Narrator: Faurgar

  The November sun in Vellaris was quite the liar. It shone so brightly that the whiteness of the castle walls made your eyes ache, but it offered no more warmth than a polite epitaph. This light warmed nothing; it only highlighted the flaws: the dirt in the stone joints and the gray patches on the plaster, like a poorly blended wash of paint.

  The only thing real that day was the wind. A harsh, salt-crusted sea wind that numbed your cheeks in five minutes. It roamed the inner courtyard like it owned the place, tearing at the two flags atop the main tower. The old banner with the city’s saltire and the new one, bearing the black lizard of House Lazarius. The wind would either huddle them into one indistinguishable rag or rip them in opposite directions. Two different textures on a single canvas. For now, no one had decided which one to keep and which to scrape away with a palette knife.

  I watched this from the shadow of an archway. I watched as Alexander Trudius, our head of intelligence, stepped into the yard and cursed quietly, almost intimately. To an outsider, Trudius was the embodiment of state stability. But I saw the tension gathering in the corners of his eyes. King Vinidius Lazarius III had once again traded a war council for a tournament. Scorched sand in place of defense plans. In better times, this would be called laziness. Now, it smelled of catastrophe.

  The Black Wolf’s attacks on the northern borders had become too regular. And then there was the report from my scouts: an artifact linked to the name of Milather had surfaced in the Forbidden Lands. Too convenient a combination of colors. In our trade, we know: if the rumors sound too poetic, the truth is likely lurking nearby.

  Alexander crossed the courtyard with a swift stride. His gait always reminded me of the movement of a perfectly fitted mechanism. I followed him into the tower like a shadow—at the habitual distance. In his office, it smelled of cold stone and ink. Alexander closed his eyes for a moment. He was seeking clarity—not the kind one asks of gods, but the kind that allows one to see the world without the fog. Without that fog, there is always less blood on one's hands.

  I waited for him to deconstruct the world into its components. His logic was simple: if Erthrusia from the west finds the artifact first, there will be war. If Vellaris takes it for itself, there will also be war.

  "We must take it and give it to the masters of Phesia, to the east," he said, opening his eyes.

  It was a high-order calculation. Let the fanatics of Erthrusia and the mages of Phesia tear at each other over the Forbidden Lands in the north. And Vellaris… Vellaris will choose a side later, when it becomes clear which of the two is weaker. This thought brought Alexander that cold composure found in a draftsman applying the final decisive contour.

  I knocked on the door—briefly, without unnecessary ceremony.

  "Enter," he said.

  I stepped in. My step was silent simply because an extra sound is an extra detail I am not used to giving those around me. I am his best tool. The hand holding his dagger.

  "Are you sending me out of the city?" I asked evenly. For me, it was as obvious as the change in light before a storm.

  Alexander looked at me, and in his gaze, I saw everything he would never say aloud: anxiety and a ruthless readiness to sacrifice me for the sake of this game.

  "Not just you," Alexander nodded toward the window, beyond which the arena still hummed. "You will go with them. With Leonin and that warrior-woman. Priorin is the brute force; he will provide the breakthrough. Gellia is the discipline; she will hold the line. And you… you will be the brain of this 'blade.' Watch them. Especially the girl—her faith in justice might become our main problem when she realizes the picture we’re painting her into."

  I nodded. I could already feel this "function" beginning to take flesh. I only hoped that this blade wouldn't cut the hand of the one who decided to forge it.

  I like The Radiant Dragon for one simple quality: everything is piled together here, and no one makes a drama out of it. Nobles sit shoulder to shoulder with mercenaries, and expensive perfumes strangely complement the thick smell of stewed meat with herbs.

  The common room met me with a cozy twilight. The ceiling here is low, the massive oak beams long blackened by the hearth, absorbing the stories of thousands of patrons. I glanced up. There, just under the roof, nestled a narrow balcony with bookshelves. The sight of dusty spines, clearly planning to outlast this kingdom, had a calming effect on me. Like a correctly placed stroke of background paint.

  At the massive hearth, Elaine was in charge. She turned a goose on the spit with such concentration as if the rotation of the planet depended on it. Elaine gave me a short nod, and I replied with a barely perceptible gesture. We had long ago understood who did what in this city, and extra words would have been as misplaced as a pink bow on a battle axe.

  Priorin was already seated at the main table. He didn't just occupy a seat—he occupied the entire space around it. His mane and shoulders seemed too vast for this room. Leonin drank without getting drunk and stared straight ahead. It was the gaze of a predator in ambush.

