Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The stale waters of the harbor gave off an unpleasant smell, a mix of rotting seaweed and fish guts, enough to make Kharg’s stomach churn. The docks of Sitch Nar were always crowded, but thankfully the Silverwolf House maintained its own private pier, removed from the worst of the chaos. The docking went smoothly, and some deckhands hurried to secure the gangway.

  With a nod to the captain, Kharg straightened the plume on his hat and shot a quick glance at Caspian, who seemed a bit overwhelmed by the spectacle and noise, while Ivar took it in stride. Hawkers tried to make themselves heard over the general buzz, while ships creaked against moorings and waves slapped at wooden piers. The strong wind caused ropes to smack against wooden riggings and banners to flutter. A cluster of opportunistic seagulls fought viciously over scraps, screeching and flapping vigorously. Other gulls perched on roof ridges and occasionally chased the more docile pigeons away by screeching and lunging out at them.

  Kharg steeled himself as he led his friends ashore, past the porters with rolled-up sleeves and foreheads shining with sweat, who were getting ready to unload the Wolf Song. They gave Kharg a respectful bow as they passed, then hurried aboard to haul the heavy crates ashore under the colorful expletives of Malte. Some of the crates held pottery from the south and needed delicate handling, while the others were a mixture of spices, tea, and tabac which were less fragile. With a grin at the curses carrying after them even as they made their way along the pier, Kharg greeted the guards who kept their pier clean.

  “Too few of us here to provide you with an escort, young master,” the guard in charge said apologetically.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll manage,” Kharg assured him and led his friends into the bustling throng of people on the dockside. There was a pattern to how the crowd moved, and as long as they didn’t struggle against it they would make headway, Kharg knew. They had walked less than a block when a scuffle broke out between two sailors disputing a gambling debt. A burly man with a bushy beard threw a wild punch that sent his opponent staggering back into a stack of barrels. The barrels toppled with a crash, sending startled rats scurrying in all directions, while a lazy calico cat lounging nearby watched with mild interest before sauntering off to find quieter hunting grounds.

  Caspian sidestepped a fleeing rat and glanced at the brawling sailors. “I see the city attracts a more refined class of people.”

  Kharg grinned. “Just wait until market day.”

  The dockside air hung heavy with saltwater and tar, cut by spice from distant cargo and the smoke of grilled fish and skewers. Kharg led them along the cobbled streets that flanked the docks, past taverns and bars from where they heard the sounds of clinking mugs, raucous laughter, and the occasional burst of song. Sailors mingled freely with the locals, their faces ruddy from long voyages and stronger drinks. Scantily clad women strolled along the streets or beckoned from second-story windows, their painted smiles and alluring looks aimed at drawing the attention of potential customers.

  The weathered stone buildings around the docks were sturdy and practical, typically one or two stories high. The plain and practical designs hinted at the city’s focus on trade and commerce. The street widened a little when they reached a block where the offices of Sitch Nar’s merchant elite rose like a row of stone bastions. The Silverwolf banner snapped crisply in the wind atop their own building, but his gaze flicked to the ones beside it.

  He gestured slightly as they walked. “That’s Windhand Traders,” he said, nodding toward the building with blue shutters and polished brass fixtures. “They’re everywhere. Nine Cities, river barges, mountain passes. If you want a letter of credit or to move two hundred crates of wool by tomorrow, they’re your best bet.”

  Ivar gave a knowing look. “My father had dealings with them in Dev Mar. Said they never missed a delivery, or a loophole.”

  Kharg’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Ruthless, yes. But reliable. That one’s House Grend,” he continued, pointing to a squat structure with sturdy iron-bound doors. “Old blood with inland trade, mostly grain and beef. Not flashy, but they don’t fail their contracts.”

  Ivar squinted toward a more decorative fa?ade. “And the one with the ivy and carved archway?”

  “Ormalen,” Kharg said. “Woolen and linen textiles, fruit brandy. They play at nobility, but half their shipments ride Windhand carts.”

  He stopped briefly as they passed the final building, a newer complex built of pale timber and trimmed with copper. The Kavrenn banner hung taut.

