The morning sun rose over the savanna, casting light upon the expedition gathered behind the large, angled rock where they had made camp. Sixteen graves lay open in the earth, the soil dug from them during the night piled neatly beside each hole. They held the last shadows of night, refusing—for just a moment longer—to surrender to the day. Beside each grave, a body wrapped in white canvas waited in silence. Sixteen slabs of brownish-red bedrock lay nearby, ready to seal the dead beneath soil and stone.

Tybour stepped forward and spoke for the fallen. He named their strengths, praised their courage, and honored their loyalty—to duty, to each other—even unto death. His words brought comfort to some, and that was enough. Most of the company stood in quiet respect. A few whispered personal farewells to those they'd called friend or brother or sister. The ceremony was brief. Before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, the bodies were lowered into the ground, and magic raised the earth and stone to bury them.

Torg moved from grave to grave once the slabs were in place. At each one, he extended an arm and sprayed a thin stream of liquid onto the stone. The surface hissed and smoked, and where the acid touched, it burned a symbol into the rock. Each sigil echoed the others in form, but no two were exactly alike.

"A gift from the Goddess Denisisie," Torg said softly. "Each sigil records the name of the one buried, the time and date of their death, and a blessing from the Goddess—to guide them in the afterlife."

Tybour found Haningway after the ceremony, his expression tight with concern.

“What do we know about Evenara and Haster?” he asked. “They should’ve been nowhere near the battle. Do we know how they died?”

“Yes,” Haningway replied, his face grim. “I asked Captain Falmott to investigate last night. He reported this morning that their injuries don’t match the creature’s attack.”

“Oh?” Tybour’s voice was quiet, unsurprised.

“Evenara's neck was broken,” Haningway said. “Clean break. Doesn’t look like something the beast did. Haster bled out from a single, precise blade wound.”

“I could have guessed as much,” Tybour said. His brow furrowed, worry deepening the lines in his face. “More work from our unknown assassin—or assassins.”

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Keep on it, Able. We have to find whoever’s responsible.”

Major Able Haningway saluted. “Agreed.”

Haningway and three accomplished Wizards remained behind as the caravan began to pull away. Standing beside the narrow creek, they raised their hands in unison, their magic surging. Earth shifted beneath their feet. The path of the water bent, redirected until the stream flowed directly over the shallow graves where the demon-spawned creatures had been buried.

With practiced coordination, the Wizards summoned more power. The flow of the creek swelled, water rushing in a torrent over the battlefield until it was thoroughly flooded. Haningway knelt, pressing his hand to the ground. Thin cracks spread outward from his touch, veins in the soil opening to receive the water. The land drank deeply, swallowing the remains and sealing them in wet silence.

Moments later, the flow of the creek twisted back to its natural course. The four Wizards exchanged no words—they simply turned and began to jog up the road, their forms shrinking in the distance as they pursued the fading caravan.

Unseen beneath the tilted rock slab, four members of the expedition remained behind. Silent. Waiting. Hidden in the shadows.

The expedition marched a mile up the road until it curved around a towering granite edifice that jutted fifty feet above the savanna. Carved from the natural bedrock, its steep sides offered little grip for soil or roots. Only near its wide base did narrow crevasses between stone peaks gather enough dirt to support a few tufts of native grass and two small, wind-twisted trees.

The rock rose to a single broad summit, standing like a sentinel above the flat grassland. Near the top, a smooth, circular hole—several feet in diameter—pierced the granite from east to west. The precision of the opening made it instantly clear: this was no natural formation.

Just east of the edifice lay a vast, perfect square of hard, rock-like material—an ancient platform. Set into its surface were several slate-grey tiles, each three feet to a side, arranged evenly along a sweeping arc. If one stood on any of the tiles and looked upward, they would see the sky framed perfectly through the hole in the stone spire above. The view was narrow but precise—a celestial window aimed at the heavens. Ancient script, long forgotten by modern tongues, curled along the arc and around each square, inscribed deep into the stone.

Only one phrase remained readable to living mortals, carved boldly into the face of the edifice itself: "Advent of the Terraform Satellite."

Legend held that this site predated even the arrival of the Gods and Demons from the immortal realm. Built by ancient mortals, it was said to be a place of preparation—an instrument designed to witness the coming of the Gods. Through this window, they tracked the Changebringer, the celestial body that circled above Rit, returning every five or ten turns to renew the magic of the world.

From one of the marked squares, a viewer could watch the Changebringer’s journey through the night sky, and know the moment it would pass closest to Rit—when it would bathe the world below in fresh, potent magic.

The expedition had no interest in the ancient site itself. Its secrets could wait. Tybour had chosen this place for one purpose: to open a portal that would carry the caravan fifty miles further down the road, cutting days off their journey to the Glittergreen Mines. The concentration of ambient magic here was unusually strong—dense and resonant—and would allow him to more easily form a portal large and stable enough to move the wagons, horses, and all their people safely through.

The caravan came to a halt just before the road bent westward around the towering stone edifice. Tybour stepped ahead, veering slightly off the path to the left. Haningway and Lieutenant Norft followed close behind, and Rishmond trailed a few steps back.

Torg followed as well—silent and steady. He kept to Rishmond’s right, just behind him, like a shadow that refused to be left behind. The golem's heavy steps made no sound on the packed earth, but his presence pressed on the senses, a quiet weight that never quite left Rishmond’s awareness.

