. A notification from my book of life confirmed the acquisition of this new healing skill.
To complete my assistance, I cast additional spells to clean and repair their worn clothes. The woman’s endless praise, tender and heartfelt, made me blush before I quietly slipped back into the crowd.
Clutching the small goddess statue in my hand, I felt a pang of self-consciousness for my earlier emotional display. Yet the scene had stirred a flood of memories—of my own mother’s gentle care in my childhood—that tugged relentlessly at my heart. It took several brisk steps down winding streets before I managed to shake off the weight of my emotions. As I neared my destination, my focus sharpened once again. Standing before the imposing stone edifice of the orc embassy, I reclaimed my usual, calculating demeanor, ready to put my plan into motion and to enrich myself. I murmured, “I really can’t take care of everybody,” as a reminder to myself.
The exterior of the orc embassy loomed, strong and foreboding—a mirror of the orc nation itself. Set within its own fortified grounds, high stone walls, topped with menacing spikes, guarded its secrets like a relic from a bygone era, reminiscent of a World War II bunker on the breaches of France. Outside the sturdy wooden gates embedded in the stone wall stood two stocky orcs clad in full battle armor. Though male, their armor, etched with ancient runes that glowed faintly with magical power, reminded me of the formidable female orcs guarding the southern border. Their steely eyes followed every passerby, and the crowd wisely kept its distance, avoiding direct contact.
As I strode confidently toward them, my height immediately marking me as someone of importance, one of the orcs exchanged a few curt words with his companion before disappearing into the embassy. The remaining orc, without a word, swung open the heavy wooden door and beckoned me to enter. Wary of prying eyes, I hurried inside, the door slamming shut behind me with a resonant bang that echoed down the stone corridors.
Soon, I encountered the guard who had departed with a larger, older orc clad in standard leather armor—the everyday attire of orcs when not engaged in battle. “Chrix, we were expecting you to come by today,” he said warmly, his smile crinkling the corners of his weathered face.
Startled, I replied, “How? I just arrived this afternoon, and I came straight here.”
“You were accompanied by four orcs. They may be dishonorable, but they reported your presence,” he explained with a knowing glance. “Even the dishonored have their uses.” His words made me wonder what further secrets the four orcs in our troupe might be concealing.
“At least you’re ready for me. I need some information and help from you for the task I’ve been sent by the empress,” he continued, his tone brimming with anticipation. Pure excitement lit up the orcs’ faces, and the older orc gestured for me to follow him further into the building.
He led me down a long hall where polished weapons gleamed on racks along the stone walls, their metallic scent mingling with the earthy aroma of aged timber. In the center of the hall lay a broad ring of sand, undisturbed except for the occasional swirl of dust stirred by our footsteps. A small alcove, containing a sturdy desk, opened out onto an arena where echoes of past challenges seemed to linger in the air.
“Do all the orcs’ government offices have to be in arenas?” I asked, curiosity lacing my voice.
“Of course,” he grinned broadly. “How else will people challenge me for leadership?” His words, absurd yet fitting in twisted orc logic, made sense in their own brutal way.
Seated at the table, I began my barrage of questions. For an hour, I grilled this clever orc about the intricate situation in the capital, discovering layers of complexity that I hoped to exploit to my advantage. By the end of our conversation, with our initial plans firmly in place, the orc’s smile deepened as he envisioned the outcome of our endeavors, and I knew that our fateful collaboration had truly begun.
--
“Say again what you want me to do,” said Xaset, his voice low and edged with indignation, as he recoiled slightly at the suggestion I had just made. His eyes, narrowed beneath a heavy brow, glinted in the flickering light of the market stalls.
“You heard me. I want you to get robbed so I can catch the pickpockets,” I replied with a mischievous grin, the corners of my mouth lifting as I spoke. “I need some information from them.” My tone was playful yet calculated, echoing over the clamor of busy vendors and the distant clatter of wooden carts.
Xaset sighed deeply—a sound mingling with the rustle of loose fabrics and the murmur of passing conversations. “Just don’t let any of the others know. If they do find out, you’d better tell them that it was a plan of yours. I’ll never live down the embarrassment if they find out that I, of all people, was pickpocketed by a common thief. Look— they're not even that good at it!” He gestured broadly toward a scruffy gang of pickpockets working the market, their furtive glances and nimble fingers barely noticeable amid the riot of colors and smells of spiced meats and fresh herbs.
“You can do it. Just look stupid and like you have money,” I instructed, my voice rising over the din. “You won’t even have to try too hard. It will probably come as naturally to you as it always does.” The words danced in the air, punctuated by the sizzling sound of street food being prepared and the distant bleat of a stray goat.
In a sudden burst of impulsiveness, Xaset blew a small, hot flame from his mouth—a quick flare of orange and red that I had to dodge with a swift sidestep, the heat grazing my cheek. Thankfully, he marched confidently into the bustling market, assuming the role of an unwitting tourist. With wide, awestruck eyes, he gaped at the towering stone buildings and the intricate mosaic of market life, his vacant expression lending him an almost comical air of innocence in this chaotic world.
I waited only a few minutes before my eyes caught the glimmer of the team who had been working the market earlier on their way to the orc embassy. Their furtive movements and the soft scuffle of their steps betrayed their presence. Now, they would serve a purpose, as I intended to extract information from them to set my plan in motion.
