I shook my head.

  “No grand mobilization just yet. Let me make a few inquiries first!”

  I glanced around at the assembled orcs to be sure they understood. I didn’t need them marching off to war... not yet. First, I’d try to find out where Ju was. Then I’d decide.

  *

  Xermatt, the blond alchemist, level fifty-five, and the most highly ranked in all of Dolomar*, was having breakfast at a quiet coffee shop while reading the Dolomar Gazette, the region’s largest newspaper.

  He folded the paper neatly and took a slow sip from his cup.

  It was a peaceful morning. Sunlight warmed his back just enough to be pleasant, and the air carried the scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee. Small trees in clay pots lined the edge of the terrace, blooming just in time to create a charming display. He admired the setup, idly wondering how much the shop owner had invested in it.

  He sighed. Probably nothing but love and care.

  His eyes drifted toward the interior, where the lithe half-elf proprietor moved gracefully between tables. He’d only “discovered” this little café recently—after an unfortunate kitchen meltdown—and had been more than pleasantly surprised when he first laid eyes on her. A half-elf, here in Dolomar? Rare, to say the least.

  How had she ended up in a human city like this?

  After the fight that had wrecked most of his shop’s ground floor, Xermatt had been left with no choice but to close it—temporarily, he hoped. Thankfully, the deals he’d struck with the baroness had turned out to be extremely lucrative, and he now had the means not just to repair but even to expand his business.

  But he hesitated.

  The question was no longer could he rebuild, but should he? Was it wise to invest in this city at all, or would it be smarter to pack up his most valuable possessions and disappear?

  Unsettling rumors were spreading. Whispers of orc armies preparing for war, of rising tensions that might soon engulf the entire province. If it came to that, the whole region would become a war zone, and Xermatt had no illusions about the governor’s ability to maintain control. Reinforcements from the capital could take weeks, maybe months, to arrive.

  As for Fiona? She’d likely retreat to her castle - if not straight to the capital - locking her troops behind thick walls and leaving the city to fend for itself. Her fortress might hold, but there weren’t nearly enough soldiers to defend the city.

  Orc raids had occurred with rough regularity, at uneven intervals, not quite every year, but close. Sometimes even twice in a single season, if the first “harvest” had proved too meager. The orcs themselves called it “harvesting the steppes.” These raids, though brutal, were limited in scope: a few villages hit, teams of orcs sweeping across the countryside, capturing anyone too slow, too careless, or simply too unlucky to reach a stronghold in time. The old and weak were killed on the spot.

  But war? War was something else entirely. And unfortunately, the orcs loved war.

  In war, they moved like a deluge, like divine punishment unleashed, burning and destroying everything in their path. You either ended up dead or enslaved. It was a miracle they’d stayed quiet this long. No stronghold was truly safe in a real war. What was once a refuge could quickly turn into a deathtrap for all who had fled there.

  Xermatt could sell his shop to the Xsoha and receive a credit letter in return. But he needed to make that decision fast, before the market reacted. Once word of war spread, prices would collapse. People were slow to grasp the danger, but when panic took hold, everyone would rush to sell. And they'd sell cheap.

  A Xsoha agent had already come by, offering 118 gold—valid for two days. After taxes to Fiona’s treasury, that would still leave him a tidy sum. For just two more gold, he could receive one of the standard Xsoha credit letters for 100 gold: compact, easy to hide, and much safer to carry than several kilograms of coin.

  He could also finally buy himself one of those spatial purses. But that would swallow nearly half the money...

  He sighed and glanced again toward the interior, where the lithe half-elf must have been. They hadn’t spoken much yet, mostly small talk about the weather and cookies, but the glances they exchanged gave him hope. Were those smiles merely the polite courtesy of a shopkeeper toward a customer, or was there something more?

  Why did he have to meet her now, just when he was considering leaving? And to think—this coffee shop had been here for years, right next to his alchemy shop! How had he never noticed her before?

  *

  Alice stood at the edge of the compound, watching the small caravan prepare to depart. Another group of peasants had decided to try their luck elsewhere. Since her transformation, the number of those fleeing had risen again, and now rumors of an orc invasion were spreading like wildfire.

