I woke up in the dusty cabin feeling dizzy and weak, my stomach growling. As I stumbled out of bed, I noticed that the window in my room was closed. This particular room was located on the first storey, and there was no tree opposite the window, so as to allow a jaguar or any other animal to climb up and enter the room.

A few visits ago when I had used this place for my shelter, I had spent the night with the window open. The hot morning sun would quickly warm the wooden cabin; and though the nights were colder, it was better to sleep with circulating air than a stuffy dust-ridden chamber. My cave did not have such issues since the opening was located high enough opposite the sea cliffs and was wide enough to admit the breeze from the sea.

Carthon being home to some of the most forested areas in the world, or so I have been told, the summers last for many months before the rains come to cool the land. I was waiting for the time when the monsoon would afford some relief from this absurd heat. Any day now, I thought to myself as I picked up my rifle, which lay on the bed beside me, and headed out to start my day.

The fact that I was this hungry and weak was not usual for me. There had been times in the past when I had been overcome by the scent of the Stelgrime flower, the pollen of which has hallucinatory effects. It was commonly found in the southern part of Carthon, where I was located. In fact, one of the main exports of the southern kingdoms was a brew made from Stelgrime - which had occasionally caused my blackouts in my younger days.

What had happened yesterday?

I tried to recollect the previous day’s events: much like every morning, I had first headed out to check the ‘Assignment Boards’ in the nearest town. Such boards were placed inside an inn or at the guild headquarters, like a merchant or mercenary guild. I was not allowed entry into such guilds due to the absence of a nationality. So I had to make do with the board at the inn.

Yesterday the inn’s board had been blank: it hadn’t been refreshed with tasks. I wasn’t surprised at that, as I had previously taken on all the tasks in one go for a quick payday. These tasks were not too time consuming and involved little effort. Still, it was frowned upon to take up more than one task at a time. But as very few people checked the inn’s board to take on the tasks posted there, I had taken my chances. After all, if somebody here wanted a decent commission, they would want to head over to one of the guild boards.

I was left with an open day, and went off to hunt for my food, which for some reason I seemed to have skipped.

My stomach growled again. There was an apple tree nearby: my breakfast usually came from there.

Returning to the previous day, I distinctly remembered trapping a couple of rabbits. I would normally go for some elk or boar, but yesterday, I hadn’t been hunting too far into the forest; which was odd, because the next thing I remembered doing was exchanging the rabbits for information from a widow in a run-down hut in a village… Why would I do something like that? The village was close by, and if I had been planning on making the journey I would have hunted for more substantial meat. I clearly had a very specific purpose behind going there. I recalled the woman telling me something as she took the rabbits from me. Although her lips moved, there was no sound. And everything from that point on was blank, as if the rest of that day had not happened.

Lost in thought, I went down the stairs. Believing that I was alone, I thumped my way down, my heavy boots landing noisily on each wooden stair.

That may not have been the smartest move, for I saw, as I reached the ground floor, that someone was seated on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

Instinctively, I shouldered my rifle and took aim. The person had a hood on. But was it a hood? It had features and a texture that were highlighted by the light that streamed in through the gaps in the curtains. Were those snakes that I was seeing?

“Who’s there?” I shouted out, sure that the person had heard me descending the stairs. The sofa area was blocked from sight of the stairway by a narrow corner passage. Anyone who came down the last few steps would not be able to see the major portion of the ground floor room unless they were more than halfway down.

There was no response. I walked across carefully, making sure that my aim was in place with the change in angle.

I went closer. And still closer. Until I was just a few paces away from the hooded figure.

I went around to the front of the person, who had not turned at the sound of my approach, to see the face. It was entirely possible the man had actually passed out on the sofa, and considering that I had a spotty recollection of yesterday’s events, I may have just been responsible for his presence there.

I realised he had an open book on his lap. Whether he had been reading it or not was unclear, until I was actually in front of the man and realised that he was conscious and alert, and was looking at the book.

“Who are you?” I asked, somewhat softly this time. The rifle was still pointed at him but the man did not seem to notice it. I hadn’t yet decided whether this person was a threat.

His attire clearly suggested that he came from royalty. The hood, which I could now see clearly, was stitched such that it looked like a clump of snakes. I had never before seen such a design or pattern, but then, only the wealthy could afford such embellishments to their clothing. The hood formed the top extension of his coat. It was made of a fabric that looked stiff and well-structured, and was coloured a bright shade of amber. The coat was hanging at his shoulders, without sleeving his arms. A rather unusual way of wearing a coat, I thought.

The shirt under the coat also sat loosely on the man, not defining his figure. His trousers had wide bell-cuffs which were embroidered in a way that looked foreign. This attire, minus the coat, appeared to be quite breezy and tailored for warm weather. Every aristocrat I encountered had custom ordered attire that reflected the colours or insignia of their respective houses. This person gave all the signs of a wealthy patron visiting from a far-off land. However, one thing was certain: based on the breadth of his shoulders and the bulge of the upper arm of the hand that held the book, I could tell this man was no pampered prince or lost merchant. His features were clearly that of a warrior.

I didn’t encounter people of this stature often. I could normally be hanged for threatening such a man with a rifle; but this man’s calm demeanour left me feeling that he was either certain I was not going to shoot or that he did not particularly care whether I did. All these possibilities made me feel uneasy.

“My name is Sinha.” The man spoke without looking at me. He then closed his book with a thud so loud that I almost squeezed the trigger. The echo of that thud resonated through the room, catching me off guard for a moment. This would have been a perfect opportunity to lunge and disarm me, but Sinha did not do so.

“What is your name?” he asked me, slowly turning his head until he had made eye contact. I now saw that his amber eyes were quite striking, and well complemented his coat. His eyes were also quite familiar.

“Barik,” I replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I was reading. Until I was rudely disturbed by an intruder.”

Was he referring to me?

“Yes, I am referring to you.” He seemed to have read my mind. “You act like this house is yours, yet it is not. Moreover, you may be threatening the one to whom this house belongs.”

Was this man, then, the owner of this cabin?