They mounted their horses as the first rays of sunlight crested the city walls, casting the courtyard in a warm glow. Kharg barely needed to grip the reins as his connection with Blackfeet made guiding effortless. The sound of hooves echoed against the stone as the group rode out, navigating the quiet city streets with ease before the morning bustle began. The city gates loomed ahead, and the guards, recognizing Jore, waved them through without delay.

  Beyond the city, the countryside unfolded before them, bathed in golden light. The fresh morning air carried the promise of adventure, and Kharg felt a thrill of anticipation as their journey began. The headed south with the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the well-maintained road that stretched like a lifeline from the city into the countryside. The road was alive with activity. Wagons laden with farm produce rumbled northward, their drivers calling greetings to the riders as they passed. The scent of fresh hay and earth mingled with the crisp morning air, painting a vivid picture of the rural life that sustained Varakar. Villages and farms lined the road, each one a glimpse into the industrious lives of the countryside. Fields of wheat swayed in the breeze, and herds of sheep grazed contentedly under the watchful eyes of shepherds. Children played near the roadside, waving enthusiastically as the party rode by.

  Kharg met their waves with a nod, adjusting his hat against the sun. While his companions shifted in their saddles, already feeling the wear of long hours on horseback, Kharg’s body remained at ease. Whenever discomfort threatened, he wove minor healing spells to soothe his muscles, warding off chafing before it could become a problem.

  Squads of soldiers patrolled the road, their chainmail shirts gleaming in the sunlight. They carried spears and belted shortswords, their presence a reassuring reminder of the region’s stability. Jore exchanged nods with several of the patrols, his familiarity with them evident.

  As they rode, the group found their midday respite at roadside taverns, rustic establishments with hearty, if uninspired, fare. Accustomed to finer meals, Kharg found most dishes bland but was pleasantly surprised by the freshness of the fruit and the rich flavors of local cheese and butter. Kharg’s companions often remarked on how well-behaved Blackfeet was. And the horse did his best to prove them right, often nuzzling Kharg gently for small treats in the form of apples. Blackfeet was exceedingly cooperative, lifting its feet one by one for Kharg to inspect for sharp stones.

  They spent the evenings in roadside inns, lively places filled with laughter, singing, and dancing. The crowds were rowdy but generally good-natured, welcoming the adventurers with curiosity and camaraderie. Despite their weapons and distinct appearance, Kharg and his companions were met with smiles and friendly chatter. The locals admired their purpose, treating them with a warmth that Kharg found refreshing.

  Still, travel brought its discomforts. Straw mattresses, no matter how dry, still carried a roughness to them. But the fleas he recalled from his previous road trip were merely a bad memory now. And the cleansing spells ensured that both himself and his clothes looked perpetually pristine.

  His companions, however, had noticed. Aster, glancing between his damp cloak and Kharg’s immaculate coat, let out a dramatic sigh. “You know, it's not fair,” he muttered. “By the time we reach our next stop, we’ll look like we’ve been dragged through the mud, and you’ll still look like you just stepped out of some highborn’s parlor.”

  Kharg smirked, adjusting his hat. “There’s no reason to suffer if you don’t have to.”

  Jore shook his head in amusement but didn’t comment. Practical or not, he couldn’t deny that having a mage along had its benefits.

  As the days passed, the road began to change. The smooth paving stones gave way to rougher cobblestones, then to dirt tracks deeply rutted by wagon wheels. The farms and villages thinned, replaced by stretches of untamed wilderness. Trees loomed closer to the path, their gnarled roots breaking through the hardened earth, casting shifting shadows in the late afternoon sun. The air, once filled with the scent of fresh hay and warm bread from roadside inns, grew heavier with the damp fragrance of loam and distant pine.

  The transition to the more remote countryside altered the rhythm of their journey. Gone were the bustling taverns and well-stocked inns. Now, they relied solely on their own provisions. Fortunately, the summer weather was mild, the days warm and bright, with only the occasional breeze to stir the dust. While Aster and Jahram adjusted begrudgingly to the realities of camp life, Kharg, ever the pragmatist, had no intention of suffering the usual discomforts of the road.