Tybour stopped and turned to Rishmond, his expression both serious and faintly amused.

“Watch closely. You need to learn how to properly shape a portal. Your efforts so far have been impressive—given what they were—but this will become indispensable to your craft in the years ahead.”

He winked, and Rishmond caught the glint of shared mischief behind his mentor’s calm façade. The secret of Rishmond’s accidental discovery—the strange transport spell he’d invented while failing to open a proper portal—was still between the two of them. Tybour hadn’t told a soul. Not yet.

In truth, Tybour had since learned how to replicate the technique. But it meant something to him that Rishmond had shown him the way. It wasn’t often a First Mage learned from a student. Rishmond’s pride in that moment had been quiet but unmistakable.

Behind him, Torg stood like a sentry of stone and silence—unmoving, watchful, and waiting.

Tybour turned to face north and drew a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he began to gather the lotrar—the deep magic of Rit.

At once, the air shifted. Rishmond could feel it, not just in the breeze but in his bones. The lotrar stirred beneath the surface of the world, drawn up through stone and soil in slow, resonant waves. It answered Tybour's call with quiet force, ancient and immense.

Ribbons of luminous energy began to coil around the First Mage, glowing faintly at first, then brighter, tightening into a dense spiral. The resonance of it throbbed in the space between thoughts, as if the land itself were humming.

Then, without sound, a swirl of light snapped into being several yards ahead. It expanded rapidly, opening into a square-shaped rift that sat directly on the road. Through the shimmering frame, a blue sky greeted them—but the landscape beyond was subtly different: a slope bent the wrong way, the dust a slightly deeper hue. Close, but not here.

A small rock—no larger than a man’s hand—rested in the center of the road where the portal had opened. As the magic stabilized, the rock tipped sideways and fell in two perfect halves. Sliced cleanly by the edge of the portal, the interior glistened momentarily in the light before the pieces settled into the dust.

Rishmond stared at it, eyes wide. There was no sound, no surge, no flash. Just precision. The quiet violence of deep magic.

Tybour remained still, watching the portal with practiced eyes. After a moment, he nodded—four stone markers on the far side confirming the precise destination.

Norft and Haningway stepped through without hesitation. The mounted scout followed, hooves clattering softly. A squad of soldiers moved in next, jogging through in tight formation.

A few minutes passed. The portal held steady, its glowing edges humming softly in the air, the scene beyond as still and quiet as the one they’d left.

Then Norft reappeared in the shimmering window.

He raised one hand in a series of precise, silent gestures. Military signals—clear and practiced.

All clear. No threats. Safe to proceed.

Tybour waved at the caravan master.

The rest of the caravan began to stir—creaking wheels, quiet murmurs. The fifty-mile journey would take less than a minute.

Behind Rishmond, Torg stood like a statue come to life. He didn’t speak. He never did unless he had reason—but his eyes glowed with a faint, unreadable awareness. Rishmond could feel it too. The lotrar still shimmered in the air, and Torg’s presence seemed to resonate with it. Not as a user, but as something shaped by that same deep force.

Rishmond inhaled, catching the familiar scent of portal magic: evergreen and ozone, sun-heated stone and dry grass. It filled his head, grounding and exhilarating at once. The power here wasn't ambient, not the everyday magic of lotret—this was the pulse of the world itself.

Rishmond watched as the group began to pass through the portal—soldiers first, then the wagons creaking forward in slow procession. Part of his attention was anchored to the portal itself. The deep magic of it hummed in the back of his mind like a pressure behind his eyes. He could feel the lotrar in the air, heavy and ancient, resonating through the road beneath his feet.

The scent that came with it caught in his throat and stung his eyes, but not unpleasantly. It was overwhelming in the way that power often was.

The rest of his attention drifted to Tybour, and then to Cantor and Illiar, who walked past him mid-conversation, voices lost in the magic-charged air. They were laughing about something—Cantor’s eyes wide with amusement, Illiar gesturing animatedly. Both looked up as they passed him, grinning, and gave him a wave before stepping into the glowing frame and through it.

Behind Rishmond, Torg stood silent and squat, not much taller than his waist, but steady as stone. The golem hadn’t moved or spoken since the ritual began, but his golden eyes flicked gently in Rishmond’s direction, as if to say: I’m still here.

As the last of the expedition crossed, Bantor approached with two Phoenix Company Wizards and gave a sharp nod. Rishmond and Tybour stepped through together.

Tybour turned once on the far side, scanning the length of the road. When he was satisfied, he closed the portal with a thought and a flick of his fingers. The rift folded in on itself and vanished with barely a whisper.

The caravan continued, stretching forward along the road toward the distant mountains. A full day’s march still lay ahead.

Rishmond stayed near Tybour, watching him closely. The First Mage’s breathing was controlled, but the strain of the spell showed in the set of his shoulders and the faint weariness behind his eyes. Rishmond marveled at his strength. That much lotrar would have left most Wizards too exhausted to move.

Ueet stood over the bound figure with two Phoenix Company soldiers flanking him. The woman—heavyset, naked, gagged, and lashed hand and foot to iron stakes driven deep into the rocky ground—lay still beneath the morning sun. Her eyes tracked Ueet’s every movement with unsettling calm as he tipped a small wooden trunk upside down.

