Skipping over the crooked steps of the rotted tooth, I dip through the frame of the door into the witch’s oven and up to the counter. His glance barely flicks to the shards of the knife before the words are out of his mouth:

“No refunds.”

“Why would I want a refund?” I ask innocently. The pouch dangles from my belt, the velvet of its belly bloated from a recent feeding.

“Don’t lie.”

“Fifty-eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. You promised thirty minimum.”

“You’re the asshole who incited a mob outside the city?”

“A special type of pest, right? Is that eight and quarter-three inch still available?”

“Seven scende. Non-negotiable.”

“You’re learning.”

“No arguments?”

“Fair price.”

He grunts at the barb, pulling the box out and flipping it open. I lay the coins on the table and grab the knife, buckling the sheath to my thigh.

“I’m interested in your armour, too.”

He slams the lid of the box, less than impressed. “Did that other pest rat me out?”

“I can smell the leather from your shop.”

A low growl. “Custom only. You’re responsible for the materials.”

“Here’s the sketch.”

Elleven unfolds his arms to snatch the paper from my fingers, scowl deepening in the dim light. “Thirty Skeltia.”

“Fifteen downpayment; thirteen at material drop-off.”

“That’s not thirty.”

I fold my arms. “You have a deadline to uphold, don’t you? Some ‘noble brat’ commissioned two weeks ago, but there’s a certain fur you’re missing?”

“You’ll get it for me? By end of Voiday?”

“You need it by Seonday.”

“Someone has been taking a special interest in me.”

“Do we have an agreement?”

He grabs a thin slip of wood. Scrawling down a list of items, he passes it over. “These are for your armour. Most are local.”

“You’re a terrible liar. I’ll overlook the extras if you add in two of your needles.”

A huff of disapproval, but he drafts the receipt anyways. I read it over and hand him the agreed-upon coins. He adds them to the till, lamenting the special pest robbing his business blind.

Carlile guards the door when I leave. There’s a firm line to his lips; planted there since our little trek outside the capital. Offering him a slight nod as I hop down, he trails behind me out of the alley and into the market. Groceries, vials, paper, envelopes. He finally breaks silence as I critique the durability and material of the various ropes.

“The silk. It has the strength you’re looking for, but is lightweight and difficult to tangle.”

I pass the coins to the stallkeeper and hook the bundle onto the belt. A touch pricier than preferred, but not above the value of a good rope.

“Why do you want my sister?”

“I only need one of you.”

“As I’ve said; why Clarabelle?”

I glance at him, then the road. “I’m curious.”

His reaction is immediately guarded.

“You registered her as a healer for the jobs. It’s guaranteed her steady work and income, and allows you as her brother to accompany her.”

“She can heal.”

“That’s correct.” We exchange a glance, then sit at an open bench. I rummage a fruit from the bag. “I am not arguing your choice. You’re the big brother; you have a responsibility to look out for her. Registering her as a healer is the smart choice.”

“But?”

“How long do you expect her to stay on the tree?”

“She can leave at any time.”

“Have you given her that choice?”

“I don’t think you have the right to question this.”

“She does.”

He gives me a long, hard stare.

“It doesn’t have to be her. But I will only allow one.” I toss him the fruit. “You decide who’s there.”

Carlile leaves me at the castle gates and leaves. Opening the door, Ivans glows with delight at the bag of groceries. Granting me entry, I set to work preparing dinner for a near-bottomless stomach. Shoulder against wall, he crunches into a purple apple.

“What do you know about them? The two rulers?”

He rolls a chunk of apple over his tongue, crushes it, and swallows. Twisting his wrist to catch some of the juice, he reveals a patch of green marbled into the skin of the fruit. “Curious?”

“One of them is a dragon, right?”

“She is only interested in her horde. The kingdom breathes easier that way.”

“She?”

He takes another bite, mindful to skirt the core of the apple.

“And the other?”

“Some manner of convention between monarchs. Useless really. But sending a diplomat is ill taste.” He digs a seed from the core into his free palm and drops it into his pouch. A brief rune wraps around it in the second between his fingers and the leather. “The kind of ill taste that can start wars.”

“Delicate phrasing.”

“Not my words.”

“Ah.”

“You’re going to stir the pot, right?”

Shredding some herbs, I dump the assortment into the pot and stir. Ticking the heat down a notch, aligned to his sigh of relief, I return to dicing vegetables.

“The Thirteenth. They’re responsible, right?”

He cocks his head.

“A Summoned is ineligible for positions of State. Any individual who holds a direct relation to a Summoned through marriage or blood cannot assume or maintain positions of authority within the State.”