  “And that,” Kharg said quietly, “is Kavrenn. Undercuts where they can, bribes when that fails. They tried to poach one of our larger brandy contracts last year. Cost them three times the value to undo the fallout, and they still haven’t learned.”

  Ivar’s expression darkened. “We have dealt with our share of such types in Varakar also, especially the Purple Dawn Merchant House.”

  A sharp cry caught Kharg’s attention. A rotund merchant, his face flushed with outrage, pointed a trembling finger at a pair of fleet-footed pickpockets disappearing into the throng. “Thieves!” he bellowed and tried to give chase. But his efforts were in vain, the young thieves darted through the crowd with practiced ease and disappeared into a maze of alleys.

  In a side alley they passed a confrontation between two gangs of street urchins, their bravado escalating into a noisy hostility. Shouts and jeers echoed as they squared off, their antics more theatrical than truly threatening, though the potential for real mischief lingered.

  Ivar, walking slightly behind Kharg, suddenly found himself accosted by a heavily painted and perfumed woman with an impressive cleavage and a knowing smile. She slid into his path in a deft move, her voice low and honeyed. “You look like you could use some company, handsome.” Ivar flushed scarlet, mumbling an excuse as he stepped around her, his downcast eyes studying the cobblestones while Caspian stifled a laugh behind him.

  Farther ahead they passed a gang of mercenaries who pressed through the throng, their heavy chainmail showing signs of both wear and tear, along with patches of rust. Their boots thudded loudly on the cobblestones, and the crowd instinctively parted to let them through. Armed with broadswords and a palpable air of menace, they appeared intent on reaching a preferred tavern to quench their thirst.

  A gray cat with ribs showing under the scabby fur darted past them, its attention fixed on a rat that scurried along the edge of a fish cart. The hawker slapped the cart with a wooden stick, scattering both predator and prey as he resumed his bellowing sales pitch. “Fresh fish! Straight from the nets! You won’t find finer catch in all of Sitch Nar!”

  Kharg navigated the crowded streets with some effort, his wide-brimmed hat shielding him from the fading sunlight. Ivar and Caspian stayed close, hands on their money pouches, mimicking Kharg’s example even as they took in the bustle of the docks. Fafne, however, seemed decidedly unimpressed with the chaos. He let out a disgruntled chirp and took off from Kharg’s shoulder with a couple of strong flaps of his wings that lifted him well above the crowd.

  Kharg smirked as Fafne ascended into the evening air, his sleek form cutting effortlessly above the throng. If there was one thing the faerie dragon despised, it was being crushed among loud, unpredictable humans.

  Pleased with himself, Fafne circled lazily before landing atop a wooden beam overlooking the pier. His bright eyes flicked between the brawling sailors, the darting pickpockets, and the booming fishmonger as though judging the entire city unworthy of his presence. Then, with a flick of his tail, he leapt skyward again and followed Kharg and his companions from above, too dignified to mingle with the street-level chaos.

  Caspian glanced up at him and grinned. “I think he likes it better up there.”

  “He’s got expensive tastes,” Kharg muttered with a grin.

  Pushing through the throng, they soon reached the Market Street, a wide thoroughfare that stretched from the docks all the way to the Eastern Gate. Its cobbled expanse sloped gently upward, allowing for a smoother passage compared to the cramped dockside lanes. Here, the crowd thinned slightly, and the scuffling of sailors and merchants gave way to a more orderly bustle of wagons, shopkeepers, and townsfolk. The trio moved quickly, eager to leave the din behind as the sights and sounds of the harbor faded into the distance.

  The trio continued eastward, the cobbled streets gradually giving way to the smoother paving of the Northern Gate thoroughfare where he turned left. Kharg gestured to landmarks as they passed. There was a quaint tavern with its warm glow spilling onto the street, a beloved herbalist whose delicate teas Kharg described in fond detail, and a wandmaker’s shop adorned with intricate carvings on its wooden fa?ade.

  “This wandmaker,” Kharg said, his voice tinged with pride, “is the favorite among the battle-mages here. I think his craftsmanship rivals even the artisans of Varakar.” Maybe I should get one myself, he thought. The wands were great to use for improving the aim of elemental attacks or to channel spells that had not yet been mastered.