Pots and pans clattered onto the stones, followed by a few folded garments and two daggers in ornate sheaths. That was all.

No kreleit blade.

Ueet grunted and nudged the pile with his boot, scattering the contents. Nothing.

He set the trunk upright and crouched, inspecting it carefully. The inside was lined in dark red felt, the lid slightly concave. Two felt-lined pockets on the back wall hung open, their buttons undone, empty.

The old Qoitiken warrior turned to his pack and pulled out a pair of thick, elbow-length gloves—tough and stiff, made from the hide of an ulbanto. Too inflexible for combat, but perfect for handling hidden blades, thorned traps, or—more likely today—poisons. He tugged them on, then lowered his goggles from his brow over his eyes.

Cautiously, he reached inside the trunk, fingers methodically feeling for any hidden compartments or false seams. After a minute of deliberate probing, his head tilted slightly. He’d found it.

He shifted his weight, then pressed a small catch with the side of his gloved hand.

Click.

Three thin metal needles snapped outward from the sides of the trunk, striking his gloves with sharp, precise impacts. Tiny beads of oily liquid seeped from the needle tips, glistening against the leather. A contact poison—fast-acting, and familiar.

Ueet narrowed his eyes behind the goggles. Haanth cactus. From the Quouribi Desert. Expensive, rare, and deadly. This was no amateur's trap.

The assassin was well prepared—and well funded.

Ueet carefully lifted the released panel, revealing a cloth-wrapped bundle nestled in the hidden space beneath. Every movement was deliberate. With practiced caution, he lifted the bundle free and set it gently on the ground before him.

He unwrapped the thick cloth layer by layer, revealing what they had feared—and expected—to find.

A forward-curved blade of dull grey metal lay within, its edge wickedly simple. The hilt was silver, polished and plain, and below it sat a handle of smooth ivory, worn with use. The kreleit blade.

The two Wizards standing nearby took a sharp, involuntary step back. Even wrapped, the weapon radiated a quiet threat. Uncovered, it was something worse entirely. They knew well what would happen if they touched that metal. Kreleit didn’t just kill—it devoured magic. One brush of skin against that edge, and their connection to Rit’s power would be stripped away like a torn cloak, and their lives with it.

Ueet turned his head toward the bound woman.

Her eyes met his without fear or surprise. The fight in her had burned out hours ago—at least the visible kind. Now she watched him with calm resignation, her expression unreadable. Not broken, not pleading. Just... waiting.

He nodded slightly, as if acknowledging her unspoken challenge, then turned back to the blade.

With slow precision, he re-wrapped the knife in its thick grey cloth. For someone like Ueet—lacking jzirittiah—the weapon was no more dangerous than any other knife. But he treated it with the same respect a soldier might give to a loaded crossbow pointed at a friend’s back.

He placed it next to his pack. He’d make room for it. It needed to be carried back to Retinor—and destroyed.

Ueet looked up at the wiry, scarred Wizard standing nearby.

Semptor.

The man was a snake—thin, quick, and mean. A soldier of fortune through and through. Mercenary to the bone, and not one to let morals get in the way of a job. Ueet didn’t like him. Few did. But Semptor got results when the situation called for methods most others wouldn't stomach. So long as Tybour kept the coin flowing, Semptor would do what was asked.

And this assassin?

This one would likely need the worst of what Semptor could do.

Ueet was certain the figure bound to the ground wasn’t what it appeared to be. The illusion was good—very good—but not perfect. The eyes told the truth. Beneath that heavyset, gagged woman lay a man. And they’d know soon enough.

He gave a small nod, chin jutting toward the bound figure.

Semptor moved at once—no hesitation, no questions. As he stepped forward, Ueet stood and backed away, gesturing for the second Wizard to follow. They put several paces between themselves and the prisoner, giving Semptor room to work in isolation.

Neither Ueet nor the other Wizard looked back. They turned their eyes outward, scanning the landscape beyond the shallow alcove, watching for movement, listening for danger.

They had their job.

Semptor had his.

Semptor stood over the bound figure, head tilted slightly, his shifty eyes scanning every inch. He crouched beside the captive and set a rolled leather kit on the ground. With a flick of his fingers, he unrolled it—revealing a precise array of tools, each one tucked into its own stitched pocket, held in place by leather straps and toggles of wood.

He selected a long, thin copper instrument shaped like a four-tined fork. A silver wire coiled around its handle and split along each tine, which ended in fine, needle-sharp points.

Without a word, Semptor jabbed the tool into the captive’s shoulder. Tiny beads of blood welled up. He watched closely, studying the way the blood moved, the pace of its drip toward the dusty ground. His face betrayed nothing.

His attention shifted.

He studied her torso next, pausing briefly at her chest, then trailing his fingers across her belly—lightly, slowly, as though reading a map hidden beneath the skin. Something caught his attention just below the ribs.

He began dragging the fork slowly across her abdomen. Thin red lines followed each pass, blood rising in delicate threads. The fat beneath her skin trembled unnaturally, as though responding to an unseen current. The illusion was starting to falter.

Line by line, he worked downward.

When he neared her navel, the blood stopped. The fork cut—but no red came. He paused, probing the unresponsive patch with calculated jabs. The tines sank into the flesh, but the skin gave no reaction, no flow of blood.

He had found it.

Semptor carefully traced the border of the bloodless area, marking out a rough oval about the size of a duck egg. The woman did not move. Her breath remained steady.

