Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  Kharg rose with the first rays of the sun already filtering through the narrow window. The soft chirping of birds and the distant clatter of early risers setting about their routines mingled in the air. After his daily morning routine, with ample use of cleansing spells, he stepped outside to locate an errand boy. It didn’t take long to find one, a gangly youth with tousled hair, clutching a basket of bread.

  “Here,” Kharg said, flipping two shiny pennies into the boy’s outstretched palm. The lad’s eyes widened at the overpayment as Kharg instructed, “Take a message to Ivar and tell him to meet me here at the Adventurers’ Guild as soon as possible. His house is in the northwestern parts of the Merchants’ District.” He rattled off the address and a few directions, and the boy nodded eagerly before darting off with a spring in his step.

  Kharg’s stomach grumbled, a not-so-subtle encouragement to seek out the guild’s dining hall, which he found already bustling with activity. Tables were laden with simple but hearty fare, loaves of bread, wedges of cheese, eggs, and thick slices of cured meat. He heaped his plate and took a seat at an unoccupied table. Around him, adventurers clustered in tight-knit groups or sat in solitary contemplation. Kharg glanced at them briefly but kept to himself, savoring the meal.

  With time to spare before Ivar’s arrival, Kharg wandered over to the practice yard. The clang of wood on wood and sharp grunts of exertion drew his attention to a furious bout between two men. Both were middle-aged but impressively fit, their bare chests slick with sweat in the morning light. The older one was a grizzled fighter with a shaved head and a lattice of scars across his arms. His gaze was sharp, tracking every motion of his opponent, a lean, wiry man with close-cropped auburn hair and a feline grace.

  Their wooden swords moved fast, striking with sharp precision and bone-jarring force. Each blow was met with a parry that sounded like a whiplash, only to be answered by a quick counter. The two men circled each other, light on their feet, weaving in and out of reach to find an advantage. A handful of younger recruits watched in silent awe, too intimidated to comment. Kharg observed the intensity of their combat and recognized a level of skill far beyond anything he had ever seen. And they were not only skilled in bladework, their viper-fast evasions spoke volumes as well. Most warriors Kharg had seen before relied on heavy armor to protect them when they were unable to parry, but these two were as agile as any acrobat he had ever seen.

  Later he would learn that the older fighter was named Drok, one of the Guild’s most renowned swordsmen. But for now, he watched silently, captivated by the mastery on display, until one of the gate guards approached and interrupted his thoughts.

  “Kharg,” the guard called, his tone formal, “your friend has arrived.”

  Kharg offered a silent smile of gratitude and made his way back to the front of the Guild. Ivar was waiting, dressed in a neatly tailored green jacket with golden buttons. He looked both relieved and determined when he caught sight of Kharg and they set off for the Food Market district.

  * * *

  Kharg and Ivar stepped into the Food Market District and were met by a crush of voices, clattering carts, and the sharp cry of vendors hawking their wares. Banners of dyed cloth hung from awnings, and the air reeked of smoked fish, spices, and fruit left too long in the sun. Children darted between stalls while old women haggled over onions with the same fury as if bartering gold.

  The narrow, winding streets were filled with a mixture of shops, market stalls, and apartment buildings. Merchants and hawkers tried to outdo each other with hoarse voices overlapping in an unending chorus of salesmanship. “Fresh apples, ripe and sweet!” bellowed a farmer standing behind a cart stacked high with polished fruit. A butcher nearby brandished a cleaver as he proclaimed the quality of his cuts to a skeptical buyer, apron streaked with crimson. The air was thick with the mingling scents of fresh produce, ripe cheese, raw meat, and the acrid undertones of animal droppings. Sometimes they passed through passages where the stench of rot, of spoiled vegetables and discarded scraps, overwhelmed the other scents and nearly made them gag.

