Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  At the Adventurers’ Guild, Jore loosened the drawstring of the leather pouch and gave it a quick shake. “Between the bounty and forty shillings’ worth of coins in the pouch we found, we made quite a haul. After the Guild’s cut, that leaves thirteen each,” he said, handing the coins over in turn.

  Aster stared at his share, a grin spreading across his face. “More money than I’ve ever had. By Skama, that’s more than half a year’s wage as a guard here.”

  Jore clasped each of their hands in turn. “I’ll make sure Angelica hears about the work you did. You’ve earned the credit.”

  The sense of accomplishment lingered as Kharg left the guild yard, though the tug of Varakar’s streets was already pulling him toward more familiar haunts.

  Varakar’s main thoroughfares were alive with activity as Kharg made his way toward John Aren’s Street. The city seemed even more animated now after his time in the wilderness. The cobblestones underfoot echoed with the rhythmic clatter of hooves, the creak of wagon wheels, and the steady murmur of commerce. Halfway down the Royal Road, a sudden urge to see something new pulled him from the main route into the winding lanes of the Merchants’ District. There was still so much of the city left unexplored, and besides, it offered a quicker path. The lanes led him to a broad, bustling square known as the Hawker’s Haunt, where merchants set up stalls beneath bright awnings and the air was thick with the scents of spiced meats, sweet pastries, and roasting nuts. A vendor waved a twist of thin birch bark toward him, steam curling from the warm kernels inside. “Fresh and hot, just like you like ’em, young master!” Kharg pulled out a penny and took the offering, savoring the warmth and flavor as he walked on.

  A flower girl with a basket overflowing with blooms tried to catch his eye, her lilting pitch promising, “A blossom for a handsome gent?” Kharg offered a polite nod but kept walking while staying vigilant. His hand rested lightly on his money pouch as a silent deterrent against the nimble fingers of pickpockets who prowled the crowd. Once, he spotted a wiry youth edging too close, but a sharp glance from Kharg sent the boy scurrying off. The sight brought to mind the quick-fingered lad he had encountered on his first day in Varakar, and he wondered, briefly, whether the boy had found honest work or simply grown better at stealing.

  A serving wench leaned out from the doorway of “The Merry Tankard,” her apron slightly askew and her cheeks flushed with exertion. “Come in, sweetie,” she called, a teasing lilt to her voice. “A mug of ale for a fine gentleman?” Kharg declined with a wave, his mind set on the comforts awaiting him at home.

  He passed through a large square lined with taverns and small eateries, where he witnessed an impromptu street performance. A juggler entertained a small crowd with deft tricks involving flaming torches, his hands moving with mesmerizing speed. Children clapped enthusiastically, while adults tossed coins into his upturned hat. Even Fafne seemed intrigued, his silvery wings flicking as he craned his neck to watch.

  As he crossed the Four Spokes Square and turned down John Aren’s Street, the worst of the bustle abated. The streets here were newly swept and lined with stately buildings whose facades bore the marks of wealth and refinement. Lengthening his stride, he soon reached the Silverwolf Headquarters. He greeted the clerks he saw inside and found his way up to his quarters where he let out a long sigh. He relished the privacy and comfort as he shed his travel-worn clothes and freshened up with a couple of cleansing spells and a few leaves of spearmint.

  “Brown, my foot,” he muttered to Fafne with a grin. “Algot was dead wrong. Haven’t fallen for it one bit.” Turning to his finer attire, he used his cleansing magic to banish the grime from his wide-brimmed blue hat and adjusted its white plume until it fluffed out to perfection. He donned his flowing white shirt and matching creamy pants and finalized the outfit by donning his favorite coat. As it was in the middle of the summer, he also invoked a minor spell of heat protection and gave himself a final glance in the mirror, ensuring his goatee was neatly groomed, before heading downstairs.

  In the study, Farad greeted him with a warm smile, gesturing toward a seat with his usual attentiveness. “Welcome back, young master,” he said. “You’ve been away for some time. I trust your endeavors were successful?”

  Kharg recounted his journey, his tone calm yet tinged with pride as he described the battle with the dark folk and their success. Farad listened intently and then congratulated him on a task well performed, though his brow had furrowed slightly at the mention of goblins and the orc. “Troubling times,” he murmured. “But it seems the Guild made the right choice in sending you.”

  Farad gave Kharg a long, thoughtful look after the story had reached its conclusion. “I should tell you,” he began, “Ivar came by looking for you. He seemed troubled but wouldn’t say much to me. Something is clearly amiss.”

  Kharg stiffened and concern flashed across his blue eyes. “Ivar? Did he say where I could find him?”

  Farad shook his head. “No, but he left not long ago. If I were to guess, he might still be in the vicinity. I’d suggest you seek him out sooner rather than later.”