Reaching back to the kit, he selected a short, rounded copper knife. A single silver wire ran up its center to the tip. He placed the blade against the edge of the untouched skin and applied pressure. The woman twitched, just slightly. Not pain. Reflex.

Then, with practiced hands, he slid the copper fork beneath the opposite edge. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed both tools deeper, working them under the surface.

The illusion shimmered.

For a moment, her form wavered—like heat on stone—and Semptor caught a glimpse of the truth beneath the glamour.

With a wet pop, the patch of skin peeled up. Blood surged, splashing outward in a red arc. What emerged was not flesh, but a jagged, uneven stone, half-buried in the man’s belly. Five small metal spikes jutted from it, each coated in fresh blood.

The illusion collapsed entirely.

The woman was gone. In her place lay a short, stocky man—bald, scarred, thick across the chest and arms. His face was square, his nose crooked and flattened from more breaks than one could count.

He didn’t flinch.

His black, beady eyes met Semptor’s with a gaze of measured calculation. There was no fear in them. No anger.

Just control.

This was a man who had lived with pain. A man who had made peace with it.

Semptor studied his face for a long moment, then slowly smiled.

“Not a face I recognize, Ueet,” Semptor said, setting the illusion stone aside with care. He’d examine it later—perhaps it held a trace of its maker. “Skilled, no doubt. I’d wager he’s working for The Arrangement. Or the Church. Someone with deep pockets.”

He glanced up at Ueet, who was squatting a few feet above the assassin’s head, his eyes cold and watchful.

“It’ll take time to get anything useful out of him.”

Ueet shifted slightly, pressing a fingertip into the dust, one knee sliding forward. “Then let’s get started. We’ve got three hours, maybe less.” He jerked his chin toward the boggy stretch of ground where they'd buried the demon-spawned monsters the night before. “We’ve got the blade. This one’s no longer a threat. We just need answers. If he’s got a partner still inside the expedition, I want to know who.”

Semptor gave a curt nod and turned back to the prisoner.

“It’ll be a quick death if you just tell us what we want,” he said, lifting a steel triangular knife from the leather kit. The blade caught the sunlight, sharp edges gleaming.

He held it where the assassin could see, tilting it slightly so the light flashed across the surface.

“Pain,” Semptor said calmly, “is just the beginning if you refuse.”

The assassin’s voice was smooth, almost amused.

“You insult me, Semptor. I know what you will do. I’m prepared to endure it all.” His black eyes met Semptor’s without flinching. “I will tell you nothing.”

Semptor listened without expression. The assassin’s defiance was expected.

He continued working, moving with quiet precision. He braced the man's right leg against the taut rope bindings and the rocky ground, bending the knee just enough to stretch the patella ligament. With the triangular blade in hand, he placed the tip just below the kneecap, angled slightly upward.

He pierced the skin—just enough to draw a bead of blood.

Then, in one swift motion, he drove the blade upward.

The metal slid beneath the kneecap, severing the major ligament in a clean, practiced cut. Blood poured from the wound, but the assassin didn’t scream. His face went still, the muscles along his jaw twitching. His lips tightened over his teeth, but he made no sound.

He swallowed hard.

Ueet stepped closer, his expression unchanged. He squatted near the assassin’s shoulder and studied his face.

“What is your name?” he asked quietly. “Who hired you? What do they know?”

To his right, Semptor was already at work again, using a touch of magic to heat a flat, hand-sized plate of metal until it glowed cherry red. Ueet held up a hand, signaling him to wait.

The assassin met Ueet’s gaze with calm defiance. His eyes were dark, flat, and unwavering.

He said nothing.

Ueet gave a small nod.

Semptor stepped forward, metal glowing.

Semptor pressed the red-hot metal plate to the assassin’s lower abdomen. The skin hissed and blistered on contact, the smell of burning flesh curling into the air.

The assassin groaned—a deep, guttural sound that grew into a ragged, throat-tearing howl as Semptor dragged the glowing plate slowly across his skin, carving a path of agony.

Tied tightly to the stakes, the man writhed, muscles straining, body twisting in a futile attempt to escape the fire biting into his flesh.

Finally, Semptor pulled the plate away and set it aside on a flat stone, its surface still glowing faintly with heat. The assassin sagged, panting, quivering.

Without hesitation, Semptor uncorked a small glass vial and poured a stream of blue-green liquid onto the raw, scorched skin.

The man screamed again—sharp and high and broken—as the alchemical wash soaked into the fresh burns. The scent in the air turned thick and acrid, an eye-watering mix of seared meat and brine.

Moments later, the assassin stilled. His breath slowed. His face returned to its mask of calm, pain shoved back into some deep inner chamber.

Semptor crouched and peered into the man’s face.

“Who hired you?” he asked, voice flat.

No response.

Semptor sighed and rose, stepping over the prisoner’s legs to his right side—

—and froze.

A sound—barely heard—came from across the road. A pulse of light flared.

The plasma bolt hit him before he could even process what was happening.

The impact blew a hole five inches wide clean through his chest. Bone and blood sprayed outward, and the blast knocked his body backward into the dust. The sound of it came a breath later—a crackling thunderclap that echoed across the plain.

Semptor didn’t make a sound as he died.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Ueet dove sideways without waiting to see where the attack had come from. Instinct, not thought, moved him. He hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a low crouch, already turning to locate the source of the magic.