  On their first evening without an inn, as the others set about preparing a simple meal of hardtack and salted meat, Kharg unveiled his unique approach to mealtime. He unpacked his own stores, which included honey bread, rich cheese, a cured ham wrapped in thick cloth, and a generous selection of fresh fruit. Aster eyed the spread, raising a brow.

  “Are we traveling with a mage or a nobleman?” he quipped, nudging Jahram, who smirked.

  Kharg merely smiled. With a flick of his hand and a quiet incantation, he conjured a sturdy table of solidified air, its surface smooth and firm beneath his touch. The spread of food lifted effortlessly onto the invisible surface, as though resting on a fine oak board.

  His companions fell silent.

  Aster let out a low whistle. “Now that's just unfair.”

  Kharg, feigning modesty, waved a hand. “If you had to choose between eating from the ground or a proper table, which would you prefer?”

  Before they could answer, he crafted low, smoke-tinted chairs of air, shaping them with deliberate care to provide proper seating. Using wisps of smoke from Jore’s fire, he darkened their forms, making them less spectral and more tangible.

  Jore, who had been observing with a critical eye, finally gave a small gesture of approval. “Functional magic. I approve.”

  Kharg, satisfied with the results, turned his attention to the meal. A moment later, plates and utensils of air took shape, hovering into the hands of his bewildered companions.

  Jahram, quiet until now, studied his plate with an expression of reluctant admiration. “You created these out of thin air? And can do so at will?”

  “Yes,” Kharg replied with a smile.

  Jahram gave a low chuckle. “Then I suppose you’ll never need to wash dishes again.”

  Kharg smirked. “Never again.”

  Aster muttered something about life being deeply unfair.

  With their seating and meal arranged, the group sat down to eat. What had started as a simple roadside meal became an unexpected feast. They savored the fresh ingredients Kharg had collected from the villages, the cheese and cured ham providing a welcome contrast to the usual bland travel rations.

  Aster, between bites, declared, “Best meal I’ve ever had on the road. Hands down.”

  Jore, typically reserved, gave an approving grunt as he sliced through a generous piece of ham. “I wonder, by all that is holy, why have I never seen mages do this before? I have traveled with my fair share of them,” he grumbled.

  “Many are not trained to think of practical applications, I guess.” Kharg shrugged and took a big bite of a savory pear.

  Jahram, though he said little, had clearly decided that traveling with a mage had its advantages and nodded gratefully to Kharg in thanks.

  Kharg, ever composed, brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his wide-brimmed hat. “There’s never a reason to eat poorly if you can avoid it.” He glanced down at his pristine, dust-repelling garments, his boots still as polished as when they’d left Varakar. “And traveling is best done in style, though I suspect my definition of style may differ from yours.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Aster shook his head in exaggerated dismay. “Meanwhile, the rest of us look like we crawled out of a ditch.”

  “Some of us did,” Jahram muttered, side-eyeing Aster.

  Laughter rippled through the camp.

  Fafne, perched smugly on Kharg’s shoulder, seized the distraction. With a quick, darting movement, he snatched a small piece of ham from Aster’s plate and flicked his tail in triumph. Aster lunged to stop him but was too late.

  “You conniving little lizard!” Aster exclaimed, though he was grinning.

  Fafne, entirely unrepentant, fluttered just out of reach, chewing with evident satisfaction.

  Jahram shook his head. “I think that dragon has better manners than you do, Aster.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Aster grumbled, though he tossed Fafne another bite as a peace offering.

  By the time they had finished eating, the last traces of tension had faded from the group. The easy humor, the warmth of a shared meal, and the comfort of Kharg’s conjured luxuries had done more to bond them than the miles they had traveled together.

  Kharg, satisfied with the results, released the chairs and table, letting the air dissipate soundlessly. A flick of his hand made the plates vanish, sparing him any cleanup or lingering mess.

  Aster watched the effortless magic, then muttered, “Yeah. Definitely unfair.”

  Kharg merely smiled.

  As they packed up and prepared to move on, the mood remained high. They had hours of travel before camp, but for now, at least, the journey felt less like hardship and more like adventure.