  Ivar and Caspian exchanged an impressed glance, their curiosity piqued. “You’ll have to introduce us,” Caspian said with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind adding a local treasure to my collection if the prices are reasonable.”

  As they neared the Northern Gate, Kharg slowed his steps for a brief moment, letting his eyes sweep across the city he had left behind. Sitch Nar felt different, yet it had not changed as far as he could tell. The docks were still chaotic and loud, the streets crowded, and he felt pride when he looked at it. But it did not feel like home anymore, he had changed too much.

  His time in Varakar had taught him how fragile security could be, how quickly danger could creep into the most civilized of places. He had grown sharper, less inclined to see the world in simple terms of profit and politics. Yet, stepping through these familiar streets, he felt an odd sense of displacement, as though he were both home and a stranger at once.

  The estate loomed ahead, solid and unchanging. He squared his shoulders. Whatever uncertainties lay ahead, this was still his home—and that meant something. With a nod to Caspian, he picked up the pace again.

  Beyond the Northern Gate an open countryside spread out, with a dozen farms within sight but no dwellings were allowed near the outer walls. The well-paved road stretched out ahead of them, a testament to the city's well-maintained infrastructure. A short distance beyond the gate, the Academy of Battle Magic loomed into view, its imposing presence undeniable.

  The silhouette of the Academy was a stark contrast to the otherwise pastoral fields with grazing cattle and fields of rye on the east side of the road. His family owned most of the nearby lands west of the academy and allowed no farming there, preferring the view of the sloping grassy hills. Kharg led them on and as they came closer to the Academy, he paused on a small crest in the road to let his friends get a good view of the place where he had been shaped initially.

  The academy was encircled by a low outer wall, within which five white-chalked sturdy buildings were arranged around a central lecture hall. It had once felt so grand to him, but compared to the splendors he had seen in Varakar it now paled in comparison. But it still held a strange appeal to him, he mused as he took in the sight. Tall, arched windows added splashes of color to the main building, and a modest spire with a spike flew a banner fluttering in the wind. The white banner bore the insignia of the Academy, a fireball with a crossing bolt of lightning. On the eastern side of the compound they saw two figures on the sanded grounds of the training arena which was encircled by a low wooden fence.

  Caspian gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Now this,” he said, gesturing toward the academy, “is impressive. It might not be as grand as the Academy back home perhaps, but there’s a… purposefulness here. It feels… focused.”

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  “It’s a stark contrast, isn’t it? Varakar’s Academy is sprawling, almost chaotic at times. This place seems...” Ivar faltered, trying to find the right word.

  Kharg smiled at their observations. “It’s true. They specialize in battle magic and every spell learned is tested in real scenarios to give it practical applications. Elegance and style have little weight here, only results count.”

  “Do you think they’d allow outsiders to attend for a short time?” Caspian asked, obviously tempted to give it a try.

  “I wouldn’t see why not,” Kharg replied thoughtfully. “They’ve welcomed visiting mages before. It could be beneficial for you both to train here, especially before venturing into the tundra. The techniques they teach here might prove invaluable.”

  Ivar stroked his chin, contemplating this. “It’s not a bad idea. A few weeks here might sharpen our skills. If nothing else, we could learn a thing or two about applying magic practically.”

  They lingered a moment longer, watching as a group of young apprentices crossed the academy grounds, their robes billowing in the light breeze. The faint crackle of spells being cast drifted from the arena, a reminder of the academy’s focus.

  Kharg beckoned for them to continue and when they passed the academy they all felt the ripples of magic being wielded, an extra sense they had become aware of quite recently. All magic made ripples, like a stone in a pond, and these could be sensed over some distance. The amount of power in the spell had a significant impact on this, but the type of spell mattered even more. From what they had been taught, summoning magic was the worst of all with ripples that could be sensed from miles away.

  “The magic here is much more noisy than at the Academy,” Ivar remarked when a sudden ripple made them all look toward the training area where someone released a blinding bolt of lightning that was blocked by the sparring partner.

  “That’s because they have installed dampeners and other enchantments to stabilize the whole compound.” Caspian replied with a casual nonchalance that drew a guffaw from Kharg.