Across the road, a lone figure stood with one hand raised—firing another bolt of deadly magic straight at him.

The bolt struck something invisible a few feet in front of Ueet with a sharp crackle, splashing energy outward like water against glass.

A shield.

The old Wizard Tybour had insisted accompany him and Semptor had summoned it just in time. Ueet hadn't caught the man's name. Now he wished he had.

Even as the air buzzed with dissipating energy, the old Wizard retaliated—three bolts of lightning lanced across the road toward the attacker. Fast. Precise. Controlled.

The Warlock was strong, but this one—this old man—was quick.

Without a word, the Wizard grabbed Ueet under one arm and hauled him to his feet.

“Come,” he said. “We’re not really a match for this one.”

They sprinted toward a cluster of large rocks at the edge of the shallow rise. Behind them, the Warlock loosed another blast—dark and howling with power. The Wizard kept his shield raised, the glowing barrier flexing as the spell struck it and dispersed. They ducked behind the boulders as more lightning erupted from the Wizard’s hands, forcing the Warlock to dodge.

The Warlock countered—shards of sharp rock exploded from the road, propelled like arrows. The shield caught most of it, but some made it through. Ueet grunted as slivers sliced across his arm and jaw, stinging and sharp.

They rounded the boulders, momentarily shielded from view. The Wizard didn’t hesitate. He thrust one hand forward and ripped a hole in the air—a narrow, jagged-edged portal that shimmered with barely contained magic.

“Go!” he barked.

Ueet leapt through the opening, not bothering to look back. The Wizard followed half a heartbeat later.

Ueet stumbled out of the portal and fell—headfirst—into several inches of soft, wet mud. He hit hard, skidding slightly before scrambling to his feet, spinning around to face the still-glowing rift behind him.

The portal hovered just above the ground, already narrowing. Through the shrinking window, he could still see the rocky patch they'd just escaped.

A flash of light burst through.

A bolt of plasma ripped across the air, streaking overhead with a violent hiss before vanishing into the sky beyond.

The portal sealed with a faint pop, and was gone.

“Well,” came a voice behind him, calm and dry, “that was unpleasant.”

Ueet turned. The old Wizard—his unexpected savior—sat in the mud, completely soaked and speckled with debris. It appeared he’d landed just as clumsily.

“Not the mud,” the Wizard added, pushing himself upright, “or the fall. I’ve learned to live with those. It’s the Warlock. I don’t know why anything surprises me anymore, serving with the First Mage.”

He grunted and stood, brushing at his pants in vain.

“The fall was intentional, by the way—in case you were wondering.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the sky, in the direction the plasma bolt had gone. “Didn’t want the portal aiming directly at us. Good call, too. That one nearly clipped your head.”

He looked up at the now-quiet air and shrugged.

“Unlikely he’ll be able to follow. But I’ve never been much for gambling.”

He turned back to Ueet, expression steady.

“Shall we?”

Ueet nodded once. “Yes.”

The Wizard turned from Ueet and raised a hand, conjuring another portal just a few feet away. The air shimmered, split, and bent inward.

Ueet took a moment to look around. The savanna stretched endlessly in all directions—golden, flat, and quiet. He scanned the horizon. To the south, his sharp eyes picked out the faint line of a road. Familiar.

“Coming?” the Wizard asked, already stepping toward the portal. “Ah yes, a drying-up watering hole we passed yesterday. The only place I could call to mind quickly enough. Not the safest, but safe enough—for now.”

He gave a tired smile. “We’ll need to make a couple of jumps to catch up to the caravan. The sooner we start, the better.”

Ueet cocked his head slightly, reassessing the man. His estimation of the old Wizard rose considerably.

“Yes,” he said. “My thanks. I owe you a life-debt.”

They stepped through the portal together.

They emerged at the top of a small rise, wind tugging at their cloaks. A single twisted, wind-bent tree stood at the summit, its limbs creaking softly. Ueet took a deep breath of the dry air. “I’m Ueet,” he said. “You are?”

“Gregor. Gregor Tranto,” the Wizard replied. “Master Sergeant Tranto to some, but you can just call me Gregor.”

The portal behind them collapsed with a gentle ripple. Gregor raised his hand again, casting a new one in a different direction. Ueet was fairly certain portal direction didn’t matter—magic led where it led—but he’d noticed most Wizards liked to face their destination anyway. Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps belief.

This one opened smaller than the last—tight and narrow. Ueet ducked his head and shoulders to pass through, careful not to brush the glowing edges.

He stepped out onto a dusty road atop another rise. He moved aside quickly, making space for Gregor to follow.

Gregor stumbled through the portal, breathing heavily, his face pale and drawn. Ueet caught him before he could fall, bracing the Wizard's weight against his side.

“That took more out of me than I expected,” Gregor said between breaths. “Didn’t plan on dueling a Warlock before jumping across half the savanna.”

He leaned on Ueet, catching his breath.

“But look,” he added, nodding toward the road ahead. “We made it. There they are.”

Ueet looked down the hill along the road toward the caravan he’d already spotted—moving slowly in the distance, a faint trail of dust rising and hanging in the still air behind it. Far to the west, just above the horizon, the peaks of the Glittergreen Mountains loomed—distant, pale blue and sunlit. Even with portals, they were still a full day’s travel away.

