The gatekeeper startles in surprise, flicking his gaze straight to the retreating back of the Hero of Might.

“Don’t worry about him; you’re dealing with me,” I say, drawing his attention back. “Bryant and his crew fought something in your village; I can smell it. What did he fight and where did he leave the mess?”

The gatekeeper sighs. “Ask the Pharmacist; they were his fields.”

“See? That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

I hand the man some credence and set off into the village. Clarabelle is waiting in front of the door of one of the homes, fidgeting and uncomfortable. Upon seeing me, she perks up.

“Here is the money,” she says, handing me several crede. I count it out; exactly one Cretia.

“Did they kick you out after the payment?”

She shakes her head, then glances back guiltily at the door.

“Speak.”

“They offered me tea, but it was so uncomfortable… Their eyes… they weren’t smiling.”

I give Clarabelle half of the coins. “Your payment. I need you to find someone for me; the pharmacist. Can I trust you with this?”

She nods.

“Good. Once you find him, tell him that we would like to look over his fields and help him take care of the mess that Bryant left behind. Send up a flare once he shows it to you.”

“Okay.”

“If he shows discomfort, remind him that you are working with Ingenuity and that we have the authority to handle the mess.”

She nods again and scurries off. I unstring the money pouch, trade the crede for a Cretia, and rap my knuckles on the wood of the door. It opens slowly.

“May I come in?”

Her gaze flicks to the coin, then to the ground. Opening the door, the lady gives space for me to enter the tiny home. Sevan is squeezed onto a chair at the table, sipping from a cup. He welcomes me with a nod of his head.

“Thank you for escorting me.”

I wait for the door to close, then brandish them in my fingers. “Whose exactly is this?”

The two owners of the house startle.

“That is your payment per our agreement.”

“From whose wallet?”

The madam of the house flits back and forth between us, but raises her hand a fraction. Desperate for the Cretia, but fearful of retaliation. I harden my glare on Sevan.

He squirms.

“Never offer something you can't afford yourself. These strangers are not accountable for your problems.” I hand the wife the coin, then reach into my pouch and lay two more credence atop her palm. One for the tea. One for being bullied by politics. “It must have been difficult for you when the princess demanded your cooperation in this matter.”

“N–not at all. It’s an honour…”

I offer them a soft smile. She shuts up, then nods once.

I return my focus to Sevan. “You will supply the payment for the services yourself. But the price just raised. Don’t even consider trying to weasel your way out of it.”

Stepping outside, I catch Clarabelle’s flare just beyond the village and head over.

“I was going to get a group together when I noticed the mess this morning,” the pharmacist explains, breathing through his mouth. “That’s when this lady came knocking on my door.”

Kneeling down to inspect the carcass, I take mark of the materials sloppily harvested. Both eyes and tusks. Hide. The meat and organs have been left to spoil, and he hasn’t even touched the bones. From the unpleasant odour, it is clear that Bryant killed the monster either the previous afternoon or morning.

“Set up a perimeter.”

Clarabelle nods and dashes off at once. It’s a surprise the scent hasn’t attracted any pests yet. Monsters tend to rot quickly, marking their expiration no later than approximately forty-seven hours past death. Given the heft of the Tearrorbol, every scavenger in the area should have leapt at the opportunity for a bite.

My attention switches to the pharmacist.

“When did the monster first appear?”

He pauses to think for a moment. “About a week ago, I believe. So many of my medicinal herbs have been ruined, I’ll be short for at least eight of my prescriptions the next while.”

“And where does this kind usually roam?”

“The Tearrerbols? About eight bells to the northwest. They dwell within a cave in the hillside. Hardly ever graze this way.”

Drumming my fingers against my thigh in mild irritation, I consider my next course of action. No choice; I’ll have to alert them of the change in plans.

“Thank you for your time. Mind if I keep the parts?”

“Long as this,” he gestures to the corpse and blood, “is out of my fields, do whatever you want.”

“Thank you.”

He retreats down the path, shaking his head and muttering to himself about the various herbs he’ll have to source to cover the loss of ingredients.

Stretching, I take a slip of paper and some scende. Sketching a quick note, I deposit them into the pouch. A slip of paper tumbles out almost immediately, the incantation written on one side with the runes on the reverse. I test it out, then skin the meat from the monster and lay the pieces over a cloth.

Clarabelle returns to me, a thin bead of sweat dripping down the line of her jaw. I pass the meat to her and instruct her to get cooking.