“That one. More or less.” His disinterest in the conversation is palpable. “The pot?”

I stir the pot, set the oven, and slather the roast with a honey-spice flavouring. Ivans relaxes, pulls out a fresh apple, and starts chewing. The pouch at his hip bulges slightly.

“Why did you visit the outpost?” I ask.

“I had orders.”

“The inspection was mobilized under your instructions.”

“You can just ask.”

“Would you give me an answer?”

“Depends.”

“Would you give me a straight answer?”

He shrugs.

I stir the pot and rest my hand against the counter. “What happened in the Rift?”

He munches slowly, drops another seed into his pouch, and swallows. Another bite. Long chew. Repeat. I stir the pot, grab some leftover ingredients, and fry them up in a pan. The scent of carmelizing onions fills the space, complimenting the roast and other ingredients stewing and cooking. Ivans licks his lips, salivating. A noisy slurp.

“The Rift?”

He hesitates, flicking his glance between me and the food. The pot needs to be stirred, but I leave it be, drawing out his urgency. His gaze flicks to the spoon in my hand, calculating whether to disarm me or encourage me.

“What’s it going to be?”

Ivans takes over the cooking, rescuing the food with intense concentration. The apple he’d abandoned rolls along the counter forgotten, a fresh wooden spoon dedicated to the full pot and his other hand flipping and performing intricate aerobatics with the pan. Navigating the kitchen by scent, he chops up herbs and mashes spices, rotating through the equivalent priorities with the flawlessness of a commander expert in his field (skirting from the last ingredients in the bag at a stern slap from my spoon). Several minutes later he’s cut the heat and started plating the food, heaping comical portion sizes over the slender dishware and into his mouth.

I observe him wordlessly, arms folded across each other and a firm line to my lips. The forgotten apple rests in my palm, the patch of green now devouring half of the purple.

Several servings later, he recalls my question. He lowers his fork and knife, demotivated.

“A mouth opened in the sky,” he says, slowly. His voice is weary again, just like when he last spoke of it. “It threw up so much… and it didn’t stop. I grabbed everyone I could. There was a child… his mother was screaming. I… we… We couldn’t escape.”

I sit down at the table across from him and nudge him his plate of food. He smiles, softly, and takes a bite.

“If you couldn’t escape, how’d you stop the Rift?”

He shakes his head.

I sigh, bounce the apple in my palm, and set it on the table. “I’ll be leaving the cleanup to you. This,” I say, tapping the apple with my finger, “isn’t healthy.”

He waits till I have gathered up my bag and am at the door before speaking. “We didn’t stop it. The Rift.” He fiddles with his fork, uncomfortable. “Only a Summoned can.”

There’s more, but he doesn’t elaborate. His eyes beg me not to. Disappointing, but not unexpected.

“I’ll keep that in mind. See you tomorrow.”

Exiting the room, I closed the door and pause. There are some conversations from the halls and other rooms, but most of it is at a minimum. I take a few seconds to compose myself, then set off to my next target.

The scholar nods awake sluggishly, groping around for his glasses. Glancing over my shoulder as I finish organizing the final bookshelf, I chirp a pleasant greeting.

“May the breeze carry fortunes upon you.”

“Winds… favour,” he grumbles sleepily. Fumbling his glasses from my outstretched hand, he pushes it over his nose. Dazedly, he drifts his gaze about the room and yawns, blinking slowly.

“I will be leaving the city.”

“…When?”

“Tomorrow. I plan to visit the neighbouring village, Sommersen, for a few materials.”

“Your promise?” He removes his glasses to rub his eyes. They land vacantly upon the plate of food prepared for him, steam wafting from the eggs.

I reach into my satchel, removing an envelope for his appraisal.

“…Oh.” Stumbling to his feet, he grips the door for me and drags it open. He pauses when I pass through, attention enraptured by the threads of the detection magic.

“Merwin Generation; eighteen-ten. Page two-sixty-four,” I supply in answer to his question. The locks were banned from market for a reason.

He shakes his head, deciding against the exercise of brain power. Shutting me out, he shuffles around for a bit before settling down to eat.

Unhooking the king’s pouch from my hip, I count out the coins and slip the pouch into my satchel. Returning to the market, I follow the roads to a shop and dip inside. The wide brim of her hat dips at the friendly chime of the door, glasses gleaming.

“Welcome, Ryan.”

“You said you needed some ingredients?”

“I did. Are you ready to gather them for me?”

“I will be leaving the city tomorrow. I can look for them if you have the list.”