“C’mon, Gregor,” Ueet said, adjusting his grip. “You’ll get a proper rest when the caravan stops for the night. We need to get to Tybour. He needs to hear about the Warlock—and Semptor.”

He wrapped his arm around the old Wizard’s waist, supporting most of his weight.

“I’m all right,” Gregor said, catching his breath. “Just give me a second.”

He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small bronze-colored flask, palm-sized and worn smooth. He unscrewed the silver cap and took a short swig. His eyes narrowed, face tightening briefly before he exhaled and returned the cap.

Then he tucked the flask away, stepped slightly out of Ueet's support, and gave him a tired smile. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks. The lines around his eyes softened.

“All right,” he said. “I won’t be as fast as you, but let’s make as much haste as we can.”

With that, Gregor squared his shoulders and began walking steadily down the road, his boots crunching softly on the sun-baked dirt. Ueet followed a step behind, both of them moving toward the distant figures and wagons—toward the caravan, and the First Mage.

The Warlock called Stanch ran after his disappearing quarry, fury and frustration boiling beneath his skin.

He hadn’t expected that damn Wizard to be so strong—or so clever.

He should have known better.

From a distance, it had been hard to read the old man. His age had made Stanch dismissive, assuming frailty. A mistake. The Wizard he’d killed had seemed the more dangerous of the two—but now, that assumption lay smoking in the dust with Semptor’s corpse.

Stanch clenched his fists. He wanted that old Wizard. Wanted to carve him apart and offer him to his Demon as tribute. The man’s soul would burn beautifully.

As for the other one—the magicless one?

He didn’t deserve a sacrifice. He didn’t deserve anything but death.

The magicless were worthless. Pathetic. Fit only for servitude or extermination. Lower than beastmen. Lower even than the snake-men abominations slithering through their precious mines. Humans—unaltered and pure—were the only true children of Rit. As the Demons had intended. All others were filth. Offshoots. Mistakes.

The magicless weren’t truly human. Not even the divine-bastardizations shaped by the Gods were as foul. The magicless were less than everything.

And Stanch hated them most of all.

Stanch hurled a flurry of small rocks and pebbles after the fleeing pair, hoping to injure them—just enough to make them stumble, to break their rhythm, to give him an opening.

The Wizard’s shield held. Almost none of the projectiles made it through.

He watched them slip behind a cluster of standing stones at the edge of the shallow cave. Stanch veered to the side, angling for a better view, still running hard. The old Wizard already had another portal open. Quick, that one.

Lightning rained down toward Stanch—sharp, sudden bolts.

He raised his own shield in time, absorbing the strike with a crackling shimmer, then dodged again, shifting right for a clear line of sight. He spotted the old Wizard stepping through the rift.

Stanch fired.

A plasma bolt lanced from his hand, aimed for the Wizard’s back but missed as the old man ran through his portal. The bolt vanished into the empty air through the portal and the opening snapped shut behind it.

The last thing Stanch saw through the closing window was a patch of clear, cloudless sky.

He cursed under his breath. No clue where they’d gone, but it had to be toward the caravan. They couldn’t be more than a few miles up the road.

He considered jumping ahead—cutting them off, intercepting the column. It was tempting. He imagined catching them mid-march, the magicless one writhing under his heel, the old Wizard drained and desperate. He’d toy with him, break his mind a little at a time, then summon the demon portal. Watch the man’s hope wither as the truth of what awaited him set in.

Stanch let the fantasy swirl in his mind for a moment... then let it go.

No. He couldn’t risk it. Too many unknowns. Too many Wizards with the caravan. And he had a job to do.

He turned back toward the two bodies lying on the rocky ground outside the cave. One was of no further interest—the Wizard called Semptor. The hole blasted through his chest still smoked faintly, the skin around it charred and cracked.

His face remained frozen in mild surprise.

Nothing more to be done there.

Dead was dead.

The other body was still alive.

The assassin he’d been told about.

Stanch had seen his chance when the four had stayed behind while the rest of the expedition moved on. His orders had been simple: observe. Stay hidden. Report back. But the moment he saw this opportunity, the plan changed.

The man was bleeding, but not enough to kill him—at least, not quickly. The worst injury was to his left knee; he wouldn’t walk on it anytime soon. The rest were superficial.

Stanch stood over him, just to the side of the bloodied, staked form. The assassin’s limbs were still bound tight, his body pinned to the rock by rope and iron. He looked up at Stanch with a calm, unreadable gaze. No panic. No defiance. If anything… curiosity.

He said nothing.

Stanch sniffed the air.

The man's blood was thick in the still, warm breeze, its scent strong and sharp.

Stanch's lip curled.

Not human.

Despite appearances, the blood wasn’t right. Stanch had been given a gift when he swore his soul to his Demon—the gift of scenting impurity. The smallest taint, the faintest trace of non-human blood stood out like a wound in the air.

And this one reeked of it.

Snake-man blood. Alteman.

The stench of it made Stanch’s eyes narrow with disgust. Some pathetic mortal had bred with one of those grotesque half-serpents. What kind of human would do such a thing?

He glared down at the assassin, fury simmering beneath his skin. The creature looked human, but smelled wrong—deeply, offensively wrong. It wasn’t magic. Stanch could sense that. No illusion or glamour. This was something else.

Alteman and magicless.