  She sighed. Lores was probably right: you had to let people choose where they wanted to live. Still, it stung to see them swayed by the crooked arguments of wandering priests and fearmongers. By the time they realized the grass wasn’t any greener beyond the next hill, it was usually too late to turn back.

  A muffled sound drifted from one of the covered wagons. She tilted her head, listening carefully. Yes—there it was again.

  “Stop! What do you have in that carriage?” she asked sharply, stepping forward.

  The peasant, a bulky man in his fifties, visibly flinched at her voice and turned toward her, alarmed.

  “M-my children,” he stammered, his voice meek.

  Beside him, his wife gave a curt nod, confirming his words.

  To their shock, Alice vanished into shadow and reappeared near the carriage in a single fluid movement. They froze, petrified, as she materialized beside the vehicle, eyes not even on them. Her magical domain spread outward, encompassing the carriage, allowing her to sense what lay within.

  She tilted her head slightly and nodded to herself. Six children. One of them was bound.

  “Why is the girl tied up?” she asked, her voice calm but cold.

  The peasant wiped sweat from his brow, his features a mix of fear and resentment.

  “That’s my stupid daughter,” the woman snapped, stepping forward defensively. “She was making a fuss. So she got punished!”

  Alice sighed. Unfortunately, they were telling the truth.

  And as much as it sickened her, what they had done was, legally speaking, permitted. Discipline and physical punishment was allowed under the law. She had already seen children left crippled by some “loving” parent’s version of discipline, and there had been nothing she could do about it. Compared to that, a bit of rope wasn’t much.

  She hesitated, uncertain what to do. Since her transformation, she knew her values, her entire way of thinking, had shifted.

  With a reluctant nod, she let the carriage pass.

  But as she watched the caravan pull away, a long sigh escaped her lips.

  What would Lores do?

  The answer came immediately and without mercy: Lores would do what she felt was right, laws be damned. She’d likely set the whole damn cart ablaze and kill the oxen too if they dared make a fuss about it. Alice decided not to do that.

  She slipped once more into shadow and reappeared in front of the oxen. The startled beasts reared back, jolting the cart and drawing a chorus of startled cries from within.

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  The peasant woman’s voice rang out, a mix of panic and exasperation.

  “What now?!”

  Alice ignored her and moved around to the rear, climbing silently into the wagon. Their wide eyes followed her every move. Beneath the canvas, the children shifted nervously aside as she stepped forward and pointed at the bound girl.

  The girl whimpered, trembling all over.

  Alice crouched down, voice low.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  The girl shook her head frantically, muffled sobs leaking around the cloth stuffed into her mouth.

  “No, no,” she managed to mumble.

  She recognized the girl: one of the castle maids.

  She knew she didn’t have the right to take the girl away against her parents’ will. And she already knew how the tale would be twisted once it spread among the peasants.

  And yet…

  The girl sobbed as Alice gently untied the knots, tears streaming down her cheeks while her body trembled with every breath.

  “What are you doing?” the woman asked, alarmed.

  “I’m taking her,” Alice said calmly.

  “You have no right!” the woman shrieked. “You have no right! Help!”

  Her cries set off the other children who started screaming, crying and panicking.

  Alice turned her head slowly, her eyes lighting up with a faint, ominous glow. The woman's mouth snapped shut. She stared at the ground, her hands shaking.

  “She’s… she’s worth at least fifty silver…” the man muttered, barely lifting his gaze. Then, almost inaudibly, “At least give us twenty…”

  “You have no right,” the woman whispered again, her defiance now hollow.

  Alice stared at her, genuinely stunned. Maybe Lores had the right idea after all.

  “I have all the rights,” she said coldly, her glowing gaze fixed on the woman. “I could order you to turn around and crawl back to the castle.”

  The woman flinched and lowered her eyes. The man said nothing more.

  Alice bent down and gently lifted the girl into her arms. The girl clung to her instantly, gasping through frantic, shallow breaths.

  “Lady Alice… Lady Alice, please don’t let them take me away… please…” she whispered, trembling uncontrollably.

  Up to that moment, Alice had been inclined to pay them.

  But now?

  Seeing the fear etched into the girl’s face, hearing the desperation in her voice, there would be no bargaining.

  Without another word, Alice vanished into shadow, the girl held tightly in her arms.