Xaset, with exaggerated care, bent over and exposed a worn leather money purse tucked into his back pocket—a tempting target glistening under the morning sun. As if on cue, a thin, wiry young boy of about fourteen, with eyes sharp and calculating, moved stealthily toward the purse. Simultaneously, another agile boy ambled in the opposite direction, ready to complete the hand-off after the snatch. Just as the first boy’s nimble fingers brushed the edge of the purse, Xaset abruptly straightened and clutched his hand, his pride flaring like a sudden burst of flame.
“Damn him,” I thought, a mixture of annoyance and amusement rising within me. His stubborn pride would not let the theft succeed, and now everyone in the market might witness my spell in action.
In a split second, I flicked my wrists and sent the intricate weave of my immobilization spell rushing toward the two would-be thieves. The spell, a shimmering lattice of magical energy tinged with hues of blue and silver, ensnared the boys as they tried to slip away. I was momentarily startled to see that the magical web skimmed right off Xaset’s back as if repelled by his stubborn aura. Without hesitation, I lunged forward and seized the boy whom Xaset had not secured, releasing the spell with a practiced flourish.
The surrounding crowd watched with rapt attention, their murmurs blending with the clink of coins and the distant call of a street vendor. Their passive observation allowed us to drag the two immobilized pickpockets into a shadowed side alley, where the scent of damp stone and old wood mingled with the stale odor of market fare. It was clear that most locals knew these two as minor nuisances and did not mind if we took them away for questioning.
With a forceful shove, I pressed the younger boy against the cold, rough wall, his eyes wide with terror as they met my steely glare. “All I want from you is a tour of the city’s sewerage system,” I declared fiercely, my voice echoing in the narrow passageway.
Xaset’s tone was laced with disgust as he interjected, “That’s what you want from these two? We’re not going down there, are we?” His face twisted into a grimace, the lines of his features deepening under the strain of his disapproval.
I nodded, still locking my gaze on the trembling boy. “I’m paying, as well,” I insisted, my words punctuated by the distant hum of market life and the faint drip of water from a nearby gutter.
The young thief’s expression shifted from fear to relief as he flicked his gaze to his partner, who was still caught in Xaset’s vice-like grip. “No worries, gov,” he mumbled once I removed my hand from his mouth. “We can take you to one of the entrances. One of the sewer rats will be able to lead you from there. It will cost you a copper coin, though.”
“That’s fine,” I said, releasing him gently. “But you only get it when I get my guide at the sewer entrance. You already know that I can cast an immobilization spell, but you should know that I’m also a fire magician.” I added, my tone carrying a hint of a threat.
To underscore my point, I gathered fiery energy in my palms and formed a glowing fireball—its vibrant red and white flames swirling in a delicate orb nearly the size of a human head. With a controlled gesture, I projected it high into the air, where it floated briefly before fading into harmless sparks that drifted toward the thatch roof above us, leaving behind a subtle aroma of burning wood. The display sent a ripple of terror through the two thieves, their faces paling as if they’d seen a specter.
“A bit overdramatic,” I mused internally, though the dramatic effect would keep them honest for a while longer. “Lead on,” I commanded with finality.
The two pickpockets exchanged a nervous glance and began to usher us across the bustling square. I noticed other members of their gang emerging from hidden nooks and crannies, their relief palpable as one of the boys signaled with a discreet hand movement, indicating that all was well. Then, as silently as shadows, the gang dispersed back into the labyrinth of the market.
Our journey with the two thieves led us along winding streets that revealed a startling transformation. I had assumed we were lingering in the most rundown area of the city, yet as we moved along, the surroundings shifted. The scent of decay was replaced by a potent mixture of damp earth and the acrid tang of rotting refuse as we climbed over derelict land strewn with piles of garbage. One vast mound, a chaotic assembly of discarded debris, culminated in a gaping hole—a collapsed roof that had tumbled into a tunnel-like passage. In a moment of reckless abandon, one of the boys leaped into the opening, and I could hear his frantic shouts echoing from within the darkened sewerage tunnel.
We waited in tense silence for about half an hour until the boy reemerged, pulling an old man from the depths behind him. “Here's one of the sewer rats,” the boy announced breathlessly, pausing to wipe grime from his hands. “I'll be needing the payment.”
The old man, his voice raspy and weathered, looked as if he had lived many harsh years beneath the city. I extended my hand and cast a quick cleaning spell upon him—a luminous cascade of magical energy that swept away layers of dirt and grime. His initial terror gave way to a delighted smile as he watched the dirt fly off, revealing a face etched with both hardship and relief. I passed over a copper coin for his effort, the metal clinking softly as it exchanged hands. In that moment, the boys dashed off, leaving Xaset and me alone with the pale, haggard old man peeking cautiously from the tunnel.
“The boy said you wanted a guide,” he rasped, his voice carrying the weight of countless underground journeys.
I studied the man carefully—his rough leather coat, tied together with frayed string and stained with dark, mysterious patches that hinted at a long life in the underbelly of the city. A battered leather hat, its flaps covering his ears and crowned with a metal plate reminiscent of a hard hat, completed his grim ensemble. His thick, unkempt gray beard, damp with droplets from the humid air, lent him an air of rugged determination.
“That’s right,” I said with as much of a smile as I could muster despite the pungent, musty odor wafting up from the tunnel. “We need a route through the tunnels to below the palace and then to the bridge by the lake.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered the request. “I can do that, but it will do you no good as there are bars across both of those exit points from the tunnels,” he warned in a gravelly tone.
“Don’t worry about that. Just guide us, please. How much?” I asked, my voice firm yet respectful.
“I’d be grateful for a few coppers,” he replied, his hopeful smile widening as I nodded in agreement.