  “Thank you, Farad. I’ll find him.” Kharg pushed himself to his feet.

  With a quick adjustment of his hat and a glance to ensure Fafne was ready, Kharg strode toward the door, a sense of urgency replacing his earlier contentment as his intuition told him something was amiss.

  Kharg stepped out once more, the streets teeming with life as he made his way toward Ivar’s family home. It was Fairday in Varakar, marked by a distinct energy as it was a day for trade, festivities, and open-air markets. Tomorrow was Resten, when the city's merchants, laborers, and artisans laid down their tools to indulge in leisure and camaraderie. While Kharg had often spent Resten buried in the tomes of the Lesser Library, savoring the quiet and solitude, Ivar was decidedly less academically inclined. Instead, his childhood habits drew him back to his family's opulent home, a bastion of wealth built on a lucrative trade in rare and mystical herbs, so Kharg thought it likely he’d find him there. Ivar had always been evasive about the sources of these treasures, deflecting Kharg's occasional questions with vague smiles and evasive remarks about “distant connections.”

  Kharg set a brisk pace down John Aren’s Street, sidestepping hawkers and ignoring their practiced cries. The mingled scents of spice, bread, and roasting nuts faded as he skirted the northern edge of Four Spokes Square. The fountain and its crowds of jugglers, merchants, and gossiping bards were given only a passing glance before he slipped into the quieter back streets. The narrower lanes here wound between weathered stone buildings and tidy stoops, carrying him swiftly to the Silk Road. Turning north, he found himself amid a row of bright stalls where traders held up shimmering bolts of fabric, their voices already angling for his coin.

  The Silk Road was a long street that stretched north toward the harbor and the wealthier sections of the district. It was a little wider and its cobblestones smoother from the passage of countless wagons and foot traffic over the years. Stalls lined both sides of the road, their owners enthusiastically hawking their wares. “Silks from the Southern Isles! Softer than a lover’s touch!” called one vendor, holding up a bolt of iridescent fabric that caught the morning light beautifully.

  “Rare spices from Sarheede! Just a pinch, and your meals will never taste the same!” exclaimed another, gesturing to an array of small, colorful jars.

  As Kharg made his way along the Silk Road, the street buzzed with activity. Clusters of serving wenches leaned from tavern doorways, calling out flirtatious invitations to potential customers. Their laughter mixed with the savory scent of spiced ale and roasting meats drifting from within. “Come in, love! You look like you could use a drink!” one called, her voice warm and teasing. Kharg chuckled, tipping his hat in acknowledgment, but didn’t slow. The further he went, the thinner the crowd grew, and soon the raucous cheer of the taverns gave way to a quieter, more refined atmosphere. It wasn’t long before the cobbles widened beneath his boots, leading him into the Marble Square. The open, elegant plaza was famed for its white stone brilliance and intricate sculptures, each one a frozen echo of Varakar’s long memory.

  The square’s centerpiece was its collection of exquisite marble statues, each more elaborate than the last. Ivar had told him they had been commissioned by Varakar’s richest merchants over the years. Statues of past merchants stood proudly, each carved with an air of grandeur that bordered on vanity. His friend had once shared a tale of how this display had turned into a status competition, with merchants trying to outdo one another in commissioning ever-more elaborate depictions of themselves. One statue in particular caught Kharg’s eye. It showed a merchant posed heroically, holding an oversized scroll as though single-handedly orchestrating the prosperity of Varakar. He chuckled softly at the absurdity, shaking his head as he moved on.

  Ivar’s family home, a stately three-story residence that overlooked the plaza with the ease of inherited wealth, lay at the far edge of the square. Its stone fa?ade bore elegant carvings, and the tall windows gleamed in the morning light. This was not a newly constructed house built to show off recent wealth. It spoke of old money and older connections. A wrought-iron balcony crowned the third floor, a familiar sight that brought back memories of shared breakfasts after long nights of revelry. The front door, a heavy slab of mahogany, was etched with curling herbs—a subtle tribute to the family’s trade. Kharg straightened his coat and adjusted his hat, brushing off a speck of dust before ascending the short flight of steps.

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  A polished bronze door knocker hung from the mouth of a snarling lion’s head, its round ring worn smooth by generations of hands. Kharg had barely used it when the heavy mahogany door swung open to reveal a young page dressed in immaculate livery. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, straightened his back as he recognized Kharg and offered a polite bow.

  * * *

  Ivar had returned straight home after speaking to Farad. The Silverwolf clerk hadn’t had much to offer, only that Kharg was away on a shorter assignment for the Adventurers’ Guild and had been gone nearly two weeks now. But he’d added, with a reassuring smile, that Kharg was expected back any day.