  I stepped out of the shadow, letting the hearth light touch my face, and stopped opposite him. According to the dossier, this Leonin possessed hearing capable of catching a needle drop in a haystack, so playing hide-and-seek was a waste of time.

  "F," I introduced myself. "Special Consultant."

  Priorin smirked, revealing a fang the size of a good dagger. There was no fear in his eyes—only a merry curiosity.

  "Sit. Talk business. I’ll leave the empty chatter for the stands."

  I sat across from him. Looking at him, I felt a strange discord. As a professional, I saw a catastrophe in him: too young, too real. From a strategic standpoint, it was a glaring inefficiency. But as an artist... gods, I wanted to paint him. There was more life in him than could be found in all of Vellaris. He was "pure pigment," a man without masks, and that scared me most of all. Because deep down, I too wanted that freedom—to just be myself, not a tool in someone else’s hands. But I professionally strangled that feeling.

  "I’ve studied your path, Priorin," I began, lowering my voice. "I know you read tracks better than our cartographers read their charts. And I don’t intend to teach you how not to get lost in a forest. But the Forbidden Lands are also about people. And people are far more tangled creatures than any thicket. You’ll need someone who speaks the language of edicts and polite lies. You are the blade of this journey. I offer to be the oil that keeps that blade from rusting in our paper jungles."

  Priorin was silent for a long time, eyeing me through the aroma of the goose. Then he gave a short nod.

  "Fine, Consultant. I could use the oil. My claws handle parchment poorly."

  The Dragonborn came first.

  I noticed him even before he crossed the threshold—by the way the rhythm of footsteps changed in the street.Khet-Vun moved with that specific, almost provocative confidence found in beings used to being at the very center of the composition. When he entered, the light from the hearth joyfully jumped onto his plate armor, and I instinctively squinted. He was too bright a spot for our cozy gloom.

  His armor shone so intolerably it was as if he’d just left the workshop of the finest jeweler. Not a single speck of rust, not one honest battle scratch, not a drop of road dust. In The Radiant Dragon, where even the air is saturated with soot and grease, he looked like a porcelain figurine mistakenly placed on a battlefield.

  "Arrived at the call of duty," he proclaimed.

  Khet-Vun’s voice was such that the dishes on the shelves behind Elaine fell silent for a moment. In that sound rang brass and that absolute, impenetrable certainty in his own righteousness that usually ends in great bloodshed.

  "The goal—to cleanse the Forbidden Lands of corruption."

  Priorin didn't even look up from his mug. He sat propping his head with a paw, a lazy, beastly wisdom in his amber eyes. He looked at the Dragonborn as an old cat looks at an overly loud mechanical toy.

  "Saw you at the tournament," the Leonin tossed out, finally setting aside his beer. "Held your own. What, the team stage let you down?"

  Khet-Vun barely perceptibly tightened his jaw. The golden scales on his cheekbones glinted dully in the firelight.

  "The partner failed to maintain the set pace," he replied, and in his tone, I heard the dry rustle of an official report. "And the jury proved… excessively fastidious about details. In any case, victory is a question of the reliability of all links in the chain."

  I decided to enter the conversation. A "pathos check" is a mandatory procedure for those about to not take off their boots for a week.

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  "And how are you with discipline,Khet-Vun?" I asked, examining my reflection in his offensively clean pauldron. "Long marches knee-deep in mud, night shifts, dry orders that don’t allow for discussion by the campfire. Can you handle it? Or is the plate too heavy for such boring prose?"

  "I was raised for this," he parried calmly. "Not for solo heroics, but for service."

  Seeking the right to lead, I noted to myself. He was one of those who readily takes responsibility for the line, but not for himself. His mistakes were always neatly filed: the partner failed, the regulations failed, circumstances failed. A useful tool if sharpened correctly. But if reality stops fitting the manual, this shining link might be the first to snap.

  Next, Flint literally leaped into the hall.

  I’m not exaggerating—Hadozi simply don't know how to walk through doors like normal people. They must turn simple walking into an acrobatic feat to make the space around them sparkle with chaos. Young, with bright ginger fur and unnaturally long arms, he resembled a clump of kinetic energy more than a mercenary. Tattoos adorned his forearms—intricate patterns that decent citizens usually hide under sleeves to avoid scaring neighbors with tales of forbidden arts.

  Without a shred of hesitation, he flew right onto the edge of our heavy oak table and sat, carelessly swinging his legs in the air.Khet-Vun looked at him as if someone had dumped a bucket of live grasshoppers onto the tablecloth.

  "I hope no one intends to leave without the only weaver of threads in this room?" Flint grinned broadly. Too many teeth and even more audacity.