  The district’s residents added to the tapestry of activity. Livery-clad servants darted between stalls with baskets balanced on their hips as they negotiated with merchants on behalf of their masters. Their crisp uniforms marked them as representatives of the city’s elite, their presence contrasting starkly with the grittier denizens of the district. Pickpockets weaved through the throng with hands flickering like shadows toward unguarded purses. Kharg was always alert for that kind of behavior and had formed a habit of always walking with a wary hand on his money pouch and a sharp eye on the crowd.

  In darker alleys that branched off from the main thoroughfare they saw scrawny dogs sniffing at the ground with twitching noses in search for scraps.

  “I can swear to it,” Kharg muttered to Ivar, “I’ve seen more rats here in this brief walk than I have seen during all of our excursions to the Revelry District.”

  “What did you expect?” Ivar chuckled and flashed Kharg a wry grin. “There are more food scraps here than anywhere else.” A burly guard forced him to weave aside before he continued “The only place they might be more plentiful would be the sewers.”

  They passed some occasional patrols of city guards, clad in chainmail and armed with spears. Their presence served as a deterrent to overt criminality but no match for the undercurrent of petty theft and mischief.

  Among the bustling throng were well-dressed men and women in elegant clothing that, while seldom ostentatious, still spoke of wealth and privilege. They moved with an air of cautious curiosity, clearly here to “experience” the market, their eyes darting from stall to stall as they absorbed the sights and smells with a mixture of fascination and discomfort.

  Kharg led the way through the throng. He had a fair sense of the direction to the place that Caspian was being held, but had to focus so he was not turned around by twisting streets and occasional dead-ends. His wide-brimmed hat shaded his face from the harsh sunlight, but beads of sweat began to form at his brow as the crowd pressed around him. He resisted the urge to wipe it away, relying instead on a discreet cleansing spell to refresh himself and added a brief protection versus heat. The spells left him feeling cool and pristine, though the effort required periodic re-casting as the oppressive atmosphere of the district bore down on him.

  The nature of the district shifted as they ventured deeper into it. The bustling market stalls gave way to shops that specialized in refining and selling the produce brought in by the farmers. Butter- and cheese mongers displayed their wares on wooden boards, the creamy yellow of fresh butter contrasting with the mottled textures of aged cheese. Flour merchants measured grain with experienced hands, while fishmongers flaunted glistening trout and writhing eels as proof of their freshness. One even had a barrel of water filled with large crabs, displaying one of them by deftly holding it by the rear edge of its shell so the snapping claws couldn’t reach him.

  Interspersed among these establishments were residential buildings, their architecture was a mix of practicality and charm. Many of the smaller homes had tidy facades adorned with flower boxes or freshly painted shutters, while the larger apartment blocks showed signs of wear but exuded a sense of liveliness. Laundry fluttered on lines strung across narrow alleys, and voices, arguments, laughter, and the wail of children echoed from open windows.

  The walk, certainly less than a mile, felt far longer as the pair navigated the dense crowds and meandering streets. Every twist and turn brought a new challenge, whether it was an overloaded cart, a flock of geese guided by a boy, or a burst of laughter from a juggling performance. Kharg found himself frequently muttering under his breath, his patience tested by the constant jostling and noise.

  They needed more time than expected to reach the Meat Market, an elongated square that pulsed with life and energy. The air was a chaotic medley of smells, raw earth, livestock musk, and the metallic tang of freshly butchered meat mingled with the occasional sharpness of hay. Merchants called out their wares with gusto, their voices rising above the din of the market. Wooden cages lined the pathways, stuffed with clucking chickens and flapping geese. Pens held restless pigs snorting and grunting in their confines, while lambs and goats bleated plaintively. Buyers crowded around the enclosures, pointing, gesturing, and arguing over prices that rose and fell with the mood of the sellers.

  The square’s periphery was lined with butcher shops, their windows offering a carnivorous feast for the eyes. Strings of sausages hung in orderly rows, flanked by glistening cuts of beef and slabs of ham cured to a perfect crimson hue. Knives and cleavers flashed in the hands of expert butchers, their rhythmic chopping adding to the cacophony of the market. Lingering trails of smoke from nearby cooking fires carried the aroma of roasting meat, tantalizing and rich.