  That should have eased Ivar’s mind. It didn’t.

  He paced the length of the parlor, hands stuffed into his sleeves, jaw tight. The anxiety simmered too close to the surface to be stilled by plush furniture or the soft rustle of house staff going about their business. Something had happened to Caspian. He felt it in his gut. They had agreed to meet several nights ago at the Gilded Cup, but Caspian had never shown. And in the days since, Ivar hadn’t been able to find him at all.

  He stopped by the window and stared out at the square, shoulders tense. If Kharg were here, things might already be in motion. Somehow, he always seemed to land on his feet, whether it was studies, sparring matches, or even the idle games they used to play on long Academy nights. He moved through life with a kind of quiet certainty that made it easy to trust him. Things simply worked out for Kharg.

  And the worst part? He never even seemed to notice how the girls tried to get his attention. As if confidence, elegance, and magic came so naturally that he had no need for praise. He would know what to do now. He knew how to fight. By Thoth, when those ruffians attacked them that night, Kharg had treated it like a game, grinning and weaving spells as casually as if he were flicking coins. Ivar winced at the memory. He’d barely managed not to bolt. How he’d wished, more than once, that his father had hired fencing instructors instead of bookkeepers and family archivists.

  He moved to the balcony, elbows resting on the cold wrought-iron rail. Below, the plaza gleamed in the morning light. It was quiet now, the way he preferred it, but not even the hush brought calm.

  If their positions were reversed, Caspian would have found him already. He was like that, easygoing, poised, always one step ahead. He had that smile, the one that tugged at the corner of his mouth like he was always privy to some joke no one else had heard. Women noticed, of course. They always did. And Caspian played the part well, with that careless charm and clever tongue. Ivar had lost count of how many times Caspian had slipped away with some blushing girl while he and Kharg and Dagny returned to the Academy alone. Compared to his two handsome friends, he often felt like the ugly duckling trailing after a pair of swans, and though he cared for them both, he couldn’t help the occasional flicker of envy.

  No, if he had gone missing, Caspian would have turned the city upside down by now. He’d have flashed the Veythar name like a banner, dropped just the right words in just the right ears, and convinced half the city guard to mount a search before nightfall. He would’ve charmed the captain into assigning extra patrols, questioned everyone from the harbor to the guildhall, and still found time to make it look effortless. That was Caspian, charming, relentless, and never doubting he’d get what he wanted. And most of the time, he was right.

  Instead, here he was, pacing his father’s parlor like a useless specter. Waiting.

  His gaze drifted to the statue in the square, the absurd one with the scroll. He found no humor in it today. Just hollow marble smugness. What could he do? He’d retraced Caspian’s steps a dozen times in his mind. He was certain Caspian had never made it to the Gilded Cup. Something had interrupted him, either on the way there or at the Veythar estate.

  Or maybe Orin is behind it.

  The thought curdled in his stomach. Ivar’s father had warned him once, in an unguarded moment, that noble houses sometimes kept ugly secrets behind polished doors. What if House Veythar was one of them? He sighed and stepped back inside, letting the heavy door fall shut behind him. The parlor was too neat. Too quiet. He dropped into one of the padded chairs, the frame creaking beneath him, and let his arms fall to the sides. A tray of wine and fruit sat on the low table, untouched. He reached for the wine, hesitated, then took a half-hearted sip, only to set the glass back down with a clink.

  No. Not now. He needed to think. Really think. But the longer he sat, the harder it became to keep his thoughts from spinning in circles. Time passed. The house settled into its usual rhythms, but he remained still, wrapped in silence.

  Then came the knock.

  Ivar blinked, pulled from his reverie by the sound echoing faintly through the hall. He rose quickly, not quite running, but with an urgency he couldn’t suppress. Maybe, just maybe, it was Kharg. He hadn’t dared hope earlier, but now the thought slipped in, uninvited. The polished stone floor felt too loud beneath his boots.

  By the time he reached the landing above the main hall, the page, Geffin, a boy far too formal for his age, was already stepping aside to let the visitor in. Ivar heard him saying, “Welcome, sir.” The page kept his voice formal, yet warm. “Please wait in the lobby, I’ll fetch the young master immediately.”

  Then the figure stepped into view, and his heart gave a sudden, skipping beat. Kharg, striding in like he owned the place, his wide-brimmed hat at just the right angle, his coat immaculate, his expression unreadable but assured. Fafne fluttered briefly above his shoulder before settling again, violet eyes alert.

  Relief surged through Ivar, so sharp it left him breathless. “Kharg,” he said, descending the stairs. “I’m glad you came.”

  He reached out without thinking, catching Kharg by the shoulder as if to make certain he was truly there. “Come with me,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “There’s much we need to discuss.”