Returning to the disassembling, it doesn’t take long before I have sorted everything into their respective piles. Sending the organs to Karmel via the pouch, I cross my legs and meditate. Threading the magic carefully, I feel for the connection to weave together.

A light rap against a board, and suddenly an influx of thoughts swirl into my head. It takes a moment to anchor myself against the white noise, but once I do, an immediate pathway of thought becomes apparent.

Who’s here?

I smile at the deadpan of his tone. As though he is wholly accustomed to random strangers invading his thoughts.

I have two matters of topic to discuss with you.

He’s contemplative a moment.

Sebastian?

I can imagine him folding his arms over each other, stern expression etched into his face.

What is it?

Are Tearrorbol bones craftable for weapons?

You acquired some?

How much?

He coughs in the manner of a person regaining his composure. The change in attitude is refreshing. Depends on the quality. Could offer up to eighty scende. Don’t happen to have the eyes too, do you?

No. An idiot claimed that already.

Common to monsters which dwell in caves or dark ruins, Tearrorbols are notorious for their crystal eyes. As a monster of about lower-medium threat, it is often hunted for the purposes of crafting runic gems. Legally, only about a hundred can be culled per year, barring immediate threat to villages or towns, and must be strictly reported for official record. As a person with the standing of Hero, Bryant is just barely excused for his negligence on the matter, but anyone else to take on the task without an official hunting license would be automatically targeted by the Crown.

You’re going to re-negotiate the agreement, aren’t you?

I can have the entirety of your list and the Tearrerbol bones on your doorstep in ten minutes.

I’m listening.

You accept the Tearrerbol bones as the downpayment to begin crafting the armour. Three will be set aside as throwing daggers for myself. Sheaths included. Price set to ten scende a knife; paid on my return.

I pause his immediate rebuke, then continue.

In return, you can send me the list with the rest of the materials you need. That noble’s son wasn’t the only commission you are coming due on.

That puts me at a deficit.

It puts your wares at fair price.

He sighs. Being an earth-bound monster, the Tearrerbol is a material that sells at premium. And with the legal limit on its species so low, any material of the Tearrerbol put on market spikes well above the on-hand cash of a humble shop like his. While the entire monster can be harvested and utilized for various purposes, the bones and hide in particular are a mouth-watering opportunity to any self-respecting weapons smith.

Fine. I accept the conditions.

Perfect. I’ll include some paper in the first delivery and instructions. Draft the new agreement and I will follow through on my end.

He grumbles to himself about cheapskate customers and special pest repellent. I retreat from his thoughts, wave away a bout of dizziness, and put together the materials from his list on a white cloth.

Clarabelle signals that the meat is finished cooking. I signal my usual stalker.

“Want some?”

Ivans materializes into existence next to Clarabelle and inhales a long, deep sniff. “You learned a new spell,” he awards appreciatively, taking one of the skewers from her and biting into it.

“How is it?”

“Good. What’s the price?”

“A small delivery. One per morsel.”

He eyes the meat rotating over Clarabelle’s spell, a line of drool seeping from the corner of his lips. Wiping it away with his sleeve, he draws his wand. Silver grip.

“This stuff, right? Where to.”

I show him a sketch of the capital. “Remember this place?”

He takes the bundle and a second skewer and vanishes immediately. Returning ten minutes later with the paperwork, he passes it to me to read and munches into his third serving of the meat.

I read through the paperwork, add my signature where indicated, duplicate the contract, and send Ivans back to Elleven’s with the rest of the promised materials. On his return, I brandish a bag of cookies and two letters for one final favour.

“And dinner?”

“And dinner,” I agree. “I’ll buy the ingredients too, though I will need to borrow your kitchen.”

He pounces on the cookies with delight, vanishing at once to deliver the first envelope to His Majesty. I look at Clarabelle, who quietly nibbles on the last skewer of meat. Her complexion is pale, a sticky sweat coating her skin.

“I said ‘set up a perimeter’. Not ‘cast a barrier’.”

She dispells it at once, a sheepish blush emerging on her cheeks. I stand up and ruffle her hair, then flick her a couple of Credence for the inn.

“Go get some rest. I’ll need you here for the time being.”

She wanders off.

How’s Clairie?

Sweet, overprotective brother. She’ll be resting at the inn here in Sommersen shortly. Plans have changed; I could use your help.

