Chapter 14: The Merchant’s Wager

  Pentrius had escaped once again, vanishing into a swirl of shadows just as Aeron prepared the final strike. Aeron’s forearm remained alight, the Signer's mark shimmering with a power that had flared to life at the very moment he thought all was lost.

  Hagoth Duffin wheezed painfully, but a triumphant laugh managed to escape his lips. "Ha... see, Aeron? I told you... fate... would not forsake you!"

  Aeron offered a tired smile, his eyes meeting those of Ivyl Wall. The brave Lion Tribe sorceress had shadowed the Isudan raiders for weeks, enduring the desert's wrath alone while waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The shared exhaustion and relief in their gaze said more than any speech ever could.

  "I need a moment to recover my mana," Ivyl said to Hagoth, though she didn't look away from Aeron. "Then I will heal you, Master Merchant, and you too, giant."

  By late afternoon, Ivyl had applied high-level healing spells to mend Hagoth’s shattered ribs and Ifindo’s knee, which had been swollen to the size of a plum. Despite their weariness, the four decided to move under the cover of night. Pentrius had been gravely wounded, but as a battle-hardened mage, he was capable of laying traps they couldn't foresee if they lingered in the woods.

  Navigating through thorny vines and tangled mistletoe, Hagoth proposed a plan so bold Pentrius would never expect it: taking the main road. Hidden on his person was a High Merchant’s Seal. With it, Hagoth could bypass any stronghold without search or seizure, provided they traveled without cargo.

  Though he said nothing, Aeron felt a crushing weight of guilt. Hagoth had liquidated his entire life’s work to save him—a debt Aeron had no idea how to repay. Even Ifindo, the raider-turned-friend, presented a dilemma. The giant had abandoned his gang, but his decision to kneel and swear fealty like a knight’s squire was a burden the young Lorencine knight felt ill-prepared to carry.

  Accepting his new role as the leader of this makeshift quartet, Aeron reflected on the irony of his life. From a common thief to the youngest knight in the empire, and now a high-profile fugitive—it was a dizzying transformation. Yet, these difficult days felt more meaningful than the seventeen years that preceded them.

  The great forest was soon behind them, giving way to lush steppes before the transition to the deadly Isudan desert. Ahead lay a peaceful town named after a legendary archmage: Alaris Garcia.

  The village had been founded three hundred years ago when pirates drove the dwarves from their lands. The defenseless Ethorgs had no hope of survival until the Archmage Alaris appeared, leading them to victory. Some refugees never left, naming the town Alaris to honor their savior.

  "Come!" Hagoth said, his spirits rising at the thought of a day’s rest.

  Aeron wanted to rush forward—he had wasted too many days in Zakira’s cage—but he knew that without Hagoth’s seal, they would never pass the city gates. He looked at Ifindo’s bandaged knee and felt a pang of remorse for his impatience. He nodded, agreeing to stay.

  Slapping Ifindo on the back, Hagoth grinned. "Alaris is famous for its apricot brandy! You’ll love it. Aeron, coming with us?"

  Aeron shook his head. "I don’t drink. I’ll just find some fresh ale."

  "I’m going with him!" Ivyl added quickly.

  The merchant shrugged and led the giant toward a local tavern, leaving the villagers to gape at Ifindo’s sheer size.

  Aeron smiled at Ivyl. As they walked, she recounted the hardships of tracking them. She had stayed far enough to avoid detection but close enough that the wind wouldn't erase their tracks. She had survived sandstorms alone, and her white mare had collapsed just miles from the green steppes.

  Then she laughed, comparing the experience to hunting snow leopards back in the Lion Tribe. Aeron listened in silence, filled with shame. This young sorceress had risked everything for a casual oath he had never truly taken seriously. Ivyl Wall Teh’Sneto had taught him a lesson in loyalty: every oath deserved to be kept as if it were a blood-vow.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  The next morning, Aeron woke up in an Alaris Garcia inn with a head that felt as if it had been struck by a forge hammer. Despite his claims, the local ale was as potent as the brandy. Across the room, Hagoth was still dead to the world after his drinking match with Ifindo, who was sprawled on the floor—simply because no bed was large enough to hold him.

  Aeron splashed his face in a basin of warm water, trying to clear the fog. Downstairs, Ivyl was already awake, nursing a cup of fragrant tea. Seeing Aeron’s bleary-eyed stumble, she shook her fingers, sending a cluster of sparkling magical dust into his nostrils.

  Aeron shuddered as a cool rush cleared his face. After a few violent sneezes, he felt incredibly refreshed.