  * * *

  The next day dawned beneath a heavy blanket of gray, the air thick with the promise of rain. A low, humid pressure hung over the land, pressing against their skin like an unseen weight. As they rode, the first drops began to fall. They came scattered at first, then swiftly formed a steady, relentless drizzle. The wet earth darkened beneath them, the packed dirt softening into slick, treacherous patches.

  Kharg wove his aerial armor, layering the invisible barrier over his clothes with habitual skill. The effect was immediate as raindrops slid harmlessly from his coat and hat, leaving them untouched by the damp. The fine mist clinging to the others never touched him, repelled before it could take hold. His boots remained dry, his gloves supple, his clothing as crisp as when they had set out.

  His companions, however, were not so fortunate. Aster and Jahram hunched deeper into their cloaks, their armor slick with moisture. Water dripped from the edges of their hoods, soaking through their collars. Even Jore was not spared the downpour, his well-worn gear darkened by the steady deluge.

  Aster eyed Kharg with open envy. “That’s it,” he grumbled. “The next time I have the chance, I’m learning magic.”

  Jahram huffed, dragging a hand down his drenched sleeve. “I’d settle for a cloak that does not soak up water.” With a quick glance to Kharg, he asked, “Anything you can do to help?”

  Kharg shook his head. “Any barrier I create for you will be immobile.”

  By midday, the rain had deepened into a cold, persistent curtain, soaking everything in its path. The dirt road turned sluggish, the horses’ hooves splashing through newly forming puddles, their legs streaked with mud. When Jore called a halt, it was clear that setting up camp in these conditions would be miserable.

  Kharg had no intention of allowing that. While the others dismounted, muttering about the cold and wringing out their sleeves, he raised his hands and wove three broad arches of air side by side, forming a protective canopy above the camp. The invisible shelter stretched over the camping grounds, shielding them from the rain. The impact was immediate. Aster let out a low whistle. Jahram flexed his hands, glancing at his now rain-free surroundings. Even Jore studied the barrier with something akin to approval.

  “Now this,” Jore murmured, brushing water from his sleeves, “is the kind of magic I can get behind.”

  Kharg smiled faintly, then swept his hands in a second pattern. A faint ripple of mana rolled outward, and the dampness fled from his companions’ clothes, one by one. Steam drifted briefly from cloaks and boots before vanishing.

  “This,” Jore repeated with deliberate emphasis, “is really the kind of magic I can get used to.” The others voiced their agreement without hesitation.

  Kharg then turned to his own attire. The protective shell of air he habitually wore had spared most of him from the rain, but his wide-brimmed hat was another matter entirely. The brim dripped, and the once-proud white plume drooped in soggy defeat. With almost ceremonial care, he lifted it from his head, intoned a cleansing weave, and coaxed the moisture away. The plume fluffed back up in a soft explosion of white, standing proudly once more.

  Aster smirked. “Glad to see your priorities are in order.”

  “Wouldn’t want the hat catching cold,” Jahram added with mock solemnity.

  Kharg settled the revived hat back onto his head with a dignified tilt. “Some things,” he said, “deserve more than mere practicality.”

  Kharg, still working, shaped chairs and a table from solidified air. He drew some of the dampness into the weave to create a fog-like effect that made them clearly visible. Aster, with all the enthusiasm of a man embracing newfound luxury, flopped down onto a chair of solidified air. It immediately collapsed beneath him. Aster landed hard on the damp ground with an undignified grunt, arms flailing. Jahram burst out laughing, while Jore merely smirked, the corners of his lips twitching. Kharg, arms folded, arched an eyebrow.

  “These are not meant to hold that kind of abuse,” he said dryly. “They’re lightweight constructs, not dwarven stonework.”

  Aster groaned, rolling onto his side. “I take back everything I said about wizards,” he muttered, rubbing his tailbone. “This is genius, except when it isn’t.”

  Kharg waved a hand, conjuring another chair, this time reinforcing it slightly. “Try sitting like a normal person instead of dropping into it like a sack of grain.”

  With an exaggerated amount of caution, Aster lowered himself onto the new chair. This time, it held.

  “Better.” Kharg smirked, finally seating himself. “Practicality, Aster. That's what magic is for.”