  The Dragonborn slightly shifted a massive shoulder. "Masters from Phesia rarely walk in step with honor," he remarked dryly, addressing the ceiling.

  "Fortunately for all of us, I don't walk," the Hadozi wasn't offended in the least. "I run. And usually exactly where everyone else is afraid to even look. Honor is wonderful until you need to start a fire in a downpour or get far away from an enraged troll in a fraction of a second."

  Priorin grunted. "A living torch will do," the Leonin rumbled. "Just watch you don't accidentally singe my beard. Sit. Tell us what you can do. And skip the songs; we’re not recording a ballad here."

  "Combat arsenal: steel cloud, telekinesis, shadow-stepping," Flint began quickly ticking off fingers. "Useful for camp: I create light, provide heat, can purify water so we don't rot in the first swamp. That’s more than enough for you to not just reach the goal, but return home with your limbs intact. I keep my word. Even if it’s the word of a mage."

  I watched him, making my notes. Silver-tongued and lightning-fast. A risky stroke on the canvas. Flint will clearly dive into the thick of it just to prove he should be taken seriously.

  Then came Zandruk.

  The door of The Radiant Dragon didn't just open—it slammed into the wall, letting in a gust of biting November air and the Orc. The grizzled veteran didn't waste time on polite pleasantries. He stomped in as if this room were his personal training ground. Zandruk assessed the situation with one short, heavy glance. His voice thundered under the vaults:

  "For such a job, I won't touch it for less than six hundred!"

  Priorin didn't even flinch. "Three hundred announced," the Leonin replied calmly. "Vellaris pays for results, not decibels."

  "I fight for gold, not for pretty ballads and silk flags," Zandruk snapped, leaning over the table. "Six hundred. And top-tier rations. I’m too old to sell my fangs on the cheap."

  "In the Forbidden Lands, the true price is discipline,"Khet-Vun intoned.

  Zandruk snorted. "I’ll make it," he rumbled. "I know how to follow orders; not my first war in the saddle. But I discuss the price on the shore while my boots are dry."

  Priorin leaned forward. "Can you handle night marches without fires? Two-hour shifts. Absolute silence. No questions, no whining about old wounds. Can you endure?"

  "I can," the Orc grinned broadly. "And I’ll carry those who can't on my back. But I'm warning you now: there’s a surcharge for body recovery."

  Haggling right from the threshold. Testing boundaries, I noted. Zandruk was a thick stroke of paint that didn't blend with the others. He saw the squad not as living people, but as "ancillary cargo." Useful? Definitely. But he wouldn't become part of the framework. He would be beside, but not with.

  "Sit," Priorin waved a hand. "Six hundred… Trudius will probably choke on his breakfast, but we need those who know how to pull others out of pits, not just fall into them beautifully."

  We were still missing the "line" Trudius had spoken of. And I knew it was close.

  The door of The Radiant Dragon shuddered—Khet-Vun and a young half-elf priestess named Irva, who had just arrived and immediately started arguing with the Dragonborn about 'divine grace' vs 'martial order', were both kicked out by Priorin for their bickering. "In my squad, it's too cramped for two truths," the Leonin had growled.

  Then, she entered.

  Anakiss didn't walk—she flowed.

  Skin the color of a moonless night, eyes like two glowing embers. She seeped into the hall completely silently, becoming part of the shadows dancing on the walls. As an artist, I always knew that Anakiss was the most complex stroke on the canvas.

  She appeared at our table so suddenly it was as if she had always been sitting there. Her fingers performed the impossible. While Priorin was watching the door, the pouch of gold at his belt vanished. A moment later, it lay in the center of the table.

  "A demonstration of skill," she said. Her voice was dry, with a faint rasp.

  Priorin bared his teeth. "Bold. I don't like games."

  Anakiss didn't answer him. She looked only at me.

  In her eyes was something that made my internal "instrument" fail for a moment. We had grown up together in the alleys. She had come here for me, showing her talents were still worth being by my side. But for my current "function," Anakiss was noise. A dangerous connection to the past.

  "Leave," I said.

  Quietly. More cold than the November sea. It wasn't an order; it was a sentence I passed on myself.

  Anakiss didn't move. I saw her shoulders stiffen. My refusal hit her harder than a dagger. She was being rejected as defective material. She turned in silence. In the light by the door, something glinted on her cheek. Maybe rain. Maybe the truth I forbade myself from acknowledging.

  "What was that?" Flint asked.

  "A ghost," I replied. "Move on. We still lack our warrior."

  A few minutes later, she appeared.