  Kharg navigated the chaos with purpose, leading Ivar through the bustling square. Rats scurried through the butcher stalls’ shadows, scavenging scraps, while scruffy street dogs lingered at the edges, watching the market with hungry eyes. A city guard patrol passed nearby, their chainmail jangling softly as they kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.

  “This way,” Kharg muttered, his voice barely audible above the din. He pushed forward with confidence, guided by what he recalled of the direction and distance he had sensed when he reached out the night before.

  The Meat Market eventually gave way to another residential area, and they left the cacophony behind—which felt like a relief. Narrow cobblestone lanes lined with modest homes stretched ahead, some adorned with flower boxes, others bearing the marks of neglect. Laundry lines sagged between balconies, heavy with freshly washed clothes that fluttered in the breeze. The smells here were gentler, bread baking, flowers blooming, and the occasional whiff of animals, but the air still carried traces of the market they had just left. They still had to avoid animal droppings and other unsavory things, but at least the rats were far less frequent here.

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  As they moved deeper into the residential quarter, Kharg’s sharp eyes caught sight of a small wooden sign hanging from an iron bracket. It swung gently in the breeze, the simple lettering spelling out “Arild’s Bed and Breakfast.” The building itself was unassuming, a small two-story house with whitewashed walls and a sloping roof of terracotta tiles. Flower boxes overflowed with bright, cheerful blooms, giving the place a homely, welcoming charm.

  “This looks suitable,” Kharg said, adjusting his hat as he headed over. Ivar followed, his brow raised skeptically, but saying nothing as they entered.

  The interior was as quaint as the exterior suggested. The mild scent of lavender hung in the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread. The wooden floors creaked underfoot, polished to a gentle sheen but still bearing the marks of decades of use. Behind a small desk stood Arild, a wiry, middle-aged man with thinning hair and a sharp nose. He was busy thumbing through a ledger when the sound of the door closing made him look up.

  At the sight of Fafne on Kharg’s shoulder, Arild jumped, his mouth opening in a startled squeak. “By the gods!” he exclaimed, stumbling back a step. “Is that... is that a dragon?”

  Fafne flared his silvery wings slightly and let out a soft, amused trill. Kharg raised a placating hand. “A faerie dragon,” he corrected gently. “Perfectly harmless, I assure you.”

  Arild stared for a moment longer before nodding, though his eyes remained fixed warily on Fafne. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice still tinged with hesitation.

  “We’d like to rent a room for the day,” Kharg said, placing a few coins on the counter. Before he could add anything, Arild’s eyes flicked between him and Ivar, and his expression shifted to one of understanding, or so he thought. A knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Ah,” Arild said, his tone conspiratorial. “Say no more, say no more.” He winked, his smirk growing. “Young love, eh? Say, I’ve got just the room for you, quiet, cozy, away from prying eyes.”

  Kharg blinked, heat rising to his face as the meaning dawned on him. “No! That’s not…” He stammered, his words tumbling over each other as he tried to refute the assumption. “We’re not … we’re here for... work! Yes, work! It’s not what you think!”

  Ivar, meanwhile, burst out laughing, slapping his knee in delight. “Oh, Kharg, you really walked into that one,” he said between guffaws. “You should’ve seen your face!”

  Kharg shot him a withering look, which only made Ivar laugh harder. Flustered, he turned back to Arild, who looked mildly amused but said nothing further. “Just a room,” Kharg said firmly, sliding a few more coins across the counter in an attempt to regain control of the situation.

  “Ten pennies,” Arild said, taking the coins with a shrug and producing a small iron key. “Upstairs, second door on the left. Just... try to keep it down, eh?”

  Kharg muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he snatched the key and stalked toward the stairs, his face still warm with embarrassment. Ivar followed, still chuckling to himself as they climbed to the second floor.