  Kharg handed over his hat and rapier with the aplomb and grace of one nobly born, and Geffin accepted them with the solemn precision of a boy trained to expect nothing less. Ivar turned without pause and led him back up the broad central staircase, their footsteps muted against the thick runner. The familiar climb gave him time to gather his thoughts, though not enough to still the unease churning in his chest.

  The house, he knew, was beautiful. People always said so. The entryway below, with its high-vaulted ceiling and polished mahogany paneling, was built to impress without ostentation. His mother’s touch, not his father’s. Tapestries lined the walls, one of a pastoral hillside and the other of wolves stalking a deer. A crystal chandelier hung above, catching the morning light in delicate fragments across the green plush carpet and the curved arms of gilded chairs.

  He barely registered it now. He had lived among these details all his life, and they passed before his eyes like shadows on glass, familiar and unchanging.

  They reached the third floor and stepped into the parlor. Here, the elegance was more personal. The walls, painted a soft leaf-green and edged with gold trim, always caught the best of the sunlight. Cream-colored curtains with gold filigree framed the tall windows. His mother claimed the colors calmed visitors, and made them more likely to stay. A low table of polished mahogany stood between a pair of plush armchairs and a long settee. The silver tray was already laid out with wine, cheese, and a bowl of fresh fruit.

  As they sat, a servant entered silently to pour the wine into crystal glasses and arrange the tray within easy reach before retreating with practiced efficiency. Ivar raised his glass to Kharg in a silent toast, his expression growing more serious as he began to recount his tale.

  “It started three nights ago,” he began, his voice heavy. “Caspian and I had plans to meet at the Gilded Cup. It was supposed to be a typical night with good wine and lively conversation. He told me he had to stop by his family’s mansion first, but he’d join me shortly after. I waited... and waited.”

  Ivar took a sip of wine, his brow furrowing deeply. “After an hour, I decided to check on him. I headed straight to his house in the Noble District. It was late by then, but I was concerned.”

  Kharg tilted his head slightly. “That estate always felt like a fortress,” he murmured. “High walls, iron spikes... unwelcoming, even from the street.”

  Ivar nodded, grateful for the shared unease. “When I arrived,” he continued, “the seneschal met me at the door. He claimed Caspian wasn’t there, said Lord Orin wouldn’t be disturbed at such an hour, and refused to answer any of my questions. I swear, Kharg, there was something... off about the whole encounter.”

  A slight gesture invited him to go on. “Off how?”

  “The seneschal seemed too nervous,” Ivar replied. “He avoided looking me in the eye. And there was something about the guards, they seemed uneasy, like they were expecting trouble.”

  Ivar’s fingers tightened around his glass. “I didn’t believe him, but there wasn’t much I could do. I went back to the Gilded Cup, hoping Caspian might have somehow slipped past me. But he never showed.”

  He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve tried visiting again during the day, but it’s the same story. No one will give me a straight answer, and I haven’t seen Caspian since that night. I even sent a message, but it went unanswered.”

  Ivar leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s happened to him. Caspian wouldn’t just disappear like this, not without telling me, or you.”

  Kharg swirled the wine in his glass, watching the light catch in its surface as though weighing something more than flavor. His expression darkened slightly, lips pressed in a thin line before he spoke. “Lord Orin has always struck me as a man with secrets,” he said quietly. “Even by Varakar’s standards, that estate is guarded like a vault. High walls, iron spikes, guards more well-trained than most. Most nobles keep a few men at the gate, maybe one patrolling the garden—but Orin keeps a small garrison behind those walls. And if his seneschal’s avoiding questions, and the guards are on edge...”

  He glanced at Ivar, voice turning grim. “Then something’s not right. If Caspian’s gone, it wasn’t chance. Something deeper’s at play.”

  Ivar felt a chill at the certainty in his voice.

  “We’ll look into it,” Kharg said more firmly, setting down his glass. “Caspian’s our friend. We won’t let this rest.”

  Ivar exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest loosening just a little. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I knew I could count on you.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation lingering. Then Fafne flitted onto the table and nudged a wedge of cheese toward Kharg with a mischievous trill. The sound was just absurd enough to draw a flicker of amusement from both of them, a small, needed crack in the tension. Kharg gave a faint smile but didn’t touch the cheese. His gaze had drifted again, unfocused, somewhere far beyond the gilded edges of the room.

  Ivar studied him, noting the set of his jaw, the distant look in his eyes. He didn’t need to ask what Kharg was thinking. If Caspian was truly missing, then the problem wasn’t just a delayed meeting, it was something deeper. Something dangerous.

  “I sometimes get forewarnings, some kind of intuitive sense when danger is near. Or when something’s wrong,” Kharg said softly. “I don’t think we have much time.”