  “How’d you know?” Kharg asked.

  “Lord Hareth told me.”

  Ivar stopped and looked at his friend incredulously. “The head of Enchanters? When was that? And why’d you not tell us before?”

  Shrugging lightly, Caspian paused to consider. “I guess I needed time to decide what I wanted myself. I’ve thought about it a bit on the voyage here, and decided to decline the offer to become an enchanter. Besides, I hardly think Father would have allowed it in any case.”

  They shared a laugh at that and pressed on. Once they left the academy behind Kharg led them up a smaller road that veered left, winding gently up a low bluff overlooking the city. The countryside spread out before them in gentle slopes and open fields, scattered with wildflowers that bent lightly in the breeze. Compared to the stench of the city, the soft scent of blossoms mixing with the subtle tang of the sea felt like a blessing. The only sounds disturbing the serene quiet were the occasional bursts of energy from behind and the distant cries of seagulls carried on the wind, a welcome contrast to the noisy docks they'd left behind.

  As they rounded a bend in the road, Kharg came to a halt and raised a hand. Below them, the city unfurled in layers, stone buildings packed tightly along narrow streets and smokestacks threading pale ribbons into the air. The bay shimmered in the afternoon light, its waves flickering like silver just beyond the cluttered wharves. Distant white sails of ships stood out against the deep blue of the sea.

  Ivar stepped up beside him, quiet for once. Caspian let out a low breath, taking it all in.

  Kharg cast the city one last glance before turning back toward the road. The slope leveled, and the road became more refined. The stones were laid with care and precision, not a crack or weed in sight. Ahead, the bluff rose like a shoulder above the shoreline, and at its crest stood the Silverwolf estate. The mansion’s marble fa?ade gleamed in the sun, pale and proud, casting a faint golden hue across its windows.

  Eventually the estate came into full view, managing a combination of understated dignity and wealth. The outer walls were constructed from solid gray stone and stood about three yards high, enough to mark the estate as secure and well-guarded, though not enough to stop a determined trespasser. Two guards stood at attention by the gates, wearing deep-blue tabards embroidered with the Silverwolf emblem, a regal Silverwolf’s head. They straightened and stepped forward when they caught sight of Kharg.

  “Master Kharg,” the oldest of them greeted, his voice respectful and warm. “Welcome home.”

  Kharg inclined his head. “Thank you. These are my friends, Ivar and Caspian,” he said, gesturing to the pair behind him. “They’ll be staying with us.”

  The guards exchanged a brief glance, then pushed open the wrought-iron gates without a word. Beyond, a pale stone path curved through tidy hedges and flowerbeds. The garden wasn’t lavish like those in Varakar’s noble quarter, but it had a quiet, deliberate grace, with soft grass underfoot, blooming roses in well-spaced rows, and a modest fountain at its heart. Water trickled from a carved basin, just loud enough to soften the sounds of the wind.

  The mansion itself rose behind it, three stories of pale stone accented with tasteful detail. A slender tower stood at one corner, its conical roof tiled in rich cobalt blue, a silver banner snapping lightly at its peak. Stained glass windows broke the uniform white, their muted colors catching the afternoon light.

  To their right, the clink of tack and the low snort of a horse drifted from the stables tucked against the outer wall. Farther off, a neat servants’ house stood half-shadowed by trees, its shutters freshly painted.

  Ivar slowed his steps, taking it all in. “This is... striking,” he said quietly. “Not overdone, but unmistakably grand.”

  Caspian gave a short nod, gaze lingering on the tower. “Feels old,” he murmured. “It feels like it belongs here. Stately, but not trying too hard.”

  Kharg smiled weakly at their words, pride settling in his chest like a quiet flame. “It’s home. My family believes in function as much as form.”

  As they walked the path toward the mansion, the main doors swung open, revealing Kharg’s mother. She strode the steps with a graceful gait as the wind caught in her deep-blue gown embroidered with silver accents, causing it to billow out behind her. The family colors suited her perfectly, enhancing her regal yet warm presence. Her sharp features were softened with affection as she looked at her son.