  Gellia Servatius. If Priorin was a natural disaster, she was a monument to grim necessity. High, lean, she seemed held together by some vast internal effort, like a string tuned to too high a note. Her gray eyes reminded me of the winter sky over Vellaris—clear, cold, and utterly indifferent.

  She wore heavy plate, polished to that matte sheen that distinguishes working steel from fairground gold. A massive greatsword—the priestess's gift—was strapped to her back.

  Priorin jumped up as if struck by a current. All his lazy grace vanished.

  "Gellia!" he roared.

  The Leonin stepped toward her and embraced her—fast, strong, soldier-like. The steel of her breastplate clanked against his chest. It was the embrace of two people who yesterday were trying to gut each other, and today realized they were the only ones who spoke the same language.

  "Alive—that's a feast already," Priorin said. "You're coming with us. No arguments. I’ve decided."

  Gellia only slightly bowed her head. But I saw the mask. She wasn't rejoicing. To her, this "you're coming with us" sounded like a sentence. She had lost the tournament, lost the right to the Key, and now stood here as an "added element."

  "As you command, Commander," she replied calmly.

  There was no life in her voice—only the dry discipline of Erthrusia.

  Priorin sat back down and slammed his hand on the map.

  "Listen," he said, his voice like a bell. "In the line: Me. Gellia. Flint. Faurgar—our consultant and ears."

  He looked at the Orc. "Zandruk, we won't be needing you."

  The Orc stood slowly. "Well, well," he rasped. "We’ll see how you sing in the Forbidden Lands. You’ll come running back. And then I’ll ask for a thousand gold." He spat on the floor and walked out.

  Priorin nodded to himself. He looked as if he had just scraped everything unnecessary from an ideal canvas.

  "So," he slapped the map. "This is our squad. Our ticket north. If we get what we seek, my Pride will finally get help. I will return not just as a son, but as a savior!"

  I watched him. This boy was spending three times more energy on gestures and pathos than required. For him, we were tools to reach his "Pride." My pulse quickened. This pup barely understood the scale of the threat, but his faith was so dense it made me stop feeling like just a "Function" for a moment.

  "Will there be gold, kid?" Flint croaked.

  Gellia didn't look at the map. She was counting us. One. Two. Three. Four.

  "Four," Gellia said, cold as Vellaris stone. "We aren't a squad. We are the walking dead."

  Priorin leaned over the table. "Walking dead," he repeated, tasting the word. "A good word, Gellia. Honest. In the Forbidden Lands, others don't survive."

  He looked at Flint. "Flint. Get off the table. This isn't a shop in Phesia."

  The Hadozi froze, caught the Leonin’s gaze, and slid onto a chair. Priorin dropped a heavy pouch of gold before the mage.

  "Gold there will be. Here is your advance. I need a weaver who doesn't waste breath on chatter."

  Then he turned to me. His amber eyes were like burning gold. "And you, Consultant. Stop measuring me for a coffin. I know I look like a mistake in your papers. But papers don't walk the trails. If you seek a 'function' in me, here it is: I am the one who gets you to the goal. And I am the one who brings you back. Even if I have to carry you on my back one by one."

  He looked back at Gellia. "Four is too few for a parade. But for a dagger meant to go under the Wolf’s ribs, we are just enough. A fifth would only get in the way. Either you trust my gut, or follow the Orc."

  Gellia was silent for a long time. Finally, she nodded. "Fine, Commander."

  Priorin straightened. The pathos vanished, replaced by a heavy simplicity.

  "The squad is formed," he said. "The task is set. Trudius can watch from above all he wants, but this is our business now."

  I recorded this moment. Power becoming a vector. The Leonin hadn't just hired us; he had bound us with his will.

  "Well," I broke the silence. "If we leave at dawn, I suggest we eat that goose. I suspect in the Forbidden Lands, they’ll offer us roots and raw water more often than Elaine’s kitchen."

  Priorin took the knife and drove it into the meat.

  "Eat," he commanded. "Tomorrow we will need our strength. All four of us."

  I looked up at the gallery. Alexander Trudius was still there. He wasn't smiling, but I could have sworn he was satisfied. His "instrument" had found not only a blade but a will. And that meant the game would be far more interesting than planned.

  Author's Note:

  The die is cast. The squad is formed—not of heroes, but of survivors. We have the cynical artist Faurgar, the stoic paladin Gellia, the chaotic weaver Flint, and the lion who would be king, Priorin. They are four broken pieces of a larger puzzle, heading into the heart of the Forbidden Lands. Can a group built on desperation and secret contracts survive the shadow of the Black Wolf? Stay tuned for Chapter 3! If you're a D&D fan, check out my Patreon for the full stat-blocks of this 'misfit' party!

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