  With the rain no longer an issue, camp took shape quickly. The fire sputtered to life under Jore’s experienced hands, spreading its warmth through the dry space. The horses, grateful for the break, shook themselves off and gathered beneath the shelter. The scent of damp earth and burning wood mingled in the air, a grounding contrast to the ethereal nature of the spells at work.

  Ever the connoisseur, Kharg unpacked another well-prepared meal—a spread of honey bread, aged cheese, and thick cuts of cured meat. This time, he added small jars of golden honey and dark berry jam, their wax seals still intact, along with a pouch of dried apricots and almonds. A wrapped packet of spiced sausage joined the board, its aroma mingling with the sharper scent of the cheese. His companions, by now accustomed to his absurd level of comfort, merely accepted their plates with gratitude, though Aster gave the jam a suspicious glance before helping himself.

  Aster, still sprawled in his conjured seat, watched Fafne hover above the table with clear suspicion. The faerie dragon’s violet eyes flicked from the ham to Aster’s plate, his tail twitching with unmistakable intent.

  Fafne lunged.

  Aster, anticipating the move, blocked with a chunk of bread, intercepting the swipe before Fafne could get his prize. “Not this time,” he said smugly.

  Fafne huffed, feigning disappointment before shifting his tactics. This time, he aimed for Jahram’s plate instead. The warrior, however, was equally unimpressed and simply flicked a finger against Fafne’s snout. The faerie dragon recoiled dramatically, chirping in outrage.

  Jore, after silently taking in the scene, smirked. “Serves him right.”

  Aster shook his head. “I’m just saying, we should keep an eye on him.”

  Kharg, utterly unbothered, absently tossed a small piece of ham into the air. Fafne, of course, snatched it mid-flight with a victorious trill.

  Jore sighed. “You’re not helping.”

  “I disagree,” Kharg replied smoothly, settling back into his seat.

  As they ate, Jore took the opportunity to brief them on their assignment. His voice, steady and composed, carried over the crackle of the fire.

  “We’ll reach Wood’s Hollow tomorrow,” he began. “It’s more of an outpost than a proper village, woodcutters and their families. Beyond that, it’s nothing but wilderness.”

  He paused, letting the words settle.

  “The reports say goblins have been seen south of the village. Scouting, most likely. Maybe hunting. Either way, that’s where we’ll need to focus.” He looked at them, one by one. “Goblins rarely operate alone. If we find one, expect more.”

  Kharg frowned slightly. “How is it we see goblins here? Where might they have come from?”

  “Usually they live underground or in caves,” Jore replied. “But there are habitations of goblins in the swamps to the south. Now and then, groups wander north into these regions, looking for food—or whatever it is they’re after. Sometimes they raid, sometimes they just pass through, but either way, they’re trouble.”

  Aster and Jahram exchanged glances, hands unconsciously drifting to their weapons. Fafne, who had been preoccupied with his pilfered ham, suddenly stilled. A quiet hiss escaped him, his wings fluttering with unease. Kharg, absently stroking the faerie dragon’s back, felt a similar shift in the air, a silent tension that had not been there before. Goblins were no mere nuisance. This was no training exercise, no controlled duel within the Academy’s safe walls.

  Jore let the silence linger, then simply said, “We’ll discuss tactics in the morning. Get some rest.”

  They finished their meal in relative quiet, the weight of their mission settling in. Kharg released the conjured chairs, letting them dissipate into the evening air. His protective air walls remained intact, keeping the rain at bay as the fire burned steadily.

  Fafne, ever the troublemaker, waited until Jore was completely at ease before dropping an apple core into his boot. Jore, discovering the offense moments later, merely closed his eyes in long-suffering patience. Aster choked on his drink, barely containing laughter. Kharg, appearing entirely innocent, said nothing.

  When the meal was done, they worked together to raise the canvas tent, its sturdy poles and well-oiled fabric taking shape beneath the shelter of Kharg’s invisible canopy. Pegs were driven into the softened ground, ropes pulled taut, and bedrolls unrolled in neat rows. The fire crackled steadily outside, its glow casting flickers of gold against the tent’s interior walls. With the rain reduced to a distant whisper beyond the walls of air, they settled in for the night. The road ahead promised danger, but for now, at least, they had warmth, food, and a moment of fleeting comfort.