His main thread is silent for a moment, but other thoughts swirl in and out. My automatic reassurance is stifled before forming.

You’re sending me Jo, aren’t you?

I’ll reimburse you for his meal.

Does the king know?

He will, soon.

A long, pensive sigh. Take care of yourself. I will come find you if you’re too long.

He ends the connection first. I wobble a bit, then lay down on the grass and stare at the sky.

Bryant is one matter, but the behaviour of the other two are also suspect. Since the entrance of all of us into this world, not a single one of this kingdom’s inhabitants have bothered to impart any lessons on matters of common sense. Carlile is the closest I’ve seen, but it’s more of the motherly ‘you should know this by now’ instead of the patient school teacher.

Sarah. I miss her. Bad.

I cannot afford to break my promise to her.

A sparrow has talons. A human has their hands. It’s past time I put mine to use.

Thirty-six spellcasters. One spell. Then I better make it damn worth their time.

Stretching a hand to the sky, I loop my wrist in a circle. The magic in my body awakens in my fingertips. Courses throughout my body with an energizing hum of anticipation. I calculate the distance, stabilize the energy, and weave it into form. I confine it in place. One heartbeat. Two heartbeat. Three.

Parting my lips, I release the spell with a single word: 

“Migrate.”

The magic pounces. And I begin to fall.

A faint sheen of the barrier catches the sunlight over the capital city and scatters it across the dome. To its South, a variety of patches of fields and farms. To its North, the expansive girth of the forest stretching East a slight distance and West past both Sommersen and the next three towns.

I angle my body towards the forest, flitting over the rapidly sharpening features while the pharmacists’ words narrow my focus. Between Sommersen and the next town, a good double the distance still, the forest yields a handful of trees to a slope and divides the rest of itself for the river which carves a path through. A thin road skirts the reach of all, connected to a simple bridge with a smattering of flowers and rails at its closest edge.

Found it.

The magic weaves into form just as my foot connects. Brace, redirect, jump. And repeat. Last one. Wait… wait… now.

Flipping over, I spring from the final platform and unclip the rope from my belt. Affixing a knife to it, I trail it along behind me, scanning for the perfect brace. The ground rapidly approaches. 

That’ll do.

Snaking the rope through the treeline, it catches a thick branch and loops into a knot. I palm a vial into my hand and smash it to the soil. Ricocheting off the burst of wind, I clutch the rope around my wrist and tug hard on the branch. Release. I roll to a stop a scant millimetre from the thick trunk of a deciduous, my chest burning with exhilaration. Falling to my ass, I wait for my swaying vision and mild wave of nausea to settle.

Damn have I missed that feeling. The bubbling, giddy anticipation, the razor-sharp awareness, the weight of a single decision that teeters in the span of less than a heartbeat.

Exchanged for the venture of corporate domination and a quasi normal life.

Starfall is a temporary measure, not a fix. An entire industry relies on me. Sarah needs me. And I’m not there.

Thirty-six spellcasters.

I will make it work.

Following the abandoned rope to its anchor, I scale the tree and assess the damage up close. A bit of scarring and a nasty gash. Another inch and the whole branch would have snapped. I nudge the knots from the rope and extricate it from the tree, evening colouring the sky. Pocketing my dagger and leaping to a higher branch, I squint against the light and shield my eyes.

Bridge, road, hill. Overshot by approximately three hours’ walking pace.

Settling against the trunk, I pluck a couple of vials from my belt and raise them to the fading light. Popping the cork on the lighter of the fluids, I wave it beneath my nose. Currenberries. Dabbing a drop on each wrist, I sprinkle the rest in a circumference around the tree. A rustling of leaves and branches from the surrounding trees, then return to calm.

That will deter the more curious ones.

Warning: Item Reaching Critical Capacity.

Perhaps I can find a mount. This world has dragons, right? There has to be something that can substitute a plane.

I close my eyes to meditate, feeling for the draw of magic. It pulses from the capital – too far to reach in time.

Shifting the pouch over my lap, I produce a stack of paper and thumb through it. Producing the runic circle, I stab it into the trunk. Golden threads shimmer from the runes and weave into a thin mesh that settles over my body. I wiggle my fingers, flipping my hand as they blend into the fabric covering them.

Extra protection for the rest.

Leaning my head back against the trunk, I feel the fatigue dragging my limbs. Arranging myself best as I can, I allow myself to be overcome.