“Marvelous!” She claps her hands together, stopping the flurry of items fussing about her head. Gesturing me behind the till, she invites me into one of her rooms in the back to discuss further. Whisking up some tea, she pours a cup for both of us and offers me a seat.

“And how is that new wand treating you?”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m so glad you changed your mind on that. The number of stories I’ve seen… but, I don’t see you wearing it?”

I tap the Pouch of Inventory purchased previously. Her jovial expression deflates, disapproving. “I see.”

A flick of her fingers, and a bundle of paper sweeps through the air to the table. Stacking itself neatly before me, I take a moment to read through the previously discussed terms before signing both copies and claiming mine.

“First Surge, now Link. Not the usual toolset for an adventurer,” the lady teases, taking a seat and a sip from her own cup.

I shrug. Electricity spells may be unpopular due to their difficulty to control, but I had to learn at least one if I wished to recharge my phone.

Wasn’t exactly kidnapped with a charger, after all.

“Now then, about the spell. Link is an Air Elemental; limited to acquaintances and above for relationships. Greater the distance, greater the delay. Chance of failure upon exceeding a certain threshold.”

“And that is?”

“Depends on the caster.”

I nod. Seems to be the answer for most magic I’ve learned and observed thus far. She spends the next hour explaining the instructions, limitations, and casting requirements. When I have demonstrated both my understanding of the spell and a successful casting of it, she turns focus to the second spell needed for the gathering of her materials. At the conclusion of the second hour, she outfits me with the rest of the materials needed for the gathering and escorts me out the door to close up shop. The evening sun shining upon the capital, I make my way through the streets back to the Inn and interrupt the Rubik’s Cube to conserve my energy. Clarabelle is loitering in front of the inn, her shoulders trembling.

“Ah… Sebastian, uhm… If-if you wouldn’t mind… I mean, if you please…”

“Back straight. Chin up.”

She stiffens unnaturally, confused.

“Try again.”

“I… I…”

“Louder. Tell me exactly what you want.”

She gulps. “I…” her voice catches in her throat at the warning in my glare. Squeezing her eyes shut, she crumples her skirt within whitened knuckles.

“TAKE ME WITH YOU.”

I award her a cool stare. The people in front of the inn startle at the noise, curious stares turning our way. I fold my arms. “Why?”

She startles. “I-I… it’s just… I… want to be like… you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Flinching back, she obscures her surprise beneath the brim of her hood. Working her hands like a scorned puppy, she flounders for an excuse that I’ll accept.

She should know by now. There is none.

“I just… I don’t… I… can’t… keep living like this,” she says, voice nearly inaudible. “In fear. Like… like me.”

Collapsing to her knees, Clarabelle sobs deeply. Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she flashes up the brim of her hat to fully accentuate the ugly contortion of her countenance. She still hasn’t answered my question, but I doubt she’ll be acknowledging that any time soon.

Obscuring her face again, she attempts to muffle her crying with the hat. I approach and kneel to her level, shoving a handkerchief in front of her nose through her hands.

“Blow.”

Confused, she hesitates.

“Blow.”

Screwing her eyes shut, she complies to the command. A faint blush of embarrassment blushes her cheeks.

“Recognizing your flaws and adapting to overcome them is an admirable feat.”

“Does… does that mean?”

I press the handkerchief into her fingers. “Talk to your brother. Meet me at the gates at sunrise.”

Her face lights up. Throwing her arms around me, she skips to her feet and bounds away, promising relentlessly that she’ll do whatever it takes to meet me in the morning. Entering the inn, I exchange my clothes for the uniform. Orren greets me warmly, listening as I inform her of my absence.

“Hunten done yer lover?”

“Not yet. This trip will help me prepare.”

She nods, hands me a plate, and wishes me luck. I slip between tables, refilling mugs and taking orders. One conversation pricks my attention:

“…and then the Hero demanded compensation from the village chief. You should’ve seen the look on his face.”

“Had a few too much to drink, eh?”

“I’m serious.”

“Tell the truth. You’re just trying to impress that new ass. Betchu don’t know where that Sword guy is headed next.”

“I do!” he whines, sloshing his ale. “Word is he’s returning to the capital. He’ll be cutting through Sommersen in about a day or two.”

“Guess we better hope they don’t need help too?”

“Worst lot of heroes we’ve seen in centuries! I have an elf buddy. Said he still recalls the last bunch.”

His friend snorts, draining the last of his own mug. “An elf? Now I know yer’re spinning a frog.”

The gossip laments his incorrigible friend as the two finish their night and retire. I clean down their table, focusing on the job even as I prick apart their conversation.

Somersen, huh? That’ll be interesting to see.