  *

  Baron Esterghom re-read the notes he’d made and shook his head in disbelief. He had been sent on an urgent diplomatic mission, but he was beginning to suspect he hadn’t been properly informed by the King’s chancellery.

  Still, it was a mission he couldn’t refuse. One doesn’t simply decline a request from the King.

  He sighed.

  The message read almost like blackmail, and it pained him to be the one forced to deliver it.

  Why him? Of all the nobles, why had the King chosen him to speak with the baroness? Yes, they had a good relationship—something well known at court. This might destroy the trust between them… but maybe that was part of the plan.

  What was this really about? He wasn’t even sure he fully understood the message he was expected to convey, and that troubled him deeply.

  The baroness was young, gifted, and undoubtedly a rising magical talent, but that still didn’t seem reason enough for the veiled threat hidden in the King’s words.

  Or was it?

  He glanced out the window of his travel coach. Far in the distance, the towers of Orcmound’s castle finally came into view, and with them came a wave of relief. He was almost there.

  News of orc tribe movements had recently reached the capital, and he’d dreaded this journey from the start. But what choice did he have against the King’s orders? Along the way, even more alarming reports had reached him—peasants fleeing razed villages, stories of sudden raids.

  At least the route suggested by the chancellery had proven valuable. They’d advised him to avoid the main roads and take a zigzagging path instead: not the shortest way, but supposedly the safest. To his surprise, the information had been remarkably accurate. How could they have known which areas would be hit first, and which would remain untouched?

  The chancellery must have spies embedded deep within the orc tribes, high enough to track plans in real time. That was the only explanation.

  Just as his heart began to settle and the coach neared the castle… an orc patrol appeared seemingly out of nowhere, halting their advance in an instant. The maneuver was so swift, so precise, it had to involve some kind of special skill or magic.

  Panic flared in his chest, but then he recognized the armor. These were the baroness’s orcs.

  Thank the gods!

  *

  Algar walked slowly away from their carriage, her heart pounding as she tried to appear calm and inconspicuous. The wagon was hidden in a field near a village, tucked behind a line of bushes—just out of sight from the road, which ran barely fifty meters away. A small creek trickled nearby, offering water and a touch of cool freshness. Behind her, Awa and Zera spoke in hushed voices.

  Guilt tugged at her with every step.

  Geral had been arrested just the day before—this time by imperial soldiers, not slavers. Real soldiers, the kind with banners and badges, were now moving through the area. The empire had made its next move and was officially at war with the republic. Geral was treated as a spy, and it had been because of her. He’d lied for her before, claiming she was his wife to protect her from the slavers. But word from Silver Town had come far too quickly: Geral’s real wife, Anabella, had been executed.

  That one lie was enough to damn him in the eyes of the Empire.

  He shouldn’t have risked entering that town—not with the empire tightening its grip. But he’d been desperate. They all were. They had pooled what little they had, hoping to buy a portal scroll and escape the region. Now they were broke, stranded near the front lines, and being hunted.

  She pitied him. She pitied the girls, too. But in the end, this was a sinking ship. Staying with them meant getting caught again. She was an elf. She could survive in the forest, hide where no human would ever find her. She could run. She could go home.

  She stopped, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath. The earthy, green scent of the woods filled her lungs. It smelled like freedom.

  She was so close. Just a few more steps and the trees would swallow her.

  “You also find solace in the forest?”

  A soft, friendly voice interrupted her thoughts.

  Anabella.

  That damned undead girl!

  Algar clenched her jaw and exhaled. So close to escape. She could overpower the girl if she wanted to—but she wasn’t that heartless. Slowly, she turned her gaze back toward the trees, toward freedom.

  “Do you think there’s still hope?” she asked quietly.

  Anabella nodded, a faint smile playing on her pale lips.

  “I found a warlock in the village willing to help. He’ll aid us, if we rescue his wife. She was taken in the last raid. And Noviel is coming back. She must have found him.”

  Algar blinked. “How do you know Noviel is coming? She could’ve been captured.”

  Anabella shook her head, still smiling.

  “No. I can feel the link again. She’s close… and her heart is full of hope.”

  * - Dolomar - the heart of Cromwall and Duchess Fiona’s seat of power