  As they reached the landing, Ivar nudged Kharg with a sly grin. “You really walked right into that one,” Ivar said with a grin. “That innkeeper seemed convinced we two are young lovers. ‘Young love, eh? Just the room for you!’ Honestly, I didn’t know you sent out those kind of signals.”

  Kharg flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was just a misunderstanding. Nothing more.”

  Ivar’s eyes twinkled as they stepped into the room. “But I have to say, most of the girls around here do seem to fawn over you. I’ve noticed it, those glances and the whispered gossip. You’ve got quite the fan club.”

  Kharg raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Really? I hadn’t noticed any of that.”

  Ivar nudged him lightly. “You’re too focused on your spells to see half the things going on around you.”

  Kharg shook his head with a small smile, amused and a little bewildered. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

  Ivar laughed. “Well, if you want me to put in a good word for you, I’m your man. Just say the word.”

  Kharg chuckled, feeling the tension ease. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Ivar glanced at the ritual setup. “Enough teasing. We’ve got work to do.”

  The room was small and sparsely furnished, with only a neatly made bed and a wooden chest. The window let in a soft stream of sunlight, illuminating the room. They put their satchels on the bed and got to work at once. Kharg retrieved his chalk and knotted string, then pushed the bed aside to clear a modest space for the protective circle. Ivar quickly set up the bowls and candles, placing them in their alternating pattern around the perimeter. Within minutes, the room was transformed into a ritual site.

  Kharg glanced at Ivar, his expression calm but determined. “This time, I’ll try something different,” he said. “The locator spell has helped narrow things down, but it’s not enough. I need to get a better understanding of the situation. I’m going to leave the circle and explore the area where Caspian is kept.”

  Ivar gave him a long concerned look. “Is that safe? I thought you said this dreamworld was dangerous.”

  Kharg acknowledged with a brief motion, recognizing the risks. “It is, but I’ll be careful. I’ll weave protections before I leave, and I won’t stray far. It’s the only way to gather more information.”

  Ivar hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod, stepping back to give Kharg the space he needed. “Just... don’t take unnecessary risks.”

  Kharg knelt at the center of the protective circle and closed his eyes, letting his breathing slow as he focused inward. The swirling mists embraced him once more, enveloping his senses. The transition was smooth, the physical room around him fading into a distant echo as he anchored himself in the spirit realm.

  Kharg called upon his Spiritism to form a Spirit Ward and felt its protective energies wrap around his essence like an invisible cloak. Recalling the malignant spirit from before, he put some extra effort into strengthening the Spirit Barrier to the best of his ability. When he was satisfied with his preparations, he extended the tendrils of the locator spell once more, questing for the resonance of the Spirit Mark on Caspian. The response came fast. It was much closer than Kharg had anticipated, barely a hundred yards away. The lack of physical barriers in the dreamworld allowed the spell to flow freely, unimpeded by walls or doors, though its precision remained imperfect. Still, the pull was strong, drawing Kharg toward its source.

  He cautiously stepped out of the circle, barely feeling the resistance of the barrier before he passed through it. Outside the protective boundary it was hazier, the shadows deeper and the edges of shapes less defined. The presence of lingering spirits brushed against his awareness, weak, harmless echoes of those who had died but failed to move on. These spectral remnants clung to the places where they had perished, their life-force dissipating gradually over decades until they faded away completely, or so he had been told by Hrafun.

  Kharg moved carefully, still bound by his preconceptions of the physical world as he left the house and ventured into the streets. The dreamworld echoed the layout of the prime plane, but its details were distorted, with shapes and textures blurring and shifting like images on the surface of a rippling pond.

  He followed the pull of the spell, navigating through a small block of residential quarters. The layout formed an almost enclosed inner yard, accessible only by two narrow passages that connected it to the bustling streets of the city beyond. The yard itself was sizable, with another cluster of smaller buildings at its center, forming a kind of inner block within the larger one. The spell drew him toward the central cluster of structures. The resonance became stronger as he approached a two-story building that loomed quietly in the mists. Kharg paused, his senses alert as he studied the structure, the echo of Caspian’s presence pulsing within its shadowy outline.