  "Spell powder," Ivyl smirked. "It clears the head and heals the spirit. But use it sparingly; too much dulls the mind. I don't want to see that drunken face again."

  By noon, the rest of the group had stirred. They packed rations and set out with a group of pilgrims heading toward Tar’Muffin. Hagoth, now penniless, decided they would travel on foot rather than risk buying horses that couldn't carry Ifindo’s bulk.

  Aeron asked everyone they met about Princess Chiryl. Some had seen the procession in Thophar; others knew nothing. Hagoth eventually took over, using his silver tongue and a few well-placed gold coins. On the fourth day, he brought news to their camp outside the city of Xerciep.

  "The Princess is roughly three hundred miles from the border," Hagoth reported. "They’ve just passed through the territory of the Red Duke."

  "The Red Duke?" Ivyl asked. "What a strange name."

  "The first master of the city, Duke Kharidic, was a man addicted to war," Hagoth explained. "During the Two-Hundred-Year War, he was the only one to defeat a Mantorian invasion of one hundred thousand men. He lured seventy thousand prisoners into the city and ordered their slaughter. The streets ran red with blood. He was a hero, but a cold-blooded murderer. That is why it’s called the City of the Red Duke."

  Aeron ignored the history, focusing only on Chiryl. "How soon can we catch them?"

  "They’re moving slow with the dowry and the retinue," Ifindo noted, scratching his chin. "A few weeks, if the roads are clear."

  "Tomorrow we try our luck at the gates," Hagoth said. "If the news of my bankruptcy hasn't reached Marshal Ugorn yet, my seal should get us through."

  The next morning, they reached the gates of Xerciep. The soldiers here were stronger and better equipped, as the city was under the direct administration of the Empire. While Mantorias recognized the independence of vassal states, they maintained control through garrisons. In Lorencine, the Empire’s presence was felt through the High Marshal of Xerciep, Patrushea Ya’vince.

  Ya’vince was a man of insatiable ambition. His arrogance trickled down to his guards, who harassed the citizens and extorted bribes even from those with valid passes.

  Aeron and Ifindo bristled as they were stopped by two guards in royal red capes. Hagoth stepped forward, pressing his merchant seal and two Cresa coins—the highest currency of the Empire—into their hands.

  "We need more funds if we’re going to catch that caravan," Hagoth said once they were inside. "Those were my last coins."

  "Where do we get it?" Aeron asked.

  "I have an old friend here, a jeweler to the nobility," Hagoth nodded. "Ifindo, you're with me."

  Hagoth told Aeron and Ivyl to explore the city, reminding Aeron to use a fake name.

  "This place is huge!" Ivyl gasped.

  Xerciep was a hub of trade. Enclosed by walls thirty meters high, the city was a masterpiece of architecture, designed with firebreaks and a sophisticated sewer system. The markets were divided by trade, and oddly, no meat or fish was allowed within the walls—a whim of the vain Marshal Ya’vince.

  By the time the sun reached its zenith, Aeron was starving. With no money and unwilling to return to thievery, he sat dejectedly at a rest station. Soon, Ifindo appeared, carrying a bag of warm, fragrant pastries.

  "Did Hagoth get the money?" Aeron asked, mouth full of bread.

  Ifindo nodded awkwardly.

  "Where is he?"

  "Right here," Hagoth said, emerging from a nearby alley. He was dusting off his clothes, and his familiar expensive cloak was gone.

  "Why did you come back separately?" Ivyl asked. "And where is your cloak?"

  Ifindo turned away, looking embarrassed. Hagoth just shrugged. "He went for food; I went to visit other friends. I must have left it with them."

  As they ate, a group of merchants walked by, gossiping loudly.

  "Did you hear? Old Reasik was just robbed!"

  "Yeah, I saw two guys running from his shop. Serves that greedy jeweler right!"

  Aeron stopped chewing and glared at Hagoth suspiciously.

  "It wasn't me, don't look at me like that!" Hagoth said quickly. "Just a coincidence. There are plenty of jewelers in Xerciep!"

  "I didn't see the fast one," the gossiping merchant continued, "but I saw the dark-skinned fellow clearly. He was wearing a very expensive velvet cloak. Imagine that..."

  Aeron lowered his pastry, his gaze boring into the two men who were now whistling and looking at the sky.

  "Oh, left your cloak with friends, did you?" Aeron deadpanned.

  Ivyl Wall couldn't hold it in. She buried her face in her hands and burst into giggles.