  “Kharg,” her voice was tinged with surprise and delight. “Welcome home. This is a wonderful surprise.” Her smile broadened when she caught sight of Fafne’s silvery form on Kharg’s shoulder. “And Fafne, it is good to see you too.” She extended a hand, and the small faerie dragon purred softly, leaning into her touch with evident approval.

  Kharg returned her embrace warmly, the tension of the long journey melting away. “Mother, it’s good to be home. I’d like you to meet my friends, Caspian and Ivar,” he added, gesturing behind him.

  She turned to them with a gracious smile. “Welcome to the Silverwolf estate. You are most welcome here as Kharg’s guests.”

  They traded a few words as she led them up the marble steps. Inside, the air shifted, becoming cooler and drier and carrying a familiar scent of leather-bound books, polished wood, and a hint of lavender. Kharg took it in without thinking. This was the smell of home.

  Fafne gave a pleased trill and tilted his head, nostrils flaring. His tail curled lazily as he sniffed again, then settled back onto Kharg’s shoulder with a soft huff.

  Light from tall windows spilled across the floors, catching in the grain of the wood and the soft gleam of waxed stone. Thick carpets muffled their steps, the deep, precise colors of wine, umber, and blues so dark they were almost black. Marble statuettes rested in quiet alcoves. The paintings, framed in dull gold leaf, showed wide sea vistas and merchant ships caught in high spray. There was grandeur here, but it felt worn-in, steady—a place shaped by habit as much as wealth.

  At the far end of the foyer, a tall figure stepped into view. He moved without hurry, one hand still resting on the edge of the doorframe. Brown hair, streaked with silver, framed a face both weathered and composed. His beard was trimmed close, and when his gaze met Kharg’s, his sharp blue eyes softened with recognition.

  “Akgun,” Kharg’s mother greeted warmly. “Look who has returned.”

  “Kharg,” his father said, his voice resonant and steady as he approached. He clasped his son’s shoulder firmly. “What brings you back so soon, and with companions?”

  Kharg hesitated for only a moment, his voice measured. “One of my friends may be in danger in Varakar. It seemed wise to leave for a time. I thought the tundra might offer some respite, and perhaps some insight for my friends into my studies under Hrafun while we strengthen the bonds with the tribe further.”

  Akgun’s pensive look lingered on his son for a moment before he smiled, his expression unreadable. “The Great Tundra is a harsh place, but it has its lessons. You’ve always known how to find wisdom in challenge.”

  Servants entered without a word, their steps light on the polished floors. One reached for Kharg’s pack with a small nod, and he let it go without comment. It felt strange, after weeks of carrying everything he owned, to see it handled like something ceremonial.

  Caspian and Ivar followed attendants down a side corridor, bound for the guest rooms at the far end of the mansion. Quieter there, more private. Caspian threw Kharg a small wave before vanishing around the corner.

  Kharg climbed the stairs alone. His room was at the third floor, east-facing. The door opened with a soft click, and the familiar scent of pinewood and pressed linen met him like an old memory. A wide window dominated the far wall, its frame carved with curling wolf motifs. He crossed to it without removing his boots.

  Below, the gardens spread out in careful patterns of green and rose-gold. The central fountain caught the sun, throwing bright reflections across the flagstones. Beyond the wall, Sitch Nar unfolded in layers, with rooftops, sailcloth, and copper domes guiding the eye down toward the bay where water glittered in lazy swells. And shifting his gaze slightly to the left, just outside the city, the white, sturdy buildings of the academy stood out against the green backdrop of the fields beyond it.

  Fafne gave a soft trill and glided across the room to perch beside the bed. He blinked once, slowly, then curled his tail around the base of the post.

  Kharg exhaled through his nose. The view was unchanged. The weight he carried, however, was not. He turned from the window at last, shoulders straightening

  * * *

  To Ivar, the evening dinner in the dining hall was a bit of a surprise in its splendor. While used to the luxuries of Varakar, the spread set here was beyond anything he had seen. A quick glance at Caspian indicated that he was also impressed. The long wooden table was set beneath a softly glowing chandelier, with elegant white linens and polished silverware and smooth, white-glazed pottery arranged carefully along its length. Servants in blue-and-silver uniforms served dishes and refilled glasses with experienced proficiency.