  Kharg steadied himself, the pull of the locator spell growing stronger as he passed through the ethereal door into the building’s shadowed interior. The spirit realm warped the space into ghostly echoes, but the outlines of a small lobby remained discernible. The sense of Caspian’s presence pulsed with renewed intensity, guiding Kharg forward.

  Through a doorway, he entered a kitchen and dining area combined into one room. The spectral remains of a wooden table and mismatched chairs filled the space, their blurred forms bathed in the pale glow of dreamlight. Pots and utensils hung like hollow echoes on the walls, there one moment and gone the next, only to be back again when next he looked. The spell urged him on, drawing him toward another doorway at the room’s far end.

  Kharg pushed through the next door and found himself at the top of a narrow staircase. The steep stairs led downward into a dark, confined basement. Moving cautiously, he descended, the oppressive air seemed to thicken with every step. Reaching the bottom, he scanned the space, his senses on high alert. The basement was clearly serving as a storage room, indicated by the reflections of barrels and crates. The spell’s pulse continued without pause. It pushed him onward, deeper than before.

  In the corner of the basement, Kharg noticed planks in the floor that seemed misaligned, their edges somewhat uneven compared to the rest of the surface. The distortion in this place made them shimmer slightly, suggesting a hidden passage. He leaned forward and passed through the planks, descending once more into a deeper, darker basement.

  This second basement was rough-hewn and damp, its stone walls exuding a distinct, musty smell even through the muted senses of the dreamworld. At a table near the center of the room sat the hazy outline of a spirit. The figure’s presence was weak yet carried the weight of a living person. Kharg’s attention shifted to the far side of the room, where the ghostly outline of a door flickered in the ethereal gloom.

  Passing through the doorway, Kharg entered a smaller chamber lit by a faint shimmer in the air. His breath caught as he spotted Caspian. The echo of Caspian’s presence was unmistakable. Calm on the surface, but tinged with unease. Relief swelled in Kharg’s chest, loosening something that had coiled tight since learning Caspian had disappeared.

  Driven by instinct and a growing sense of unease, Kharg turned and retraced his steps to the main chamber of the second basement, where something about the walls caught his eye. The stone here appeared less solid, its outline wavering as though concealing something. Kharg approached cautiously, passing his hand through the wall to confirm it was a false facade. Beyond lay a narrow passageway.

  The narrow corridor wound through the stone foundation, leading to another concealed door. Passing through it, Kharg emerged into the sewers. The air here was damp and heavy, the sound of flowing water echoing off the curved walls. Below him, a stream of murky water rushed through the channel, its surface glinting faintly in the dim light of the dreamworld. The passage he had followed emerged about a yard above the waterline, suggesting it was meant to provide a secret escape route from the house above.

  Convinced of the house’s illicit purpose, Kharg decided to investigate the upper floors as well. On the ground level, he found two more spirits lingering in a room near the entrance. Their forms were crude and flickering, but their presence was undeniable. It affirmed that they, too, were echoes of the living. On the second floor, he discovered two more spirits occupying what seemed to be a living space, their echoes marking them as men at rest.

  With the house’s layout and its occupants committed to memory, Kharg prepared to return. He reached for his silver cord, a radiant, pulsating thread that anchored his spirit to his body in the prime plane. With a mental tug, the silver cord yanked him back through the mists at incredible speed. The ethereal surroundings blurred and faded as he returned to the safety of the protective circle.

  Moments later, Kharg opened his eyes, the room’s tangible weight and light snapping back into focus. A grin spread across his face as he looked up at Ivar. “Found him,” he said, his voice steady with a mixture of triumph and determination. “And the house... it’s a rat’s nest of thugs. We’ve got our work cut out for us. From what I saw, there’s little doubt—they took him.”