Nothing worse in all of Rit.

An abomination. An insult to bloodlines and creation. He considered ending it right then. Just one bolt to the skull. Quick, clean, satisfying.

But the thought hadn’t fully formed before the voice squirmed in his mind—the worm, that oily sliver of his Demon’s will that lived behind his thoughts. It twisted and hissed, and suddenly Stanch knew what would happen if he defied its command.

He clenched his jaw.

The Demon wanted this thing alive. Wanted Stanch to work with it.

His lip curled further, teeth bared in quiet revulsion.

To suffer this… creature’s presence would be intolerable. But to disobey would be far worse.

Stanch glanced at the cloth-wrapped kreleit blade lying a few feet away, inert and silent in the dirt.

Someone would have to carry it.

It wouldn’t be him. That much was certain.

He scowled. There was no getting around it. The creature—the abomination—would have to serve its purpose. He would heal it, use it, and when the task was complete, he would destroy it. Tear it apart and cast its tainted remains into fire.

But first, it had to walk.

With a curt gesture and a flick of fire magic, Stanch cauterized the wound on the assassin’s knee. Heat flared, flesh hissed, and the stench of burned blood curled into the air.

The assassin didn’t scream. His face twitched slightly, his jaw clenched—but that was all.

He endured.

Stanch didn’t like that.

He kept the creature bound for now and turned to the kreleit blade. It lay in its wrapping, the dull grey of its metal hidden from sight—but he could still feel its presence like a cold breath against his skin.

It couldn’t hurt him—not unless he touched the metal itself.

Still, it made his stomach knot.

Not fear, not exactly.

But something close.

Death he did not fear. Pain, even less. But to be unmade—to have his magic stripped from him, peeled away like silk from bone—that thought unsettled him in ways few things could.

He removed his pack and opened it, carefully reaching down and lifting the wrapped blade. His movements were slow, controlled, deliberate. No contact with the edges. No mistakes.

He slid the weapon into the side of the pack, tucking it as far from his body as possible, pressing it against the outer frame where the metal reinforcement would dull its reach.

Even wrapped, it felt like poison.

Stanch stood and shrugged into the straps of his pack, adjusting the weight of it until the kreleit blade inside was secure and as far from his skin as possible. Then he turned back to the figure still staked to the ground.

“I’m going to release you now,” he said. “One false move, and you die.”

His voice was calm, measured. Lethal in its simplicity.

“We’ll be working together for a while. We have a mutual goal. My patron has made it clear that I need you to accomplish it.”

He paused.

“I’ll hold onto your knife.”

Stanch let the words hang in the air a moment longer before finishing, flatly:

“You work for me now. Your payment is your life. Serve well, and you may keep it.”

The creature bound before him narrowed his eyes, the faintest twitch of amusement—or perhaps calculation—passing through his expression. He considered the Warlock’s offer, or command, in silence.

Finally, he spoke.

“It seems,” he said, voice low and even, “I have little choice.”

He met Stanch’s gaze without flinching.

“What is our goal, then?”

Stanch didn’t blink.

“Sending Tybour Insuritor to my patron,” he said, “as a sacrifice.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

The assassin could smell the layers beneath that sentence—power, pride, and something unsaid. There was more, no doubt. But this wasn’t the time to ask.

“Very well,” he said. “I will serve—until that goal is achieved.”

Stanch turned away from the man and cast his senses outward, reaching through the still air with a thread of magic. It took only moments to find what he needed—a fairly large lizard, curled in its burrow a few dozen feet away, hiding from the noise and heat of the earlier battle.

With a subtle gesture, Stanch wrapped the creature in invisible threads of force and yanked it from its hole. The lizard flailed in the air, limbs scrabbling, tail whipping, but it never reached the ground.

Stanch guided it to his hands, gripping it carefully.

A small jolt of lightning crackled between his fingers, and the lizard spasmed once, then went still.

He turned back to the assassin, still bound in the dust.

Without ceremony, he held the immobilized lizard above the man’s injured knee.

The transformation was immediate—and grotesque.

The lizard’s body began to liquefy, flesh collapsing inward, bones melting to pulp. It dripped downward in slow, heavy globs of greenish-grey ooze that clung to the injured leg like molten wax. The thick fluid bubbled and writhed, forming a pulsing sheath around the knee.

In seconds, it hardened into a semi-rigid casing—shimmering faintly, still shifting in places like it hadn’t quite made up its mind whether it was solid or alive.

“You should be able to walk now,” Stanch said without looking at him. “The wrap will fall away when the healing is done.”

With another gesture, he sent a sliver of force magic slicing through the ropes that held the assassin to the ground.

Then he turned, striding back across the road without a backward glance.

“Come,” he said. “We needs must go.”

It took nearly an hour for Ueet and Gregor to catch up with the caravan.

Gregor had started strong—shoulders square, pace steady—but his energy flagged before long. The strain of battle, spellwork, and back-to-back portals was catching up with him.

When they finally reached the rear of the expedition, Ueet signaled a nearby soldier and sent him jogging forward to inform Tybour of their return. Gregor was quietly guided to the last wagon, where a bit of space was cleared among the crates and canvas. A spot in the shade, tucked near the corner of the wagon bed.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” Gregor protested, already gulping water from a skin someone pressed into his hands.

Ueet watched him without a word.