  The meal opened with platters of smoked tuna and scallops lightly drizzled with honey harvested from the villages to the east, the subtle sweetness offset by hints of citrus. Next, platters of roasted meat followed. The tender lamb and succulent pheasant were served alongside vegetables sautéed with fresh herbs from the estate’s gardens. The highlight of the meal was when two servants rolled in a cart with a large fish flambéed in liquor, the tall flames dying out just in time as they reached the table and received a small round of applause. The fish was glazed in honey and mustard and garnished with slices of fresh fruit. Their chalices were constantly refilled from bottles of fine wine from Kvatch Nar, their rich reds and crisp whites adding to the festive atmosphere.

  Kharg’s family kept conversation flowing easily. Akgun sat at the head of the table, projecting his usual composed authority as he engaged in conversation about their families and interests. Opposite him, Kharg’s mother listened with gentle attentiveness, occasionally guiding the discussion with quiet grace. Anton, Kharg’s younger brother, eagerly asked questions, mixing youthful curiosity with playful teasing. Kharg’s sisters, two of whom were visiting with their own families, contributed laughter and warmth to the evening while their husbands were somewhat reserved.

  Ivar spoke confidently about his family’s business in Varakar, emphasizing their successful ventures trading in rare herbs, drawing genuine interest from Akgun and a shrewd look in his eye that Kharg recognized. It would likely result in a letter to Ivar’s family inquiring about some partnership or something similar, but it might also mean that Kharg would have to talk business with Ivar’s father. Sighing deeply and emptying the glass, Kharg looked for a servant to refill it with a white wine with a fruity sweetness.

  Caspian was more reserved, though he shared some details about his family’s barony and its connections within the Varakarian nobility. Akgun listened carefully and deftly wove suggestions of trade partnerships and exchanges of rare goods into the conversation, a gleam of interest lighting his eyes as he gauged their responses.

  The younger members of the table, Kharg’s sister and his uncle’s teenage son, filled the air with animated tales. One of Kharg’s sisters teased him about his time in Varakar, wondering aloud how many hearts he had left broken in the city. Another joked about Fafne, who snorted from his perch on Kharg’s chair as though he understood the jest. He stretched luxuriously before eyeing the table’s bounty. His tail flicked in evident interest, his sharp eyes locked onto a plate of honey-glazed pheasant.

  Akgun arched a brow. “And does your companion expect to be served?”

  Kharg reached for a sliver of meat, offering it up with a smirk. “Only when he deigns to grace us with his company.”

  Fafne accepted the morsel with a satisfied trill, before flicking his wings and leaping onto the shoulder of one of Anneth, Kharg’s younger sister. She gasped in surprise before laughing as he nuzzled against her hair.

  “Well, at least he’s charming,” she said, scratching his crest.

  Fafne let out a pleased hum, stretching his wings slightly as if acknowledging her praise.

  After the main course, the servants brought out desserts, including honey cakes, fresh fruits from the orchards, and a delicate lavender-infused custard, his mother’s favorite. The fragrant sweetness paired perfectly with the deep amber dessert wine poured into their glasses.

  Afterward, Kharg suggested to his friends that they enjoy the sunset from the tower. The suggestion was met with enthusiasm, and soon the group ascended the stairs with their crystal glasses in hand. The view was breathtaking from the top of the tower. The mansion’s gardens stretched out below, though now cast in shadows from the walls as the sun was setting. Beyond the estate, the city sprawled down the slopes to the sea. Farther south, the lighthouse flickered to life as they watched. The waves swelled gently in the bay, their distant crashes against the cliffs below forming a soothing rhythm.

  “To friendship,” Kharg raised his glass, his voice filled with warmth.

  “And to the opportunities that lie ahead,” Ivar added, a thoughtful smile on his face.

  “To adventure,” Caspian finished, his reserved demeanor giving way to a rare moment of optimism.

  Their glasses clinked, the crisp chime lingering in the evening hush. As they sipped the amber liquid and watched the last rays of sunlight dip below the horizon, the world felt vast and full of promise. In that moment, the future seemed bright, their paths aligned by camaraderie and a shared sense of purpose.