Despite the protest, Gregor didn’t make any move to get back on his feet.

He stayed where he was, catching his breath in the shade.

Which, Ueet noted, said more than his words ever could.

Tybour and Haningway arrived a short while later, striding toward the rear wagon where Ueet stood beside it and Gregor reclined inside.

As they approached, Gregor sat up and made to swing his legs down.

“Stay there,” Tybour said, raising a hand. “No need to stand on ceremony. We may well need your full strength soon, the way things have been going.”

“Yes, sir,” Gregor replied, easing back into the tent-rolls he’d arranged for comfort.

“Semptor is dead,” Ueet said flatly. “A Warlock attacked us. We were lucky to survive.”

He nodded once toward Gregor. “Thanks to him. He did well.”

High praise, Tybour noted, especially from Ueet.

“We got nothing from the assassin,” Ueet continued. “We did find the kreleit weapon, but we had to leave it behind when we were attacked. He must’ve been watching us—waiting for a chance.”

Tybour’s expression didn’t change, but his mind was already moving fast.

“That is unfortunate,” he said. “Semptor’s death and the loss of the weapon… But at least it won’t be of any benefit to that Warlock. And I’m glad the two of you made it back alive.”

He folded his arms, eyes narrowing slightly.

The appearance of a Warlock here, and now, wasn’t chance. He’d almost bet his life on it. Someone had sent him to follow the expedition. The question was: why?

Was the Warlock working with the assassin? With the one responsible for the sunken ship? Were they part of the same hand, or separate knives aimed at the same throat?

Warlocks were loyal to their Demons first and foremost—but some could be bought. Manipulated. Hired. It had happened before.

Could the demon-spawn they’d fought just yesterday have been under this Warlock’s command?

None of this was enough to stop the expedition outright.

So what was the endgame?

What were they really walking into?

“Haningway,” Tybour said, his voice low but firm. “Increase security. Put all soldiers on full alert.”

Haningway nodded, jaw tight.

“Inform the civilians that there was an encounter with a Warlock,” Tybour continued, “but that the rear guard successfully drove him off. Tell them we do not expect him to return, but that everyone should remain alert for anything out of the ordinary.”

He paused. “Reassure them that the Phoenix Company is more than capable of fending off a lone Warlock.”

Haningway nodded again, but said nothing.

Tybour noticed the slight flicker in the man’s eyes—a glance toward the rear wagons where Gregor still rested. He knew that look. Haningway had never approved of Semptor or his methods. The man had tolerated the Warlock-hunter because Tybour had insisted—but only barely.

He would never countermand Tybour.

But he didn’t have to like it.

“One more thing,” Tybour said, pulling him back to task. “Tell them we discovered the person responsible for the Porpoise’s sinking. They were killed when we attempted to take them into custody.”

Haningway's expression remained neutral, but Tybour could sense the thought behind his silence.

Tybour turned, pacing a few steps as he looked west. The Glittergreen Mountains loomed faintly on the horizon.

“We’ll stay with the garrison when we reach the mines. Send a message ahead.”

He frowned. “We’ll continue on to the second campsite this evening, just in case. And we leave before sunrise tomorrow. The sooner we reach the mines, the better I’ll feel.”

He turned back toward Haningway. “Put out the beacons tonight. Four should be enough. We have the Wizards to man them.”

“At least it will mitigate the threat of another attack.”

“Yes, sir,” Haningway said crisply, though his tone had a harder edge than usual. “Consider it done.”

The sun had slipped below the distant western mountains more than an hour before the caravan finally reached the campsite just off the road. Camp setup was swift and efficient. There was no welcoming shelter here—only a wide, flat expanse of packed earth, bare of vegetation and sun-baked into hardness.

There would be no refilling of waterskins tonight. No nearby stream, no trickling spring. Just dry ground and the faint rustle of night wind through the grasses beyond.

Tents went up quickly, packed close together despite the open space. A habit born of caution more than necessity.

At the edges of the camp, four Wizards of the Phoenix Company moved with practiced precision, each carrying a tripod-mounted device. They placed them at four equidistant points beyond the perimeter, a few feet into the darkness.

From the top of each tripod rose a glowing rod—two feet long and a few inches thick. Soft light pulsed from within the rods like breath.

A Wizard sat cross-legged in front of each one, facing outward, hands lightly resting on their knees, eyes half-lidded in focus.

Magic flowed from them in a steady stream—subtle, quiet, constant—feeding the wards. A delicate lattice of protective energy extended between the rods, invisible to the eye but unmistakable to anyone who could feel magic.

Any Warlock attempting to cross that barrier would be noticed immediately.

And they would not be welcomed.

The night passed without event.

Well before the sun rose in the east, the camp was struck and the caravan resumed its westward journey along the winding road. A little more than a mile on, as the first golden light began to crest the horizon, Tybour opened another portal—this one aimed fifty miles farther along their path.

The caravan poured through in tight formation.

They emerged on a long, straight stretch of road that climbed steadily toward the foothills of a towering mountain range. Low hills rose to the north and south, green and shadowed in the early dawn. Ahead, nestled at the far end of a wide valley, sat a small village. Smoke rose from chimneys. Carts dotted the road.

The expedition had arrived.

The Glittergreen Mountains stood before them—tall, jagged, ancient. And at their base, the entrance to the Glittergreen Mines.

And Rishmond could already hear the whispers.